the empires of the future will be empires of the mind

Dublin in the rain.
A conga line of oriental monks winds past me beating drums and tambourines and chanting something about Prince Harry.
The last monk in the line abruptly breaks away and turns to face me.
Like the others he is wearing a robe of matted hemp with the colour orange predominating.
He is bald as a coot.
There appears to be yellow paint on parts of  his face.
He eyes me speculatively.
"Hello Mr Healy," he says.
He says it a bit like the baddie in the objectionably violent Matrix film introducing himself to Keanu Reeves for the first time and intoning every syllable of "Hello Mister Anderson," (Mr Anderson being Keanu's character) with an odd admixture of civility, relish, cruelty and threat.
Sinister undertones.
It's a greeting but it's not that nice.
And I don't know this guy from Buddha.
I goggle.
The monk correctly understands my bewilderment and moves to explain how he knows my name.
"We've pioneered new mind reading techniques," he says. "Krishna consciousness enables us to know who you are on sight."
I goggle again.
"Okay actually I'm Bill Baines," he continues. "I used to live across the road from you in Kilcullen. I worked for your Uncle in the saddlery."