RECOVERED

I’m being Recovered.  Processed like a piece of lost luggage, or a suspicious package, by an elite group of highly trained individuals with walkie-talkies, bright yellow waistcoats and passes round their necks that give them access to absolutely anywhere.

The family huddled next to me seem to have been in Recovery for much longer than I. Days possibly.  They look malnourished and worn out.  The children are tearful and listless. The mother comforts them as best she can.  The father is clearly exhausted, asking repeatedly for information.  When will they get help?  When can they leave?  Or at least I assume that’s the kind of thing he’s asking because it’s not in English.  And the Recovery Team only talks in English.  And only into walkie-talkies.

SWEGWAYS (AND OTHER VILLAINOUS ALIEN SPECIES)

It’s a few days before Christmas and I’m alone in the garage giggling like an idiot. Because I’ve just tested the youngest’s swegway before wrapping it up.  It works, and it turns out I can do it.  

Being able to ride a swegway - or hover board  - depends on your ability to do nothing.  It’s a state of mind.  If you get on and try to do things - like making all those involuntary muscular adjustments that have kept the human race upright and moving in the right direction since we first took our knuckles off the ground - then you’re stuffed.  The swegway takes care of all that.