It’s over. The endgame. The death march.
I’m forced to trudge through the Pastoral Heritage wing of the museum. Lots of cheesy puppets dressed in flannel sitting on plasticised haystacks holding pitchforks. A giant mural of that American Gothic painting. A rusty tractor from a hundred years ago when people got food from the land instead of mixing up powder from aluminium sachets.
We exit the museum through a loading bay. I blink in the daylight. I’m expecting to see self-driving forklifts and Roomba bots. They’re there, on the concrete, but they’re in pieces, pulverised. A few scraps of green circuit board, crumpled transistors, and some springs tumbling as we march past.
They raise the metal roller door and urge me out into a grassy area. The kitchen, apparently, though it’s more like
