Departing from Leeds. pt1.

Leaving Leeds on the 757 "flying tiger" around 8:51am... Need I say more? Brief visit to the Pret on Infirmary Street to eat a little. It's the worst time of day to check in here as all the flow of white collar workers ramps up as they scurry to occupy the desk and answer emails, mail, mobile and phone calls; call meetings, go to meetings.

"I won't be able to print any receipts" the guy says to every customer.

"White filter, flat white, mocha ... Any hot drinks. To go. To stay. It won't be long." These barista are robots. They never change their tone or make statements in anything other than monotonicity. The lines of customers towards the door shuffle forwards to face the music, but they really are not here; with blank gaze and a brief glance they do a one eighty and retreat to the chain and ball of their postgraduate existence. BPP offers gold plated dreams and old school tie launches bamboo handled umbrella into the sullen grey sky, heading right.

One of the Polish robots is pregnant with the next flesh and blood sacrifice to progress. Once a robot/android becomes a feasible reality it'll be off with their heads. Humans will be sent - cryogenically frozen - to the Moon and Mars as colonists, dying irradiated and Earth starved, as the one percent dispense with the Albatross around their necks and sit back on a cleaned re-verdant Earth. And of course the masses will jump at the chance of another promised land! On Wellington Street I wait for the journey to deliver me out of this misery, but the Flying Tiger? She is late!