:: Life in the Lost Lane ::

Life in the Lost Lane
A collective of English Gentlemen

Wednesday, November 20

A large woman squeezes herself onto a bench. The bus rolls on and Woolwich beckons. The woman pulls a young boy toward her. He is no older than five and his head is a bright shock of blonde hair.

In his hands, as he wrestles in vain to mount the seat, is an unfeasible bag of potato crisps: The Real McCoy's. The packet dwarfs the little man's hands as he grapples to consume the breakfast his parent has chosen for him.

A monster bag of crisps for breakfast, if he begs well enough and Mum fancies it later, McDonalds. Then evening rolls around, Dad is tired, Mum is overworked, the kids need feeding. A meal is assembled on a baking tray. A veneer of grease and grime coats the tray as it is inserted into an inadequately pre-heated oven. Mechanically rendered chicken meat, processed and compressed into an appetizing shape, fast frozen, packaged, shipped, stocked, sold, cooked, consumed.

And after a day of cholesterol congestion the little boy can have a bit of ice cream but only if he goes to bed straight afterwards. No sprinkles, no sticky sauce - there is none left.

Off to bed with the little boy.

As he sleeps he gets a little bigger. He will mimic the body shape of his mother and will be 'tubby' in a year. In three years he will no longer be able to exercise as he would like. No one at school bullies him, why should they? In the not too distant future he will be the norm.

He is one of the new bold generation - a generation about to burst forth into the world and their only claim, as an entire generation is that they are already being killed by their parents.

"Morbid obesity? Not sure what that means. Now, stop talking and finish your ice cream, it's past your bed time."

posted by E! @ 11:08 AM

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