Fluffy stuff in the bowels of toilets is fun, a pool of welcoming detergent bubbles awaits the miscellaneous or perhaps unspeakable waste and transforms it into some sweet Niagara of effluent headed out to the mysterious ways of the sewage works and beyond. Places we do not want to know about or care to understand. They remain an essential part of life and living, file them, alone and unloved under infrastructure.
The golden memory of Concorde
There was a time when Britain was great at most things and we could make assumptions and these assumptions were solid and real because of where we were and who we could be. None of that was all that long ago, even after the mostly red planet displayed in magnificent Mercator Projection that lived on every classroom wall had turned to some fluid rainbow of ever changing and now mysterious set of corrupt and despotic states. We grew up living on the promises but they turned out to be empty, the supersonic travel that lived in the pages of glossy comics along with the hover cars and the clear and straight highways turned into the Rover 45 the M25 and cut down Ryanair 737s. Eventually the great white bird, Concorde with all it’s hope, triumph, exorbitant costs and consumer prejudice crashed and burned and with that failure and catastrophe some vibrant part of the future died.
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