Henry is 25 and desperately backpeddling, to no avail. He is a lucky man, free enough to do things and poor enough to enjoy them. But as he’s dragged, kicking and screaming from one of life’s pleasures to another, he remains slave to the stupid memory that says yesterday was better than today. Perhaps he’s a squirrel, saving treats for later? If nothing else, he’s old enough to know that things have never been so good – tomorrow will tell him so.