Midday: the streetlights were on. The man and his son stared blankly from the window at dazed, confused passers-by in the street.
‘Why is it so dark, Dad?’ the boy asked. ‘It’s just gone twelve.’
It was a good question, the man thought. He thought of his migrant friends, of his black friends, of every woman he knew; he thought of all those less fortunate than he, and the future of the entire planet.
‘Someone’s managed to turn the clocks back, son.’
‘Will they ever go forwards again?’ the boy asked.
The man had no answer. These were dark days.