Just two small words again, going off in a blinding flash like a grenade. What they say is: Under-fourteens. I sit staring at them, dully open-mouthed. It’s like being doused with a sheet of muddy water, like a final jarring stumble on wrenched ankles […] Click the icon, close the screen. Windows is shutting down. I almost hear it, the decisive thud as it hits some imagined sill somewhere. I need a shower, and then I need a long cold drink of something at an outdoor table, but first I linger, watching the innocuous sky-blue screen. I’m waiting for the little melody it always plays before it sighs and switches itself off, that melancholy minor-key tune that tells you that whatever you’ve been watching, ready or not, it’s time to roll the credits.