At his desk in the Central Office of Information, Richard sighed. The newspapers were not telling him anything he did not already know. Britain was falling apart around him. 

The miners’ strike was not going to end anytime soon. Mrs. Thatcher was doing the right thing – you could never compromise with mobs, no matter how massive they were. This was still a democracy, though. A Prime Minister could not just unleash the Army on radicals with placards.

As he folded the Times and opened the Telegraph, Richard thought back to what government used to mean. He was ten when the war ended, when Mr. Attlee promised a New Jerusalem in Britain. That was what socialism was supposed to be – a country directed by experts, with purpose. It was tragic that successive governments had let the unions get so powerful. Rival power centers were bad for order.

Richard was proud of how much he had managed to discipline himself. Over the past six years, he had gradually reduced his cigarette habit from twenty per day to two. Late morning and late afternoon, no exceptions. He only drank a little wine or scotch at those dreadful parties respectable people went to so they could keep up appearances. He did not watch television, though he was happy it existed. It kept the proletarians distracted, or at least most of them.

He resettled his glasses on his nose. He could not understand why Mrs. Thatcher wanted to privatize British Telecom. Power was not something a responsible person gave away once they obtained it. Why could she not see that? Apparently, she did not yet know how thrilling power for its own sake was. She still had ideals, poor woman.

The COI building was a rare locus of sanity in an increasingly deranged London. The borough of Lambeth, especially, was going to the dogs. Insolent teenagers, agitators, no one with any respect for order. Richard had not studied much local history, but he was sure Lambeth was much worse now than it had been when William Blake lived there. In the poet’s time, it had been safe to have romantic visions.

Was no one proud to be British anymore? Richard had always thought of himself as British, even though both his parents were from Omagh. Northern Ireland was still part of the United Kingdom, despite the best efforts of the IRA for the last decade and a half. He had always assumed the Fenians did not realize how lucky they were to be governed by Britons. Now, given the sorry state of the UK, Richard was finding it more difficult to blame them for wanting to leave. Not that he would show any mercy to a Provo, if he ever got his hands on one. 

He reached for his glass. To his horror, he knocked it over, spilling most of the water onto the small pile of newspapers. “You idiot, Richard” he thought. “Be more careful, damn you.” He was thankful no water had landed on his suit, and he was grateful he had worn the black one today, rather than something lighter. Then again, even his blue, gray, and brown suits were quite dark shades.

Elizabeth had given him the black suit. It was eight years since she left him. Richard could not be angry at her. She could never comprehend how important his work was, why he was such a stickler for doing his job perfectly even though he did not seem to like it. She thought public awareness campaigns were pointless. “What’s so glorious about posters telling people to buckle their seatbelts and not litter?” She did not grasp that order was a wonderful thing, that no act of increasing it was irrelevant. Without the work of the COI, chaos would reign supreme in even more corners of the country.

Conscription needed to come back, Richard thought. He could see himself writing a testimonial to it. “The Army did me good, and it will do the same for today’s kids.” He rebuked himself for thinking that last word. Richard had never been a kid. Childlike wonder and carelessness were alien to him, even when he was little. But even an upright citizen can stand to be disciplined a bit more.

He looked at his watch. It was ten twenty. Was it too early for the first cigarette? Yes, he thought, as he forced his mind to stop wandering. It was time to throw the newspapers away and get back to work. He picked up the pile, walked out of his office, and headed for the canteen, which had the biggest rubbish bins.

He was halfway down the corridor when he heard the voice of the new hire in the regional marketing section chirpily calling after him.

“Good morning, Mr. O’Brien!”

Richard had only met Julia once before. She had not mentioned her surname, and he did not care enough to ask. She was somewhere in her twenties, and far too excited about her work to be worth talking to for very long.

“Good morning, Julia.”

“I was just speaking to Mr. Smith. He was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to chat about the TV scripts he’s writing. He has some really interesting ideas.”

“Yes, tell him to see me at two thirty,” said Richard with all the phony enthusiasm he could muster (that is, not much).

“Right, will do. Have a nice day!” 

By the time he got to the canteen, Richard had decided to smoke his first cigarette early, after all. This was going to be an irritating day. He dropped the whole stack of papers into the bin with a satisfying thud. He stared for a few seconds at the date on the Times front page. 4 April 1984 had no business being interesting like this.