The Prisoner

I walk down the street. I turn the corner. I walk. I cross the road
Iwalk down another road and I'm back where I started.
The buildings look strange but familiar. I know there is no escape.
I am not a number, I am a free person.

There's the posh sweet shop...and the shoe shop, the poodle
parlour - I mean hairdresser and the triple gift shops that smell
of parma violets. I stop by the knick-knacks-for- the-home
-that-can-be-purchased-with-disposable-income shop. Sinister
people in 60's style suits approach me.

'You are middle class. You cannot leave. Your world view is
based on received information from the Guardian newspaper.
You buy organic butternut squash, you think omega oils will
make everything alright. You think there are more interesting things
to do than housework, but you don't like humus on the carpet.
You have never been hungry. You believe reading is more
improving than watching TV, but you crash out in front of
unfunny game shows. You like your children to have interests
and you drive them to and from their interests leaving a carbon
footprint the size of Greenland. You would like to live a stylish life
in a house gutted by minimalism - but there is ketchup on the walls
and old socks and crisp packets under the sofa.'

You cannot leave.
Here comes the giant ball.....rolling down the street, squashing
art gallery owners and people selling unusual olives. Teenagers
in pink crocs run screaming.... Japanese bottled beer spills
onto the pavement outside the tattily trendy bar.

There is no escape