Toise

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?

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. 

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.