We will never time travel

Husband trying to re-connect the small, boingy overflow pipe that was blocked with a happy bacteria colony

Some days you just realise how unlikely it is that we as a race will develop more than we have when sinks still have to be unblocked by unscrewing a filthy plastic bit of plumbing that is impossible to get at and superbly easy to get cross-threaded - and that's the French system. I seem to remember the UK version being even more challenging.
I doubt that every home will have a robot that will cook, stack the dishwasher, answer the phone and unblock your sink, or that we will live on packs of space food and be able to tune into what everyone is thinking - or at least I hope not.
I sometimes wonder if we should have stopped and taken stock in the 1970s; about the time that cassette recorders were wildly exciting and plastic hadn't completely taken over the planet - but then I would be writing this in a notebook and no one except me and perhaps a few bored friends would ever see my musings . . . I wonder if there's any wine in the fridge. Yes, wine, cheddar and an episode of something comforting.

Plumbing and pruning.

Today we will reflect on the joys of the aforementioned items.
I hate plumbing: cold, greasy, back aching, infuriating, not that I really do plumbing as such, and I totally admire anyone who can.
Yesterday I attempted to unblock the sink, then Mark tried. The trouble with old under-sink situations is once you tamper with one bit, everything else decides to fall apart: leaking joints, weird noises, emergence of noxious black stuff.
As it was beyond us, I called in a friend.
In the spirit of trying save money he replaced lots of bits and grunted/swore for quite a long time before deciding the whole contortion of pipery was in fact, dead, and a trip to a DIY emporium had to be made.
No leaks now, but the mysterious noise has increased and the water is still not really going away as it should. I decided to get away from the darkness of the fetid under-sink-cupboard and concentrate on pruning.
Pruning is fabulous. Up and away with the birds, moments of adrenalin terror as the badly placed ladder wobbles; thinning out the dead wood and cutting away branches reaching for the sky. Every time you learn a bit more — it is a good idea to wear gloves, go on . . . cut that really big branch, shape, bring air in, tangle of useless twigs out. The pears are done, now for the huge almond tree. Free therapy.