by P. Murgatroyd, UK
You, lying on an exotic beach with your eyes closed, just loving your summer holiday, all languorous, not worrying about a thing, drowsing in a haven of happiness.
You, for a birthday treat taken to a boutique wine bar with a chic ambience, imbibing Châteauneuf-du-Pape, photographing for your Facebook page your ruinously expensive Filet Mignon, and rounding off the evening with some sublime sex.
You, after a big promotion, spoiling yourself by flying Business Class to New York for a long weekend, knocking back Taittinger champagne, devouring creative cuisine crafted by a three-star chef, and looking forward to a chauffeured limo to your deluxe hotel.
You, back home again recovering from your weekend excesses, on a soft afternoon of yellow rain, evading the bad weather outside, lazing by a cosy log fire, incredibly comfy and carefree, switching off the boring bloody news (more droughts, famines and food-riots) and immersing yourself in Game of Thrones, engrossed, enraptured, oblivious to everything else.
You, finally catching on to the climate crisis, lying in your own shit, gut-shot and spat on.