|I look at my desktop and see nothing but ... desktop. Oh and Travelling Tabby's statistics.|
Moving through a cordoned off supermarket like it was a minefield or a lava flow or a swamp full of crocodiles. Trying not to fall from ladders, scald yourself or bump your head on a sharp object, not getting too drunk and then falling over. No one wants to be the dick head that troubles the NHS. Then there's Zoom, a thing that used to called Skype and before that something else; a phone call perhaps. Now we talk pub talk about having done nothing much really, recount dream-scapes, wish each other good health, keep safe, have a laugh and hover over the end button.
We're the lucky ones, we have a garden with trees and birds and the noises of other people at a safe distance. We sit in amongst the hubbub of passing dog walkers and sentient Yoga people who have found meaning, bairns in prams chatter and lawnmowers are unsure of where to spill their contents as the bins are full and the dump is closed. Sometimes the dustbin lorry comes for general waste only and the music of it's warning reverse tones fills the noticeable gap between anxious ears. I try to read but the words wont stick, I pretend to have hobbies but I don't, I check my work emails, I read then again, then I read other things.
Everyday there are special bulletins and headlines to happily ignore with their sombre tones and alarming music, they know that nobody is really paying attention, it's all rather unreliable since the Government bailed out the papers and held guns to the BBC's throbbing, sweaty temple. They all also know they are on the wrong side of history, the great manipulators who are in fact the incompetent, mediocre manipulators. Throw more fucking useless made up numbers at us please. Information is key and they've all lost control of it. It flies as free as the sparrows and isn't so hard to find if you look. No point looking here though but try this.