Four months ago I was sat in a garden in Spain.

I'm now back in my flat in London. Life is fine. I can't complain. I have a well paying job, working with good people, doing creative work. So why do I daydream of being fired? It's not so much that I want it to happen, but rather, that I've become drowsy with complacency. Golden handcuffs don't leave bruises, they mainline valium into our waking hours. Lulled by security and tied down by responsibility. The ideation of another life seems far away. A foggy ship in the distance. And I'm too tired to swim. What could life look like? Perhaps a garden in spain.