In The Land Of Atrophy

In the blesséd land of Atrophy, where “Safety” is our dearest wish, and “Risk” a place regarded with unease, the air is always re-cycled to remove impurities and drinking-water boasting special properties is bottled in germ-proof containers, pleasingly displayed.

Nothing untoward occurs, as far as we are able to prevent it, and adventure is seen only on flat-screen TVs. Comfy in our air-conditioned rooms, we watch the struggles of ancient heroes from our culture’s past, or brave men in flying suits battling against green faced creatures from some other planet or dimension. We admire the combination of valour with selfless courage pitted against forbidding odds, as these brave souls secure the liberty we now spend so urgently on replacing furniture or trying out new leisure wear.

The frontier now, is lost in mythology, vanished from experience, apart from in ideas of course, although we view those warily. Manners are the triumph of our age or possibly just this city, but good behaviour, we understand, should define conduct at all times, acknowledged with due courtesy.

Routine is our blesséd friend, sanitising experience, and love a guarded territory, reserved for ourselves, our homes, and those considered family. For others whose problems we read of in the press, we offer up our empathy, expressed in measured tones of course, because to be respected in this place, we must behave predictably.

Still let us not despair just yet, the switch provides electricity, and taps the water for our baths with proven reliability. If we dream of another land where an unpredicted life is lead, we may go there once a year, tossing away our normal cares. We call that place our “Holiday.”  

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