He remembered the city. Deeper than a normal Sunday. The tyres of his bike echoed on the tarmac. He’d heard birds. The sound of the few bits of litter. Zombie. Post-apocalyptic, the tabloid cliches weren’t outrageous. An urban anechoic chamber. But that was then. Now the traffic was back. Footsteps. Mobile halfalogues. Even the weather seemed louder. And then there was the sort of tinnitus that followed him around. Spatial soundtracks ranging from soaring orchestral anthems to earworm jingles and voices. He adjusted the Advertising Noise Reduction on his buds. Better, but he wished he’d paid for the ANC version.