And so as the aardvarks of all our hopes and dreams fade into the misty dawn of yet another bloody day, dragging its leaden way towards us. No doubt intending to inflict upon our poor over-burdened heads yet more pointless bureaucratic meddling, political mendaciousness and a completely overwhelming selection of unhealthily rich, over-sweetened and poor-quality shop-bought cakes, we again wonder to ourselves if this is really all there is.
What happened to those dreams of a wonderful life that we used to have? Those dusky walks along moonlit tropical beaches with equally dusky maidens who would gaze in wonder upon the wit and wisdom we so casually dispensed before taking them back to our grass hut to give them a night of passion, fulfilment and contentment they had never known before?
Here we are sitting in a cold and damp brick box, contemplating spending ages using a tin box to get us to another distant concrete box. A place where the futility of our lives will be played out against the background of some pointless task involving moving a boulder of data up a virtual hill only to watch it roll all the way back down again like some computerised parody of the trials of Sisyphus.
Only later to trudge back home to a small grey life that seems as endless as the cold damp drizzle that seems to surround us no matter what the alleged weather or nominal season.
Having said that, though, the cakes were surprisingly tasty and moreish.
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