We have composed operas, founded institutions, launched spacecraft, and acquired an impressive vocabulary for distinguishing ourselves from the animal kingdom.
The monkey, unfortunately, has continued to behave in ways we recognise rather too well: imitating others, competing for attention, occasionally making a spectacle of itself. In a forest, such behaviour is merely animal. In a boardroom, it may qualify as strategy.
And yet, when we want to insult someone, it is still the monkey whose name we borrow.
There is something reassuring about the long term.
Problems become strategies. Losses become adjustments. Deadlines become target dates. And if the future is far enough away, almost anything can be made to look responsible.
We do much the same with our own lives.
We work now, save now, invest now — all for the freedom we plan to enjoy later. The money grows. The target moves. The future remains patiently available.
We, meanwhile, become slightly older.
**The Comfortable Distance of the Long Term** is about economics, postponed responsibility, compound interest — and the small problem of trying to save for a future while quietly spending the one thing we cannot put aside.
On Markets, Certainty, and the Fine Art of Being Right Afterwards
How hard can financial forecasting be?
If the market rises, you saw it coming. If it falls, you warned everyone. And if nothing much happens, uncertainty remains elevated.
Henry, Margaret and John may just have discovered the perfect profession — although Brutus still seems to have the more disciplined investment strategy.
There was a time when the meaning of life required philosophers, long walks, difficult books and, occasionally, several decades.
Now it takes less than a second.
Happiness, purpose, success, mindfulness, financial freedom — the answers are ready, neatly packaged and often available in five convenient points. Some even come with a course.
The problem is not that the answers are necessarily wrong.
It is that certainty has become remarkably easy to distribute, while doubt remains slow, awkward and difficult to monetise.
And perhaps that is exactly why some questions should remain open a little longer.
There was a time when silence was simply what remained when nobody was making noise.
Now it has become a service category.
We pay extra for quiet rooms, quiet carriages, quiet weekends, private retreats and places where, at the premium end, even the lack of mobile reception may be advertised as a feature rather than a technical failure.
Somewhere along the way, calm stopped being an ordinary condition and became something to book, package and occasionally afford.
The market, naturally, has noticed.
For centuries, the horse pulled our carts, our ploughs, our wars — and much of what we later called civilisation.
It never asked for a kingdom. It never needed a flag, a manifesto, or a historical explanation. It merely had the misfortune of being useful.
And when power finally collapsed, Shakespeare’s king discovered what humanity so often does: value becomes clearest precisely when the thing we treated as an instrument is suddenly the one thing we cannot do without.
Cats have never suffered from the illusion that humans are in charge.
We buy the food. We open the doors. We clean the bowls, adjust the cushions and interrupt our own lives because someone has decided that the other side of the room is now constitutionally important.
And still, we call ourselves the owners.
The dog welcomes us home as though civilisation has been restored. The cat looks at the clock, looks at us, and files the delay under staff performance.
We may have invented space travel, artificial intelligence and digital banking. Yet at half past ten, in pyjamas, we are still standing in the kitchen asking a cat what it wants.
The cat already knows.
It wants us to discover our task.
What if the Big Bang happened today?
There would be a livestream, a hashtag, premium content, an auto-renewing subscription — and, naturally, millions of people explaining to physicists what had really happened.
Over morning coffee, Henry, Margaret and John take on the universe, modern certainty and the strange confidence of people who know very little.
Brutus, meanwhile, has other priorities.
A vacuum cleaner, a box of bags, and one perfectly reasonable Sunday purchase.
What begins as a minor retail irritation becomes a look at how modern selling turns convenience, fatigue and carefully arranged choices into part of the price. Sometimes freedom of choice is still there — it just takes more effort than saying yes.
What if rest itself has become another task to perform correctly?
A quiet satire about schedules, sleep scores, mindful productivity — and the strange modern habit of measuring even the moments when nothing is supposed to happen.
A monologue from a universal populist politician — before and after the election
What happens when “the voice of the people” slowly begins to sound like the man claiming to speak for them?
A dry, darkly comic monologue about populism, certainty, applause — and the quiet moment when representation turns into echo.
The pig has spent centuries carrying accusations it never invented: greed, filth, vulgarity, excess.
Perhaps the problem was never the animal. Perhaps it was the species doing the naming.
The Pig Was Never the Problem… turns a familiar Churchill line into a darker question about hierarchy, language, power — and the uncomfortable moment when another creature simply looks us in the eye.
One Family, Two Generations, and a Suspiciously Innocent Labrador
A missing piece of toast. A suspicious Labrador. Two generations, one old coffee maker, and far too many opinions before breakfast is over.
Welcome to Henry and Margaret’s morning — where civilisation is still standing, just not particularly steadily.
How to Waste a Perfectly Good Saturday with Purpose
Henry and Margaret have a plan for the perfect Saturday: absolutely nothing.
The problem is that doing nothing, as it turns out, takes a surprising amount of planning, discipline — and a certain talent for ignoring the outside world.
Brutus, naturally, mastered all of this years ago.
Every morning begins with coffee. Then comes Margaret.
Before the second cup, Henry has already developed a theory, Margaret has corrected it, and Brutus has quietly lost faith in humanity once again.
Welcome to the breakfast table — where marriage, modern life, and the world’s daily absurdities somehow arrive before the coffee gets cold.
The bull became optimism. The bear became fear.
Neither animal ever asked for the job.
A satire about the human habit of giving our greed, panic and financial nerves another species’ name — and then calling ourselves the rational ones.
July 5, 1996 — Dolly’s birth, and the moment humanity discovered that making copies is easier than remaining original
Dolly was born a clone.
She had no choice in the matter.
We do.
We copy sentences, fears, enemies, loyalties — sometimes even our conscience. We call obedience responsibility, conformity common sense, and the comfort of the flock freedom.
The laboratory learned how to copy a sheep.
Society learned something far more useful: how to make people copy one another — and feel proudly original while doing it.
July 5 — A Remembrance Day for Servility
A satire about Dolly, political shepherds, modern flocks, and the increasingly fashionable art of thinking exactly what everyone else thinks.
September 8, 1944 / September 8, 1960 It took sixteen years for Wernher von Braun to be reclassified from enemy scientist to American national asset.
On September 8, 1944, the first V-2 to strike London killed three people.
Exactly sixteen years later, Dwight D. Eisenhower dedicated the Marshall Space Flight Center. Its first director was Wernher von Braun — the brilliant German rocket scientist whose work had once served Hitler and would later help carry Americans toward the Moon.
The uncomfortable part is not that von Braun was given a second chance.
It is that history has never distributed second chances evenly.
Some pasts remain unforgivable. Others become complicated, nuanced, strategically necessary — usually around the moment someone discovers that the person carrying them knows how to build a rocket, open a door, secure a resource, or make himself useful to the next age.
The flags change.
The expertise survives.
Morality learns the new payroll system.
A glass of tap water used to be a gesture. Now it can be treated as lost revenue.
What happens when the most ordinary human need is repackaged, renamed and quietly removed from the list of ordinary choices? A small café encounter becomes a lesson in how easily necessity can be turned into premium experience — complete with branding, discomfort and a bill.
Because sometimes the luxury is not what they sell you.
It is being allowed to choose the ordinary.
The eagle never asked to become a symbol of freedom.
It simply flew.
We were the ones who gave it meaning, placed it on flags and seals, surrounded it with power — and eventually discovered that freedom is much easier to admire once it has been properly framed, approved, and displayed.
The bird remained free.
The symbol was another matter.
September 4, 1998 — Google is born, and humanity gains a tool for finding the world, while the world quietly gains a tool for finding us
Google began with a simple promise: help us find the world.
It worked remarkably well.
Then, search by search, the system learned what we wanted, where we went, what held our attention — and eventually what might interest us before we had thought to ask.
The strange part is not that Google became very good at finding things.
It is that, somewhere along the way, "it became very good at finding us too."
Dogs rarely interrupt. They offer no advice, no theories, no carefully prepared perspective.
They simply stay — while we explain, overthink, dramatize, and occasionally lose the leash we were holding five minutes ago.
A satire about listening, silence, and the uncomfortable possibility that the wiser end of the leash may not be ours.
The sparrow has one serious disadvantage: it is always there.
No rarity, no scandal, no personal brand — just a small bird going about its ordinary life while the rest of us search for something more interesting to notice.
A satire about attention, familiarity, and the quiet things that become almost invisible simply because they never learned to demand an audience.
The owl has been a symbol of wisdom for centuries. Perhaps because it watches before it reacts.
We, meanwhile, have built a world in which almost everyone can publish an opinion before the facts have finished arriving.
The strange part is not that we speak so much. It is how quickly certainty begins to resemble knowledge.
August 24, 1967 — Abbie Hoffman, Wall Street, and the strange pull of free money
A handful of one-dollar bills falls onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. At first, people watch. Then someone bends down — and suddenly the dollar is no longer quite the same dollar.
Abbie Hoffman wanted to provoke Wall Street. What he exposed was something rather less convenient: the strange moment when value becomes desire, desire becomes competition, and the crowd quietly makes the ridiculous feel perfectly normal.
Money has a curious quality: it behaves very differently when there is a great deal of it in an account and when a single bill is lying on the floor in front of us.
In the first case, we can talk about it seriously. Investment strategy, returns, risk, liquidity, expectations. We sit upright, use the appropriate vocabulary and generally feel that we are the ones managing the money.
A bill on the floor offers a rather more direct relationship.
The rat did not build the sewers, the rubbish heaps or the back doors of civilisation.
It simply learned how to live among them.
Perhaps that is why we dislike it so much: it adapts remarkably well to the consequences we prefer to keep out of sight.
