(Lifestyle? You call that a lifestyle? It’s at such times that I’m truly glad I was never driven by money and never had any.)
Ah, but then the nightmare begins: The greys are coming. Well, actually, they’re already here, but they’re invisible right up until the end when they appear as stick man puppets silhouetted against the glow-of-indeterminate-source shining through the window. They don’t move or anything, they just stand there doing Nosferatu impersonations. And then the marginally post-pubescent older boy disappears. Oh, good.
‘Why are they picking on us?’ asks the beleaguered suburban wife when she visits the expert on greys who has ‘stopped fighting them now.’
Because you and your study in vacuous values and rampant superficiality are fascinating, madam. Why wouldn’t they pick on you? I would.
As usual, I was rooting for the wrong side.
(And if anybody reading this happens to be an American with a 27-room house in the suburbs… Sorry.)
I might tell the story of the two little lambs who had lost their mother tomorrow, if I can be bothered.