On the improbability of Karma

We have decided karma is probably not real.

Owen was closing the security gates to our rehearsal space and said "I don't think karma's very likely."

Owen is the lead guitarist and my friend of 12 years. He was in an expansive mood.

"I mean," he expanded, "your every action isn't going to go to some central processing unit and be categorised for subsequent retribution."

Ollie said: "And whose to say what is 'good,' anyway?"

I felt that was muddying the waters a bit; but otherwise a good point. I added, weakly, that it would need to be a massive computer and wondered by what means our actions were relayed to the hypothetical good/bad-ometer, since fibre optic cable was scarcely practical and copper wire was hopelessly old fashioned.

Karma, and its ghastly henchmen veganism and roll-up fags were on our mind because our practices follow a yoga session.

Which means we arrive to the smell of incense. Which is okay, I suppose.

Bristol seems to be the UK's last refuge of hippies. I would like to know why.

Widespread acceptance of liberal capitalism and diminishing state benefits didn't help. That, and the almost complete impossibility of doing or achieving anything remotely interesting or useful while being a hippy have seen them boxed into north Bristol. And there they sit, smoking desperately for a solution. Running out of Duma.

Perhaps, I suggested, Karma had been unkind to hippies because - ironically - it admires punctuality and getting-to-the-pointativeness. Perhaps it shares the engineer's aesthetic of dynamic, useful simplicity.

Owen had finished the extensive security routine.

"No" he said. "There's just no such thing as karma."

It was about then that we decided to go to the pub.