Why do I have to be so bloody different? Sitting at the edge of the forest on top of a crag in the sunshine on an unusually warm spring afternoon, with the whole city stretching out before me, such is my vantage point. Nearby a thrush is seeing off a predatory pair of magpies each twice its size, protecting its nest, looking out for its domain. A solitary bumblebee lazily roams from bloom to bloom, so totally immersed in its purpose that I doubt whether it has the slightest awareness of my incursion on its territory. My couch consists of rough tufts of grass, growing green, succulently fresh in their infancy. Their youthful vitality having already replaced the dry dusty straw like blades that emerged from under last months melting snow. My head is partially shaded from the worst of the glare by a newly foliated silver birch, whilst the sun’s warming rays pleasantly caress the rest of my body. I should be happy. Who wouldn’t be happy to be alive on such a day? But my joy is tainted by a troubled mind.

I know that this probably sounds melodramatic, but like the thrush I resent the intrusions, which I find I am unable, in my conscience, to ignore. If only my natural tendency had instead borne a closer resemblance to the bumblebee’s. Like the thrush sitting on a lofty bough, keenly watching for the least sign of impending danger, I find myself looking out over the city from my grassy perch. The sky, an almost transparent blue over my head, gradually changes its hue as I lower my gaze towards the horizon. From the purest azure it assumes a yellowish tinge reminiscent of a smoke-filled pub, late on a Friday night. The cause of this corruption is all too clear.

In front of me, ant-like in the distance as far as I can see, crawl tens of thousands of cars going about their fathomless tasks. Backwards and forwards keeping strictly to their beaten path. It is these ant like automatons that are causing the pollution which is choking the sky before me. If it was only the view, I could live with a nicotine stained heaven but it isn’t only the view. The corruption before me insults all of my senses, not least my sense of reason. With exception for the aggressive thrush, the roar is louder than everything else around me. Sounding not dissimilar to the sea, it wouldn’t be too bad if it didn’t force its way into every nook and cranny. I love to listen to the soothing sound of waves breaking against a rocky shoreline. The problem is that I’m sitting in the forest. I mean, I can see the branches moving in the breeze but what I hear is quite different. At least I’m saved from the worst of the smell up here where I’m sitting. The sickly sweet diesel fumes hang closer to the ground. Waiting to assault me on my return to street level.

Up here at the edge of the forest, where it abruptly opens to the vista of the city I’m quite alone. The only sign of human life is the steam of moving metal boxes down below. On such a lovely day, why am I alone on my rocky perch? I should explain that I’m absolutely no mountain climber. Where I’m sitting is less than ten minutes walk to the nearest tram stop. There’s even a signposted footpath leading straight to this place with its view over the whole city.

Why must I be so different, shouldn’t I really be sitting in one of those cars I see, rushing home or chasing around to the shops? No of course not, not on such a beautiful afternoon. With my labours completed for the day, the sun warming almost for the first time after a long cold dark winter and the beer beside me tasting very good. Washing, if only temporally, away the taste of asphalt and tyre dust. I have no doubt that my choice not to join the race below is the right one. I should be happy but I can’t be. How could I be when what seems like the whole of humanity is rushing towards unavoidable destruction, down black tar ribbons, before my very eyes? If only they weren’t all in such a hurry.

The magpies are back and the thrush returns to the attack. The sharp hoarse calls of the smaller bird, clearly audible above the drone of the traffic as it makes its courageous stand, doing all it can to save it’s newly hatched young from a ghastly threat. What else could it be expected to do?