I can do a neat trick.
I can disappear at will.
You probably can, too. It's a skill that wasn't available to us, when we were younger and eyes first turned in our direction. Sliding over us on the street, at work, in shops and bars and any space where we dared to exist us to judge, slice, categorise, conquer.
But now? Now we can slip through shops barely turning a head. Vanish instantly when leaning on a bar. And our voices, when offering an opinion? Only dogs can hear it.
Watch: MID podcast hosted by Holly Wainwright.
I could lift a young man's phone from his hand before he noticed I was right there. I could collect sensitive intelligence from the finest spies while pretending to wordle alongside them. And I am deliciously free to walk a street without catcall or comment.
There are upsides to being invisible, you see.
But generally, it's a jolt. Do we still exist, if we are harder to see? Does it matter what we say, or what we want, or what we know, if we're considered an amorphous lump of looser bodies, frizzier hair, flatter feet?
If we are invisible, not just out in the wild but in parliaments and boardrooms and on screens and in our ears and in the pages of books, were we ever even here?
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