I found that I had in yet another way misunderstood myself in age. I had imagined that the hot blood of youth was now cooled and quiescent, but it transpired to be otherwise. I had not controlled my anger, I had simply misplaced it between the election of Margaret Thatcher and the rediscovery of my art, and where it had been there was a deep, damp pool of head-shaking and sorrow which now dried as if left to sit beneath an Ethiopian sun, becoming over the course of days a crucible of white-hot coal. I was no longer prepared to sit idle—and idle was how I perceived myself, idle and ignorant and lazy. I resigned from Bekele Security in the morning, and in the afternoon I accepted an interview request. It was one of dozens I had had, and I picked this one because it was television and I knew it had a large middle-class demographic of media professionals and opinion-makers—people who talk for a living, and people who these days as often as not put their thoughts directly into text via the social media.