The bottom line of this perhaps rather long narrative, is not, as I initially started out as a perhaps green, green badge cab driver, who did not move to the valley of Diesel “Ilford” with the obligatory new cab, wife, mortgage and two kids.

No one more surprised than I at the realisation of what has materialised, a first hand description humiliation and deprivation of the British working class from the 1930's.

This erosion brought about entirely by deliberate policy of successive governments.. and the ten draconian years of Tony Blair who deliberately, for whatever reason, encouraged the influx of irrepresible waves of the World's disenchanted onto these shores, by doing so, creating a powerful, intimidating, devisive weapon against the indigenous labouring masses and a hard core of … crime, poverty and unemployment… the triple iron fist of all governments,plus Enron, 9/11, Afghan conflict over oil, Kosovo all emphatically used by Blair; any outcry was by "politically incorrect racists" as Dr David Kelly was to find to the cost of his life.

The differential between rich and poor, is greater now, than during the Middle Ages.

The Banker and the Cab Driver

Coutts Bank.. the Strand, Lunch time. He looked every part the smooth, wealthy man about town...fifties, graying at the temples. Tall, well built, well fed, affable, about £1600 clothes on his back. Black, grey pin striped, perfectly tailored suit.. the works. She, left nothing to be desired. Either his secretary or someone else's, about twenty seven, twenty eight.. Not Channel Number Five, more elusive. We had all been chatting, the small talk, he mentioned the cab, how old and well kept, for its age.. I knocked on about it being the same as the driver ..something along those lines.. "why didn't I get another vehicle.. a more modern one?".. I mentioned money... By the time had pulled in the kerb... shoved the meter on Stop, they were both out, smiling. He held a card .."Pop in and see me ..any time, we will talk about money.".. gave me a Jacks.. well pleased. Taken back by this gesture.. Mr. whoever "Director" Coutts Bank, etc...

Hardly thought anything of this, immured in my now domestic affairs.. my life quietly repeating itself over again.. the long ellipse.. perhaps still looking for the good pieces of the puzzle, as I had done with Carmen, with Jenny, Ruth. Women stretching right back down through the years.. nothing had changed.

Considerably older, time progressed, never aware of the aging process, never rationalised it. Never stopped to think, accepted that which I had known already, another attempt to climb out of Hackney, itself nothing less than my own embodiment, or I of it. Knew on my interminable running forwards and backwards, along the gently undulating M.11, perhaps knowing, at the back of my mind, possibly fighting a loosing battle. Pleased to return to the sanctity of this flat.. the anonymity of the wretched streets.
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