‘Help me,’ cried a squeaky voice causing me to look up from the day’s self-appointed important week-off task*. There, cycling round and round the park, unable to stop, was a young lad who had unwisely combined two of the youth-of-today’s inexplicable trends – enormously baggy trousers and teeny-weeny bikes. The bike, you see, had become caught in the ballooning trouser fabric and with his legs tangled up in them too, he couldn’t stop pedalling without falling over and was thus condemned to keep going in a prescient metaphor for the future rat-race his life would become: trapped by his own media-driven desires in an endless cycle of getting and wanting, until exhaustion set in and finished him off. Or at least until he worked out that it’s better if your bike-wheel diameter exceeds that of the cuffs of your trousers. I suppose I could have helped him, but I was busy and it would have meant getting up and moving and doing something energetic.
Did I mention I was having the week off doing absolutely nothing, by the way? Hot, isn’t it?
*Keeping fully hydrated while sitting under a shady tree reading about the evils of soya, since you ask.