Monday. I can't bring myself to watch the culmination of the psyop. We can imagine how it will go. TikTok dancing nurses dressed as syringes. Gun carriage decked out in pride colours pulled by Congolese children flown in by private jet from the Lithium mines. The coffin shown to be empty when the bearers drop it (suddenly dead from a pandemic of coincidence) to discover thar Marina Abramovic has stolen the body for the post-event Satanic casserole. No. I don't need to watch. The messages are not for me. I learned all I needed from one of my earliest examples of predictive programming. The Q 10p piece, issued as one of 26 for the whole alphabet, and supposedly representing a QUEUE, a very British thing using the French word for tail, which our colonial rebels call a line. But the image? Not really a queue. Not a line of skeletons queuing for ther daily barely-life-preserving government-issued bowl of cockroach gruel. No. it's a man and a woman leading children out of a tunnel.