One of your members is excluding me from education by not offering reasonable accommodation for my disability and won't allow me to appeal.

In one of your tweets you say you are vice chair of the board at Northern College. This is your own new policy, which excludes disabled people like me, in contravention of the Equality Act 2010, and which no one seems to be able to speak clearly about or define.

The bell jangled before Jeremy could open the door for himself and he admitted two other gentlemen before he escaped onto the cold streets, instantly warmed by the solidarity of those around him once more.

"Populism," K muttered, again in a mood, and Reeves dotted an 'i' with satisfaction.

Reeves looked up, smiled, and said “Merrrr…” then stopped, uncertain, blushed in shame, and looked down at the accounts again. They were hard because he wasn’t truly qualified for them.

“It’s the 25th, if you want to come. You know where I am.”

Kerr glowered. “Good afternoon!”

Jeremy shrugged and prepared to rejoin the throng outside. “Merry Christmas, Bob,” he said on his way to the door.

“Still,” said Jeremy, unmoved by the display of temper. “We’ll be having a get together. A few, actually. There’s Christmas, and the first day of Hanukkah. You’ll be welcome to either - my friends won’t mind.”

Keer narrowed his eyes. “Good afternoon, Sir!”

“Don’t talk to me of Hope!” Stammer shouted, rising up from his seat and pointing a shaking finger. “She’s not my mother!” He annunciated his next words so clearly even Reeves shivered. “I. Was. Adopted!”

... imprisoned,” here he paused to look at Jeremy’s attire meaningfully, “and hung by their own antisemitic scarf.”

Jeremy looked immensely troubled, but more than that - concerned. “You were not always this way,” he said. “When Hope was alive, you -”

Stormer snorted. “Genocide indeed,” he murmured derisively. Then he looked up from his papers that told him how much extra he was earning per day being PM and stared right at Jeremy. “If I had my way, everyone who went around talking about genocide would be rounded up...

“Free Palestine,” he muttered, as if warding off a curse. “Populism!” he added venomously, as if that was a bad thing.

Jeremy laughed. “Oh, but surely you cannot mean it. ‘Tis the time for peace and goodwill to all men, women and children. We mean this time to end the genocide and occupation.”

“Good day, brother,” said Jeremy in a merry fashion, throwing the scarf around his neck. “Free Palestine!” He exclaimed, for the sheer joy of it, clearly not expecting anyone in the room to respond to him. But respond Keir did.

When as much peace had been restored as possible, they were both interrupted by the tinkling of the bell as someone came in from outside, glowing and breathless with happiness and some kind of infernal excitement.

...chance of the crowd carrying him away.

He saw a few older people while he was carrying out his task, and he returned inside to the cold office beleaguered by some emotion he could not explain, but he suspected the old people were getting help with their heating bills. And it bothered him.

Just then, as if to divert them from any musings about the cold, dead quality of their hearts, there was a huge chorus of voices outside, and a swell of humanity moved through the narrow streets. Immediately Reeves was instructed to close the shutters, which he did determinedly. There was no...

Keir looked up, but it was just one of those exclamations brought on by the fact that the office was devoid of warmth. Like a sneeze. There was heat, but it seemed somehow to be swallowed up by the two people within, the way a sponge absorbs water.

Imagine, if you will, two sponges in a bucket.

Compared to the cleaner who was at that moment in the building, they were not working. Compared to the carers who they seemed for some reason to despise, they were not working.

“Working people!” announced Reeves suddenly, as if aware of the irony.

It was Christmas Eve (it is always Christmas Eve in a ghost story - Jerome K) (yes you are right, tyvm) and Keirth was working in his office with his clerk, Bob Reeves. “Working” is a relative term. I mean to say, they were working, but compared to someone on an oil rig say, they were not working.