A love story, of sorts:
Somewhere in the near future…
There were more than 50 people in the room, so it was hot and airless, and it smelled of stale sweat. Government-sponsored crisis posters, tatty and torn, were sticky-taped to the yellowish walls. One urged its readers: ‘Don’t let your selfishness come between little Johnny and his Wikipedia’, another enquired: ‘Do you NATter with your Neighbours? Don’t squander the nation’s resource!’
(The latter effort was illustrated with a carefully posed photo of a beaming, bosomy Minister for IT Conservation encouraging a weedy-looking Everybloke to plug his laptop into her generously exposed router socket. The photo had recently acquired a pleasing piquancy. This same Minister had been caught selling a bunch of government-owned IP addresses, supposedly earmarked for use in schools for the next generation of Olympic heroes, to the International Bank of Fatcat and Taxhavenia.)
Under the flickering fluorescent lighting, a shuffling, miserable queue of the desperate and the hopeless zigzagged towards the bullet- sound- and Windolene-proof glass of the counter. At the front of the queue was me.
The official behind the glass pursed his lips, flicked my carefully filled-in paperwork to one side with disdain, and leaned forward to speak into his goose-neck microphone…
