No progress (450)
by Max Akroyd
An unwelcome visit from an old adversary – M. Insomnia – turned last night into a vast, grey nothing and stopped me thinking fast enough to wriggle out of a trip to town later this long morning.
As we traipsed from pillar to post acquiring such diverse ‘necessities’ as supermarket junk, new registration plates and six months’ Ventolin for me, I pondered gloomily that my (non-asthmatic) fifteenth century peasant forbears didn’t have to distract themselves with any of this stuff… Interesting though that the immersion in rural idiocy has already made the stuff of modern life feel like a strange, synthetic add-on. That’s progress!