Oh, I’m so confused by your capricious ways, science. You’re like a mental but stunningly pretty girlfriend - exciting and puzzling and wonderful all at once. Until you punch me into shocked wakefulness at four in the morning for something that I did in a dream you just had. Before long you’ll be demanding to know what that woman I glanced at on a billboard once means to me, won’t you science. Then you’ll run off with a guerilla kiln-builder from Devon, but not before you’ve cut the crotch out of all of my trousers and spray-painted ‘billboard cheat’ in blood red foot-high letters on every wall of the flat. I hate you, science. I hate you. I miss how rough and dirty you could be in a cloud chamber though. Oh, yeah…I miss that.