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Really getting back into Lynx Africa.

Sleepwalking through personal ‘golden ages’ is a particularly sad aspect of life. Whether it’s lost loved ones, a dispersed group of friends, a fun job, those three consecutive Christmases in the 90s, or the Sunday tradition that lasted less than a year, but is still what Sundays are meant to be. There’s something cruel about the fickle nature of time and perception, that you never know when you’re in the ‘good ol’ days while you’re in them. 
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NPCs

So, apparently less than fifty percent  of the population has an internal monologue.  I suddenly find myself in a world half populated by meat based automatons. Human shaped  creatures masquerading as sentient beings, but with mute minds.  Does this give credence to the Simulation Hypothesis? Are they NPCs in a future, VR version of Grand Theft Auto I’m failing to complete?
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Glacé cherries

For my tenth birthday I was the appreciative recipient of two Ghostbusters action figures (Ray and Egon), a big purple cycloptic ghoul for them to ‘bust’, a book of random facts, a sticky stretchy whippy hand thing, and a 200g tub of Sainsbury’s glacé cherries.  I know why I asked for the cherries. They are after all, the best bit of a Mr. Kipling cake. The focal point of a knickerbocker glory. Having a tub to myself had a bit of the Roald Dahl about it, and appealed to a burgeoning sense of whimsy I mistakenly thought would set me in good stead. I enjoyed the aesthetic. Basic baking ingredients photographed as part of my birthday haul and recorded for posterity.  Or as much posterity as can be afforded by a single paper photograph in a shoebox. 
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Procrastination

Does anyone else get up to make a tea, before realising there’s still a half drunk one from five minutes ago?  I’ll make one anyway.
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