There was a bar in Orwell's 1984 where the apparatchiks would drown the sorrows in gin, wasn't there? I should read it again: I might be imagining it.

I can, though, picture it somehow now. Certain people cradling their doses of spirit looking at the 'others' without work or rights in the 'street zone' outside. Some poor youngster might catch their attention, and they would shake their heads gently and softly emit a'nū nū'. Their sorrow placated by their natural misanthropy, their concern about the twice-yearly injections soothed somewhat by the booze. Maybe when the shade of ancient walnut tree sweeps across the table, some memory of childhood would manifest and cause an ache in the roof of the mouth - just before the somewhat clunky CRISPR insert arrested its spread.

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You should write a book.

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