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.

Penelope

Caught the tram back to Adelaide, to Portrush Road, deciding that I would put in an appearance with Mary Simpson.

She, quite pleased to see me, the elusive daughter was home, Penelope ... a fairly large piece, taught up the road, science, at the girls High School, when she wasn't climbing mountains. She shook my hand with a grip equal to that of any man.
"Mother has told me a great deal about you."
Looked at her large breasts strapped in tight, under her jumper. My look apparently put her off her purposeful stride through life, a faint blush. Placed her hand over the front of her chest, as through to ward off my attack, at the same time making the usual noises about "would I like something to drink?" Her voice trailing away.

Her mother, already gone through the routine, arriving with a tray, enough to feed the five thousand. The incident of my blatant stare submerged during the passing of cups, stuffing the food and her quickly getting round to her last trip to the 'Flinders' 'Pitchi Ritchi pass' ... where she had taken about a hundred colour slides ... would I be interested in seeing them?
Before I could answer, she started to get the projector out from the cupboard ... well, could not think of anything else to do ... settled down, hoping that I would be able to keep my mouth shut tight and not make discouraging comments.

Either the way she had taken the photographs, or the nature of the scenery itself, but everything was red, in one shade or another. The very earth took on a red hue. The heat could almost be felt.

But I ran true to form, quickly tired, see one, you have seen the lot ... dozed off. Penelope Simpson unimpressed by my lack of enthousiasm ... not only with her negatives but in her own person.

She was 'alright' I guess ... not silly, aware that she had not succeeded in rousing me in any way.

She sulked, at least she was doing that when I finally woke in the late evening. The other part of the family had long gone to bed.

Pen, all attention to her thick book, no longer showing out, still fully dressed, complete with her heavy walking shoes, only glancing at me quickly, realising my eyes were open and on her.

Stood up feeling still a long way to go regards catching up with sleep. No, I did not want anything to drink thanks. Muttered a 'good night' tried to put a smile on it, went out into the night and crashed down on the verandah. My friends, the mosquitoes, settling on me gratefully.

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