Pixels on a screen formed a face, one Harold didn’t like. It was the shadow secretary for something or other, another politician begrudgingly handing in his resignation. The man was glaring with spite at the camera – the sword tip of the media’s intrusion into his private life. Harold sat back in his armchair and pondered that public figures caught with their trousers down should no longer be surprised when their adulterous indiscretions are vomited all over the press. Then again, what was deemed appropriate for public consumption nowadays infuriated him; uncovering the worst of people’s private lives in free papers, pop-ups on the internet or fame-devout TV channels. It used to be just the celebrities, but now no-one was safe.

 He muted the television, and sipped syrupy whiskey and jangled the ice cubes around its glass carousel. The calming tink clink triggered a sigh of golden liquor that warmed the air around him with disappointment as he recalled how both he and his wife Evelyn had hoped for so much more. They were once both activists, if you can ever stop being one, and had even met at a demonstration.

Her titian hair had caught his attention through patterns of colours in the thick crowd.  He had abandoned his friends and watched mesmerised as she chanted along with a group. Lured in, compelled to meet her, he positioned himself near her clique and introduced himself to one of them. Her name was Jenny, her straight features gave the impression of a dependable organiser and she dutifully introduced him to everyone in her group. Evelyn was last.

‘I’m Harold, nice to meet you’ he shouted over the roar of the crowd. She looked at him and switched on a smile. Her face was unusual but intoxicatingly beautiful; freckles dotted the dunes of her prominent cheekbones like faint footprints.

‘Evelyn’ she said with a nod, her eyes narrowed as she read his face.

‘This is really something huh?’ he shouted above the din gesturing to the furore around him. She pointed to her ears and flicked her fingers with a shake of the head indicating she couldn’t really hear. She rejoined the chant with a mischievous smile, and Harold followed suit. He later returned to his friends, gushing about a beautiful redhead, his veins still stinging, hoping that he could meet her again.