I am sitting at a table at the outdoor terrace of the Bulldog Pub when four young men take a table next to mine. In their mid-twenties, they are gabbing about all sorts of things, but most of their conversation has to do with getting plastered. A short while later, another young man joins them. He grabs a chair diagonally across from my own at my table without even looking at me, turns it toward his mates, and plops himself down. Annoyed, I look the other way. It does not take long for yet another young man to appear and join the merry crew. The young man who is already sitting at my table gets up, sits in the chair right next to mine, and only then turns toward me: “Okay?” I just raise my glass without looking at him, and the last young man plops himself down in the chair his mate has left for him. The two young men are sitting at my table now. The conversation across the two tables continues about getting drunk, driving fast, puking in cars, and the like. I do my best to finish my drink as fast as I can, get up, and leave what is supposed to be my table without looking at the assembled youngsters. Now, how am I supposed to feel about the fate of these young men? Also, how am I supposed to feel about the fate of young people in general? I will say not a word, for I have nothing nice to say, but the young men who have occupied my table certainly know what I have in mind. Actually, they knew it by heart even before they had occupied my table.