Some of us might be inclined to think, for example, that we have a divine right to central heating and Wi-Fi. What about the assumption that avocados will be available year-round?

Entire generations, including my own, have grown up in a world where scarcity is something that happens to other people, in other places, preferably on the news between the weather and the sports bulletins. We have, quite spectacularly, mistaken convenience for permanence.

This isn’t entirely our fault, though. If you are born into a system that works (more or less), you're going to assume that it will continue to do so indefinitely. Supermarkets refill overnight, petrol & diesel are simply sucked out of the ground at forecourts, as if by magic. Even packages arrive at our doorsteps at the click of a mouse. It all feels less like a triumph of global coordination and more like just how things are.

But the truth is far less comforting. This world of plenty is not a given. It is a fragile, intricate ballet of ships, pipelines, trade agreements, political stability and a frankly alarming level of global interdependence. But, it's all balanced on a knife-edge. Tug at one thread and the whole thing begins to wobble. And now, with war once again engulfing the Middle East, a place that sits rather inconveniently on vast reserves of oil, and is located at the crossroads of global energy logistics. Waging war here equates to tugging at one of the thickest, most load-bearing threads in the entire system.

A world of plenty

Here’s the thing about modern life. It depends on energy. Not in a vague, philosophical sense but in a brutally literal one. Oil and gas are not just fuels; they are the very lifeblood of the entire global economy. They power ships, planes, lorries and tractors. Everything. Oil is embedded in plastics, fertilisers and even pharmaceuticals. Oil forms practically every aspect of daily life. Disrupt that crucial flow of oil, and its derivatives, and we don’t just get higher petrol prices; we get a cascade of other catastrophic consequences too.

First come energy price spikes. Fuel becomes more expensive, which means logistics become more expensive, which means that everything else becomes more expensive. Your morning coffee didn’t just teleport to the café; it was grown, processed, shipped, roasted, packaged and delivered. All of which suddenly costs more when the oil supply is threatened. Then comes the less obvious bit. Supply chains. Those vast, invisible networks that stretch across continents begin to stutter. Ships are delayed, routes are rerouted, insurance costs soar, and companies that already run on razor-thin margins with their cost-effective “just-in-time” delivery models suddenly find themselves short of parts, raw materials or both.

You can see that it doesn't take much for factories to slow down and for supermarket shelves to start looking a bit sparse. Not empty, not yet. But you will begin to notice the gaps. That specific brand you like disappears, then the substitute disappears before the substitute for the substitute becomes very expensive. This might be the point when people start to realise something deeply unsettling. This whole system was never designed for resilience, it was designed for efficiency. It works brilliantly, until the day it doesn’t.

Economic consequences, meanwhile, ripple outward. Inflation surges, because costs are rising everywhere at once. Central banks, in their infinite wisdom, might respond by raising interest rates, making borrowing more expensive, and mortgages creep upward. At this juncture, businesses will cut back, and investment will slow. Already, fragile economic growth begins to slow down even further. So, for millions, this crisis won't lead to an abstract macroeconomic story, it's actually going to be painful and personal because the weekly shop will cost more. Already, excessive domestic heating bills will become a source of genuine anxiety for even more people. Holidays will be cancelled. Such treats will become luxuries again and not a given.

The vicious cycle

Here’s where the generational shocker kicks in. Because those who have never really experienced sustained hardship will feel betrayed. The world was supposed to keep getting better, more convenient, with ever more abundance. Now, instead, it’s becoming unpredictable, expensive, menacing and exclusive. The psychological shift will be profound. People will begin to question assumptions they didn’t even realise they had. Do I really need this? Can I rely on that? What happens if things get worse? For some, the answer will be to adapt. People will cut back, save more and simply become more savvy. For others, it will turn to anger. Anger at governments, at corporations, at a system that suddenly feels less like a safety net and more like a tightrope.

Globally, the effects will be even more dramatic. Developing nations, already operating on thinner margins, will be hit hardest. Higher energy and food prices can tip entire populations into crisis. Political turmoil often follows economic instability with depressing predictability. Instability, of course, feeds back into the system, creating yet more disruption. It's a vicious cycle that doesn’t take much to spark off.

The war with Iran is not just a regional conflict, it’s a stress test for an entire global system, which has become dangerously accustomed to smooth operation. It exposes the underlying truth that our world of plenty is built on foundations that are far less solid than we’d all been led to believe.

This doesn’t mean that collapse is inevitable. Systems do adapt, new supply routes can emerge, and alternative energy sources will be accelerated. Markets, in their own chaotic way, find equilibria. But adaptation takes time, and time is precisely what most people don’t have when prices rise, and incomes don't.

Change in perspective

So, what happens next? Well, in the short term, discomfort. In the medium term, adjustment. And in the long term, a change in perspective? Because if there is one silver lining to all of this, it is the possibility of rediscovery. Rediscovery of value, of resilience, of the fact that abundance is not a birthright but a privilege that requires effort, cooperation and sacrifice to maintain.

It may also force a reconsideration of priorities. Do we really need strawberries in December? Should everything be shipped halfway across the planet? Can efficiency always be taken for granted? Whilst these are not glamorous questions, they don’t lend themselves to catchy slogans or viral tweets. But they do matter now more than ever before.

Our convenient western world is not a giant vending machine. We can’t just go and press a button and expect something to drop onto our laps? Our world is a complex, delicate system that requires constant balancing. Right now, that balance is being tested.

For generations raised on the assumption that everything will always be available, always be affordable and always be easy; this could prove to be a rude awakening. But it may also be necessary, because understanding the fragility of the system is the first step toward strengthening it.

Of course, none of us should ever lose sight of all those innocent people who are being killed and maimed. Their plight is the real tragedy in all of this madness.