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 Change

Slowly, imperceptibly, a change, soft shadows fell upon Jennifer and myself, she appeared slightly restless, as if remembering her old days, her old ways. She was very deep, difficult to know her feelings, momentarily dragging me off to a motor bike shop, demanding that we buy this huge machine, a chromium monster, unafraid that she could again be thrown into oblivion, in no way had all her suffering diminished her attitude towards speed, her brain overlooking the fact of my age, that I was far from a teenage tear away, in fact, middle aged. The onset of my pot belly well established ... Smirks and whispering at the young bird with the old man from greasy mechanics at the rear of the shop ...... difficult to calm her down, to see the reality of the situation, really our first divergence, somehow she wished, possibly, to pull away from the mundane ... the everyday domesticity. Possibly sufficiently rested, recovered from her past ordeal ... to see the position she was in.

Without any exception this has always been the case with the females in my existence. They are lost, find me, or I them. They recover and are gone. Why should Jennifer be any different? This question poised tenuously at the back of my brain, especially as the chronological gap was big.

That moment passed, washed away by the tide of necessity. The boy grew. She appeared totally devoted to him. Long winter nights, they would both be fast asleep in the huge bed, television still silently flickering when I returned wearily up the thirty nine steps. Difficult to see anything at all other than I was in no different position I would have been in with Vie or any other woman, somehow blindly been overtaken by events...

Wrapped her body about mine, a hiding place for my head, succumbed to excluding my life once more in creating a purpose for my existence
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