There is a man.
The man comes home from work. He is tired.
The man takes off his shoes. He takes off his jacket. He greets his wife with a smile and a little kiss.
The man calls his children to dinner, and they eat together and ask each other about the events of the day. The man complains casually about his boss. His wife complains affectionately about messes. The children complain about their homework. The family tells itself that it's going to be okay, and this is how life is.
The man puts on slippers, and picks up a drink, and picks up a newspaper, and sits down on the most comfortable chair in the living room, and reads about events in the world beyond his house and his neighbourhood. He reads in order to be up to date on what to talk about with his co-workers during breaks, and what to avoid talking about because it may be awkward in light of something which has happened. He reads in order to know who to be annoyed at for what recent indiscretion. He frowns at indulgent politicians. He smiles at progress in public works. He pauses to wonder at the pace of technological advancement.
The man is comfortable.
The man is sometimes worried, especially when looking at construction projects, and newspaper headlines, and stressed people whose problems he does not know how to solve.
The man is sometimes happy, especially when he thinks about his wife, and his kids, and his friends, and his home.
The man doesn't know what to do about the politicians, or how to feel about fluctuations in immigration.
But the man knows he works hard and does well enough by his boss and co-workers.
He takes care of his wife and his kids.
He looks back on his day and he feels he is doing his best. He can relax into that thought, like a warm bath; or an old, well-worn pair of shoes. He does not feel compelled to question it. He could, but it would only leave him more worried than happy, so why would he?
He settles into his chair, and keeps reading.
