The Bard of Britain

It’s a radiant morning in Fitzrovia, central London. Hydrangeas spill from outdoor pots and a crocodile of high-energy, hi-vis-wearing primary schoolchildren ripples along the cobbled street, squealing with laughter. Upstairs, in the living room of Ian McEwan’s stylish mews house, the windows are wide open. A bird darts in and out. As this pleasing scene unfolds, a sense of unease begins to flood our conversation. Britain’s national novelist is weighing up our chances of total annihilation.