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.

Friday August 22nd, 1975.

Since Jenny has been gone to Canada, I have proceeded to move through the various gyrations so common to these interludes, with the slight twist this time, having had Mark to look after. Which has been entertaining. We had our one day holiday, camping, as we put the tent up the heavens opened. Mark and I drove back to town. A great deal of disruption ... expense ... why want to go anywhere? At least I dodged the sailing lark at the last moment ... It has done very little but rain, well pleased.

Going to stop doing anything I can possibly avoid from now on, whether this is old age or common sense ... I do not know.

I sit back and wait for the, hardly know which way to play it... laugh or cry.


Well my sixteen days of being without Jennifer are almost over. I look about, half wondering if I shall ever hear from her or see her again. Rather odd idea. I have managed.

Today, been trying to give myself marks out of ten for my performance. What shall I give for overcoming myself? three Marks. ... For overcoming people who shall remain nameless ... one Mark. For my general attitude towards the boy, two Marks. Finally for the way I have coped, two Marks. Which gives me eight.

Last night sat and looked at one of my better shots of Jennifer, struck by how very smooth she was. A miracle, from a young girl, half hobbling, on a pair of crutches to a self confident young woman ... I would take the liberty of a plus to myself over this transformation.

Try to think round the idea of never seeing her again. It does not leave me with any feeling. Life goes on. Simply feel nothing at all. Perhaps the truth is that I am afraid to have serious thoughts on the subject, that my lesson with Virginia was so harsh and bitter, that I am incapable of thought.

There is one odd thing about the two women. I often get them mixed up, some occasions finding it surprising that one is not the other. Jenny only looks now when I call her Virginia. I must admit to being fortunate in having loved both of them for certain periods of this existence, possibly if the older one had not been so high, so mighty, I would have been there still. It is ridiculous, in retrospect, to think that all she would have had to say was "Come Back Peter" ... maybe she did not care to….....

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