It was a quiet morning, the peace broken at 11 a.m. by a middle-aged woman in a duffel coat who kept shouting at her husband: Woman: Barry! . . . Barry! . . . Barry! Barry: Yes dear? Woman: Barry, have I read Nineteen Eighty-Four? Unsurprisingly, Barry wasn’t sure whether or not she had read it, so she decided not to blow £2.50 on a mint Penguin copy, just in case she had.
