Digital work has erased many borders almost without noise: the right to disconnect tries to put a door back where there is now only a screen. The message at 9.47 Dinner is nearly over. One plate remains on the table, a glass beside it, the sort of domestic disorder that usually means the day has finally loosened its collar. Then the telephone vibrates. The message begins with Quick one. Quick things sent at 9.47 in the evening possess a curious elasticity. They may take three minutes, half an hour, or the rest of the night, especially once the mind has returned to the office and refuses to find its coat…