Everyone doodles in their notebooks. EVERYONE. Show me someone who doesn’t doodle in their notebook and I will thwack them with a shovel because that person is clearly an Auton.

A question that every modern-world fantasy work involving plucky little adventurers battling the supernatural has to contend with is “why don’t they just call in the army?” You could have everyone knowing the crazy realm exists and taking appropriate countermeasures, but then it isn’t the “real world” anymore, it’s an alternate dimension of your own imaginings where nobody’s talking about last night’s Love Island anymore because the Van Helsing Corps is conscripting citizens between 18 and 21 to combat the lycanthropic menace. Solutions include having the authorities actively covering up the strange-goings-on to prevent mass panic, having the strange-goings-on actually take place on a plane of reality separate to our own, or having society afflicted with such profound amnesia that the transport police just plant traffic cones around the crashed spaceship and everyone carries on like normal.

I have followed none of these solutions because I am a masochist. Instead – and I think this may be more realistic than we’d care to admit – I’m relying on bureaucratic inertia preventing the String’s constant fluctuations making the Six o’ Clock News. The authorities know that reality is stretched thin over a quantum skeleton that unscrupulous sorts are ripping through and manipulating with devastating consequences, but the problem is so big and intractable that official policy is to ignore it and hope it magically goes away. See: homelessness, housing, populist demagoguery, civil wars in the Middle East and any number of other real world problems that we’ve collectively numbed ourselves to.

Wording might be part of the enemy miniboss squad, but it’s hard to fault his logic in this scene – file away a problem as too big to handle and you’re as good as surrendering your fate to the rantings of nutters.