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.

Weymouth

The past refused to be completely submerged ... breaking through my subconscious. It was at Weymouth that Ruth, possibly had the first inkling life slightly more than she had imagined. Not simply a matter of being virtually able to do as one pleased… most things leave a mark. Everything having a price which quite definitely has to be paid, not necessarily with cash. She began to realise that Peter, not quite the strong man imagined. Peter was quite so vulnerable as the next. had only succeeded in covering over the past by keeping his mouth shut, tight, so tight, that she would say in desperation "Speak ... say something ... anything ..." "Letter box mouth."

Imagine, probably, about the usual time ... half an hour after having fallen asleep ... simply leapt out of the bed and proceeded to bang my head on the wall, the only difference being on this particular wall there happened to be a mirror which smashed. Ruth, naturally paralysed. Groped about for an explanation of sorts. She sat on the bed, cigarette between her trembling fingers, looking at me, one eye on the door, possibly by way of making an exit. Bluffed, saying I had a dream, not thinking she would go for this, to my surprise, she accepted. Even eager for my explanation ... perhaps not wanting to think there could be a deeper reason and have to refute me, which would leave her nowhere ... simply alone.

Decided to be quite ready for these attacks in the future, with her, under little illusion of having seen the end of them.

Australia had scarred me badly.

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