Truthfully, indifference can often settle itself into the brain of one who reads plentifully. Even ostensibly ‘great’ literature can fail to announce itself beyond a recognition that it is expertly constructed, and that it contains all of the correct literary machinery. Then there are books like ANIMALIA.

It is strangely reminiscent of old episodes of The Office – when watching the breakout series Gourmet Makes (Claire Saffitz) and It’s Alive with Brad Leone, the camera people and editors are the real heroes, comically overplaying spats, zooming in on oddities happening in the background and onomatopoetically subtitling verbal glitches by the hosts.

I have the mildest of manners. But as soon as someone tilts their seat back even an inch murder becomes a priority. If a baby makes baby noises, I think of Joan Rivers (‘is there a terrorist on board? I’m willing to help’). And if there really is a terrorist on board, forget it. I would rather die than go on trying to eat a sausage out of a paper cup with a spork.

But “concentration camp” is the only possible definition of Fort Sill, a place that was used during the Second World War to cage those Americans who looked (subversively) Japanese. It had been closed as of 2014. But there is no achievement of the last administration so minor that it cannot be undone, and the camp will now open again, this time to intern children, seekers of asylum from the hysteria of gang violence in El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala.

Bower is on familiar territory when he gets on to the sex life of his unhappy victim: he pounces with the salacious information that Corbyn once had an affair with a member of his inner circle. Is it Dianne Abbot? Yes. Is it that one about how he brought his friends round to reveal her splayed out naked on his bed? Yes.