Sunday Afternoon of a Wastrel in the English Garden

Are you tired of voyeurs? Tired of poseurs? This post is for you.

What do dissipated youth do in their free time ? our elders used to wonder.

Modern youth says ‘Just check Instagram.’

I say the cloud’s most popular gallery has only perpetrated the mystique. The shadowed sole of a foot, the white edge of a table and the hulking silhouette of a MacBook at half-mast: what do these profundities mean?

Alas that I can’t say. With no Instagram, my exhibitionist streak has not been not highly developed. Per contra, perhaps it’s because I don’t possess the exhibitionist streak that I have no Instagram.

It was as I lay there, arranged attractively on the sun-warmed grass of the English Garden, that I pondered this question.

My peripheral vision was intensely occupied by small insects making steady progress towards my prone young body; my subconscious, by a pleasing cognizance of my vulnerability to the predatory instincts of both gawkers and gnats.

Not one passerby obliged me, but the gnats certainly did.

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At Work“: One wastrel observes another.