The light flashes on the phone. Missed calls. The doorbell rings. Again. On the table across from me, a stack of unopened letters. All in the same official brown envelopes. I won't be able to ignore all this forever, as, against all the odds, it is my turn. What are the chances of it happening to me, out of everyone? That is easy. One in a population. I am, this time, that one.

Right now I don't care. I continue my breakfast.

I remember when it started. Well, I don't, really, as it started long before I was even considered. 'Disengagement' they called it, 'drifting', they called it. Whatever they called it, it was their fault. Not ours. I guess the average Joe got bored of them. Or maybe tired. But in the end, they were ignored. Not so much a storming of the palace, more a weary wave of the hand in dismissal. But I remember when the change happened, as someone had to take charge. 'It may as well be a lottery' some long-since forgotten comic had said. I am, this time, that someone.

Right now, I don't care. There is work to be done.

There is no need to leave the house. It would only mean running past the coterie of parasites and backslappers vying to get my attention. I went to the Post Office last week, to mail a letter to someone who doesn't exist. No one takes the time to write letters any more, the image of the romantic sitting at his desk pouring himself into a few pages to send to his lover has gone. I lift the quarter-full milk bottle, look towards the fridge and drain the remains in two swift drafts. My mobile starts to move on the table, the unseen hand pushing it across the wood. I wait for it to start to make sound, my deliberate use of silence at the start of the ringtone allowing me to prepare for its incessant drone.

Right now, I don't care. They can wait.

The best way to think of it, the way I think of it, is as a democracy of one. If there is only you, then there can be no hypocrisy. Hypocrisy only exists when you involve yourself with others. I can't know what is best for you, only for me. But chances are, so the theory goes, it will be a good enough approximation. Not quite the self-interest of before, not quite the altruism some promise, but enough to get us by. All in all, we haven't been any worse off since it started. Maybe now is the time to pick up the phone.

Right now.

The slow morning greyness is lifting, I can see that through the window. A car, no, a van, has pulled up opposite the small patch of green two doors along, and I can feel the invisible hum of machinery cycling up, gaining some internal momentum that will carry me along. There is a noise around my head, insistent, calming, but still incomprehensible. It isn't raining, so it must be here with me. I look at my hand, can feel the artificial warm from the handset. The noise gets more focussed. My eyes return to the here and now, and I raise the phone to my ear.

Right now.

'Mr Grifton'. I could hear the fullstop after the name. When did a name on its own become an opening, a statement that can stand alone, no padding or wrapping, an expectation of engagement? 'What? I don't understand? Mr Grifton?' I guess I have been on my own too long now, I can't tell the difference between internal and external. 'Mr Grifton, please, this is serious. We know your psychological profile, you will not get out of this. We must start the process.' The democracy of one.

Right now.

Chapter Two