DEFINE futility.

Here’s one illustrative example.

Return, tired, from hour-long dog walk, alongside river where somebody upstream must be trying to feed some very uninterested ducks.

Watch with suddenly attentive dog as slice of white supermarket loaf comes floating along.

See dog, carrying favourite fluffy squeaky toy fox with which she has just been summoned ready to return home, jump in to gobble up bread, abandoning said toy midstream. Send dog downstream to retrieve Mr Squeaky and return.

Try not to vent frustration (this is a public place) as dog skitters just out of reach to avoid having lead clipped on whilst keeping her eyes on the water for further unsolicited treats.

Repeat at 30-second intervals until entire loaf consumed and dog is coughing like billy-o and making horrible retching noises because of the amount of river consumed with each soggy slice.

Squelch home, leaving trail of wet muddy footprints on beige (who chose that?) hall carpet.

Regret once again buying house without porch for dog-drying purposes.

Put toy through washing machine and hang up to dry before collapsing with cup of tea.

Here’s another example.

Kill 94 badgers a day in Wiltshire in the hope of eradicating TB in cattle.

Do it in such an inhumane manner that one in five survives the first shot that hits it, until it is put out of its misery.

Ask your elected government to account for this barbarity.

Listen in disbelief to the following mangling of the English language by a supposedly educated elite: “The cull has delivered the level of badger removal required to be confident of disease control benefits.”

Wait (until after the next election when the farming vote has been secured) and see ….

Example number three.

Sitting in the car outside the grey utilitarian edifice that is Booker’s cash and carry, I blink at what I think I’ve just seen.

I wouldn’t rule it out altogether, given the unseasonably warm weather we’ve enjoyed till the last few days, and the number of flowers that are still out in my own garden.

It’s a white butterfly, fluttering towards me, on the day before Christmas Eve.

How lovely, I think, somewhat awed. That’s wonderful!

Only to turn my head and see hundreds of other little white fluttering things floating down from the sky.

At which point I twig that they are pieces of white papery ash from a hidden bonfire.

One moment of hope of a beautiful miracle, then mundane reality comes kicking in. That’s life.

And I thought, actually I can use that in something I write.

anneriddle36@gmail.com