REDDIT IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-poop. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winstonturned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frailfigure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair wasvery fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter thathad just ended. Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dustand torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything,except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner.