I'm nostalgic for the vision of a future promised me by the 1982 film Blade Runner. I didn't particularly hanker for a planet in 2019 that had descended into a dystopian fug of totalitarian paranoia, nor even the romantic prospect that I, myself, could become a blade runner slugging back nasty whisky between suicide missions hunting down errant replicants on the run from offworld colonies. Not at all. It was the hope that the very same minds that could deliver the hover cars and create organic robots indistinguishable from humans were also the same genius minds that could render a future in which a tin of Princes mackerel fillets can be cleanly opened in one smooth peeling action without splattering fish juice over the most of your upper body and kitchen walls. Seven years to go but it still seems my wishful memories of a new hope could themselves be lost in time, like tears in whatever.