Quiet revolution

It’s hard to hear what’s going on amidst the hubbub and engine chug, and computer fan whirr and traffic drone. You have to walk far from roads to properly hear Led Zeppelin’s bustle in the hedgerow. Or focus to make out the tiny regular wheezing breathing of a sleeping baby.

It’s unlikely you’ll ever have the chance to build up from the sound of silence – more likely you’ll be struggling to strip away sticky layers of muzak to feel what lies beneath.

It reminds me of what my mate Chen noticed when he first came to London – an all-pervasive sickly sour reek of off milk, from all the dairy products people in England eat. He’d just come from less crowded drier northern Zambia. I presume he’s used to it by now. (I hope he was before he encountered my cheese-guzzling gob.)

Well, someone’s had enough of this audio goo

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An old Sikh joke…

For most of us religion begins not as a matter of belief, but from the accident of birth and subsequent upbringing. Some make positive decisions to be born again, or to convert. Others drift off to something vaguer or all the way to none-of-the-above.

If I could choose, starting from scratch, all cultural and racial baggage to one side, the Sikhs might be the boys for me.