As I sit here, contemplating the fact that we’re about to enter the year of our Lord 2025, I feel a bone-deep weariness settle upon my ageing frame. Perhaps it’s hitting that quarter-century mark, but the very notion of “2025” – twenty twenty-five! – sounds absurd. It can’t possibly be a real year, happening in real time – it’s the stuff of time-travelling tales; films set in a space-age future; dystopian novels that paint a bleak picture of societal breakdown in decades to come. It can’t possibly be happening now.
Yet the calendar doesn’t lie. It is about to turn 2025, whether I believe it temporally possible or not. The passage of time seems to be playing pesky tricks – for surely the pandemic was a mere couple of years ago? The London Olympics were five years ago, weren’t they? And the millennium was a decade ago, tops – I’m certain of it…
