The Tory plan for new housing: a social tax on climate change

POLITICS | COMMENT | SATIRE

It’s satirical, but it’s not particularly funny. As a science fiction writer, I look at many Utopian and near future dystopia scenarios, some dependent only upon a butterfly effect which could already be gathering motion, unknown to us. Sometimes I have to take a short break from fiction, so that none of my stories cross over unwittingly (even though crossovers are one of my trademarks).

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In a radical plan to tackle the housing crisis in London, the Conservatives are quietly pushing through new legislation, which wasn’t announced at the recent party conference in Brighton. Theresa May insists she did announce it, but it was when she’d lost her voice, and the whole Tory vision was collapsing around her on stage.

The changes are two fold: New housing built underground, paid for with a new social tax on climate change. Whether or not the announcements were heard at conference, this journalist was given a copy of the PM’s speech:

I have seen Jeremy Corbyn’s Labour manifesto on housing and a social tax on personal data, and I wonder what the leader of the opposition has been smoking (smile, then look to audience for approval). London has a housing crisis, and with so many people in one place, tensions are bound to develop. It is unacceptable that the wealthy people of the capital, should have to witness, daily, what the poor have done to themselves (sad face). Their unsightly housing is a blemish on the otherwise rich tapestry of London boroughs like Kensington and Chelsea, and Westminster. We tried to make the pauper housing more aesthetically pleasing, by cladding high rise towers. We did so in a cost-efficient way, saving money, so that the wealthy weren’t squeezed too hard. And look what happened (sadder face).

So we plan to build housing for the poor underground, out of sight. There is not much of London which we can build up from, so the only way now, is down. This will solve the problem of homelessness, and ensure that wealthy tax payers aren’t troubled by those people. Out of sight, out of mind (look rad, and down with the people).

Of course, big ideas need big finance, and it is unfair to tax the top-rate taxpayers any more than they are squeezed almost beyond their means already. So another way to keep the poor underground, is with a climate tax. Quite simply, they will pay a new dynamic tax, depending on the weather. If it’s a nice, sunny day out, those people should pay to enjoy what the rich have to earn, so that they can build their mansions above ground. We might give them a rebate on really miserable days, when no-one really wants to go out anyway (check audience reaction). We could let them see a sunset or sunrise for free on bank holidays (smile sincerely).

They’ll be completely self-sufficient underground, and we’ll give them all the facilities they need: We’ve already partnered with Coral and Wetherspoons, and someone’s bound to open a Londis down there (good for the economy and ethical companies). They’ll have no problems with employment, as the wealthy residents of London will ignore planning laws on digging down, to make luxury basements in their houses. If they hit an underground poor area while they’re constructing, they can hire slaves (check audience again, then decide whether or not to mention further benefit cuts). As the owners of the land, we will give them title to all which is below their property. It’s joined-up government, with all departments working together (air punch).

We caught up with Theresa May later, to ask her about the rumours of a disagreement between her and the foreign secretary, Boris Johnson. “The foreign secretary,” she said, “is behind me, just like the rest of my cabinet.”

Johnson contacted this blog to ask, “What the fuck were you talking to the mad witch about?” Told of her comment that she valued him as a cabinet colleague, Johnson replied: “I’m just waiting for the right moment to shaft her. It’ll be like fisting the old turkey at the Bullingdon Club. Is this thing on?” We pointed out that the foreign secretary had called us, then he hung up.

Later, we smoked a joint with the boy Jeremy who said, “We’ll tax and regulate this stuff, and it’ll be legal, first for medicinal use, then probably for recreation. You won’t believe how much we get through at shadow cabinet meetings.” Asked about Theresa May’s latest plans, he outlined those of the Labour party: “Yes, big ideas need big money, and we’ve found a way to make a load of new money just appear. We’re proposing a new social tax to be levied on personal data. It’s a return of power to the people, where the internet giants fund a universal basic income, solving poverty in a stroke. Between us and the Tories, the British public just need to look at these new policies and decide which works best in the long term. Do you grow this yourself?”

None of the above is true, probably.

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If I could teach the world to sing…

THE WRITER’S LIFE | COMMENT

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A regular visitor to my little studio is my adopted kid sister, The Courts. She’s the one I met on my first night on the streets, when she and a couple of friends sat with me, surrounded by my life in Sports Direct bags. Those three girls were 15 years old at the time. Later, I was adopted by three more and gained three teenage daughter-types: What nice problems to have.

Since then, much has changed but Courtney became my sister in that family we formed at the squat: The Pink Hearts. We look out for each other, as brothers and sisters do. We chill out in my studio, watch DVDs, smoke weed and talk. She talks a lot and she’s naive about a lot of things but occasionally, she’ll say something really deep and thoughtful. She did that yesterday, when in her own idiosyncratic way, she effectively said this:

This feeds into a much bigger debate, which could well become a global conversation soon. As a beneficiary of the democratisation of writing, I know that marketplace is open to abuse because there are those who can and will preach to the gullible. Then it only takes a few “Shares” for potential lies to be spread. Eventually, untruths become believed, accepted and abused.

Trump and Brexit are examples of what happens in a perfect storm: A lack of faith in the gorverning classes has led to an angry right wing gaining traction, while those on the left were ineffective in opposition.

But what’s equally important and saddening is that people were lied to and they believed the untruths. They didn’t check or research.

There need not be a silent majority though.

We need to talk. We need to debate. We need to arrive a point where we all agree that this current mess can be sorted out. In order to get there, we need to stop fighting.

It’s idealistic to think that such a New World Order might evolve in our lifetimes but I believe it could happen in our children’s. We have de-evolved as a human race recently and I’m not alone in this thinking.

Read – as I do – the many scientific notes of Stephen Hawking et al. I do it as a fiction writer, for research into near future scenarios I might scare or wonder readers with.

“For millions of years, mankind lived just like the animals. Then something happened which unleashed the power of our imagination. We learned to talk and we learned to listen. Speech has allowed the communication of ideas, enabling human beings to work together to build the impossible. Mankind’s greatest achievements have come about by talking, and its greatest failures by not talking. It doesn’t have to be like this. Our greatest hopes could become reality in the future. With the technology at our disposal, the possibilities are unbounded. All we need to do is make sure we keep talking.”

It was a version of that quote by Stephen Hawking, sampled by Pink Floyd in “Keep Talking” which prompted me to write Cyrus Song. All of the above, current affairs and scientific research is fuel for the fiction writer. And that’s what I am. I’m not a journalist, but even for my fiction work, I do research my material.

Don’t believe all that you see. Check it out. Read The Guardian; check Snopes; Don’t spread lies.

The politics of feeling good

THE WRITER’S LIFE

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Thought provoking quotes about medical marijuana from Potbotics.com

By unfortunate coincidence, my work and real lives clashed again this week, even though I’ve got all my internal personalities working well together. The unfortunate thing was that a very dear friend of mine has been diagnosed with an incurable, degenerative illness. By coincidence, I was writing some articles for a client about cannabis.

As well as writing about marijuana, I smoke it: I’m a recreational user, and I use cannabis to deal with my anxiety. My friend confided that she also uses the drug to help with her condition. For me, the answer to the cannabis “problem” is one of legality: Legalise, regulate, medicate, educate.

The subjects I write about for clients are varied and interesting. The pay is poor but the satisfaction is in learning through research and putting that knowledge into an entertaining and informative piece. Because the articles were written for a paying client, I do not retain copyright but I can publish excerpts.

In the course of my research into all things weed, I naturally had to familiarise myself with some history, to place the law into a certain context within an article which was very much pro-consumption. What I found out was quite shocking and I had to tone down the language of a US politician to make my piece suitable for the intended audience:

..Cannabis was outlawed with the introduction of The Marijuana Tax Act of 1937. Some of the reasons given by Harry J. Anslinger (Commissioner of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics) for the banning of cannabis, speak volumes about some of the ignorance and attitudes of the time:

Anslinger believed that cannabis was an ethnic minority problem and described non-whites and “entertainers” as diseases infecting the white population. Their “Satanic” music resulted from marijuana use, which caused insanity, criminality and death. Cannabis was “the most violence-causing drug in the history of mankind”, he said. He further stated that smoking cannabis made ethnic minorities “think they’re as good as white men.”

Despite Aslinger’s naive and narrow-minded views, in less enlightened times, his bill was passed and the recreational use of marijuana became illegal. At the time, cannabis was prescribed by doctors for pain relief, and was an accepted part of American life. Although cannabis was the common name for the drug at the time, the Spanish word – marijuana – was used in the name of the act to further encourage racist sympathies…

It took a lot of editing to remove words which were offensive, even to me, whilst still making it a legible section. Then I continued:

…Thankfully, attitudes have changed. Medicinal and recreational use of cannabis is legal in certain states and being debated in others. Medical research and progressive politics have combined to realise the benefits of cannabis, both socially and economically. Regulation and taxation are made possible with legalization…

The article (and the writer) is not pro-legalisation (I used the American in the article itself, as it’s for a US client) just because of the benefits of decriminalisation (not getting locked up). The pro-legalisation argument is for cannabis to be regulated, taxed and sold for recreational and medicinal use. I went on:

…[Users] will experience a range of feelings, sensations and personal benefits, including a general feeling of wellbeing, hightened awareness, uplifting and cerebral thoughts. Recreational cannabis is therefore unsurprisingly referred to as a “mind expanding drug”.

For some people, marijuana is an occupational drug. Many people working in the creative arts cite recreational cannabis use as an aid to their craft. Writers and artists especially take advantage of the creative effects of the drug…

I then researched the two main types of cannabis which are cultivated for recreational and medicinal use: Indica and Sativa.

…Indica dominant marijuana strains provide a very relaxing and strong body high that is helpful in treating general anxiety, body pain and sleeping disorders. Indica is most commonly smoked by medical marijuana patients in the late evening or even just before bed. Sativa dominant marijuana strains provide an uplifting, energetic and cerebral high that is best suited for daytime smoking…

…In summary, Indica effects and benefits are relief from body pain, headaches and migraines; muscle relaxation, relieving spasms and reducing seizures; and relief from anxiety and stress.

Sativa effects and benefits include feelings of well-being and of being at ease; uplifting and cerebral thoughts; stimulation and increased energy; increased focus and creativity; and relief from depression.

Cannabis (marijuana) has many beneficial effects for the casual and medicinal user. Sativa and Indica effects are different and can be combined for the most effective tailored benefits…

At my recent (successful) tribunal appeal to prove that I was entitled to Personal Independence Payment (PIP), I mentioned to the residing judge that I smoke weed. She nodded. As a poker player, I’m pretty good at reading people and I’d bet on her nod not being a despairing one, nor one of resignation. Rather, it was a nod of understanding. I shouldn’t be surprised nor judgemental if the judge herself liked a bit of a toke on the reefer.

I’ve completed dozens of freelance assignments over the last couple of weeks and submitted my invoices for payment from the clients. All were interesting, even when they were about things which would normally hold no interest for me. Writing about a cause which is close to me though was the most satisfying. Because as a writer, I can get points across effectively and in an engaging manner. I may prompt debate but that’s part of my job.

In the other part of my job, as a fiction writer, I can use my writing to raise awareness of many things. With my friend I mentioned at the top in mind, I’m working on a short story. My stories have helped a family dealing with the loss of a pet; a friend’s daughter coping with growing up; and a teenage friend who self-harmed. I’m hoping I can help a friend who’s just been diagnosed with MS:

“…The curious thing was, it was the diagnosis which hastened the condition. It had lain dormant, without troubling me. Then as soon as I heard its name, it made itself known. What a cunt.

I wouldn’t be had. I decided to wager with the thing. All my life had been one long gamble anyway, most of it working out for the best. So I bet my life with the thing.

I bet this thing that I wouldn’t beat it on my own: That confused it. I was betting that my opponent would win. But I continued: I bet, that although I knew it could win, I would put up such a long fight that it would lose. Because I would fight for so long, through times of medical research, personal resolve and those around me, that I would live to see the day when a treatment was found.

At first, the thing taunted me. But gradually, as I learned to live with it, it was as though I were growing all over my own parasite. It was far from its kin but I had my team around me. The bet couldn’t be annulled, because I’d told the thing that I couldn’t beat it alone.

That was a pretty big bet: I was playing the long game. I’m still playing my opponent, so I may yet win the wager…”

(To be continued)

Even though writing doesn’t pay much, the rewards are far greater than financial. And the pain of depression and anxiety is made bearable by writing and by smoking weed for my recreation and occupation.

The politics of feeling good are simple: Legalise, regulate, medicate, educate.

An understanding of teenage girls, or how I learned to embrace the dark side

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MY WORLD

Collective nouns: like so much else in the English language, I find them interesting. Like onomatopoeia, palindromes, metaphors, similes and so much else in our vernacular, collective nouns can be played with. Words, meanings and inferences can be played with: I have been witnessed leaving a pub. Teenage girls have been visiting the pub. I live at the pub: not in the literal, alcoholic sense but I do live in a bedsit above a pub, which has customers, including young ladies, some of whom come to visit me. The problem of the language being? Misinterpretation, as so often demonstrated by that well-known collective: the interference of thought police, who wish I would move along. I did so.

The nature of some collective nouns, like so much in language, can be poetic; their diversity whilst they are an inclusive linguistic construct; and the pure whimsy of many, seemingly coined whilst an originator of a term was in a very good mood. Away from the familiar pride of lions and pod of dolphins, to pluck one each from the land and sea, there is the lesser-known and quite wonderful collective noun for giraffes: a tower. A herd of zebras can also be referred to as a dazzle, a zeal, a stripe or a cohort. I would personally like to add a barcode of zebras as an alternative collective noun; perhaps a crossing of zebras when they are on the move.

Avian collective nouns often differ between a group of birds in different modes of locomotion: a flock, herd or gaggle of geese on the ground and a skein, team or wedge of the same birds in flight; a waddle and a paddle of ducks, on land and water respectively. Just like young ladies, the most appropriate term is dictated by them: grounded, allowed to move their legs and keep their heads up because we know they can swim, or set free to fly.

I’m here to let a few things go before I make this next big move, to set myself free of all but the most precious cargo. With the girls who are forbidden from seeing me and those who imposed the situation in mind, as Mike Patton of Peeping Tom sung: “We’re not alone in this psychrodrome…/ Livin’ the dream if you know what I mean, and I’ll be that boy you used to know / I’m not alone I’ve got this microphone…”; and: “I know that assholes grow on trees, so I’m here to trim the leaves / I’m afraid / That you’re still my friend / You’re still a piece of shit / But I can look the other way / Because you’re still my friend…”

So what of that little-understood human sub-species, the teenage girl? They are a group of great interest to me, and some of my closest friends are from this demographic. These are the ones who adopted me as either a father or older brother figure and gave me purpose. They all have issues, some of which are borne of simply being an adolescent girl, but others are rooted more deeply.

In the time I got to know the girls and others – when I was transient – I learned a lot, said a lot and hurt a lot, partly because of the girls. I’ve hurt myself as well as others. What people often fail to ask when they’re trying to excuse themselves of blame for my illness or simply escape, is how I am physically. I am not physically disabled and had to prove that my mental issues impeded me at a tribunal. Just like my mental illness, my physical scars from self-harm are largely hidden from others because people are afraid to speak of that which they don’t understand. Some of the teenage girls I know, inflict harm upon themselves in areas mainly inaccessible to all but the most intimate with them.

Those girls and others got me here by being as much help to me as I was to them. I am not going to let those friends go; I will not stop, no matter how much it’s disapproved of. I don’t care. I can afford not to care. I am an independent writer now, with total freedom of expression, which is partly why those girls like and admire me so much. I’m not being conceited: they told me. More than one of the girls has a crush on me. In different circumstances, the situation might be reciprocated. I’m flattered but they’re young and I view them as such in that respect. But they will rebel. They will continue to visit me and there is little which anyone can do to get in the way of the will of a teenage girl, other than to ground her and stifle her in doing so.

It’s difficult to convey how I feel about the girls without seeming inappropriate of thought by my detractors. Some of the girls are stunningly attractive and gifted with the figures of model young women. And that is all I see: the obvious aesthetic, without a sexual undertone. It’s like yawning, stretching or stifling a sneeze: it’s a pleasant sensation, without a messy or embarrassing climax.

They come here because there is much to entertain them, besides me. Here, they can just chill in safety while I get on with what I do: writing. Sometimes what they want is what only I can give them: an honest – often brutal – opinion based on me not giving too much of a shit about offending them. Not for me the everything-will-be-alright reassurance, less so the patronising plenty more fish in the sea. I don’t insult their intelligence.

When he wrote Sunscreen, some of the most interesting people Baz Luhrmann knew at 22 didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds still didn’t. Only at 45, after so much, do I know what I want to do. Those conflicting young ladies just need guidance. 

One of the young ladies made an inaugural visit recently and commented – as others have – on how this place is so me. Even if I wasn’t in the place and she was asked who among her friends this place was home to, she would instantly say me. Because she knows me so well. That same young lady stayed with me for a couple of days. I shared a bed with a seventeen year old girl. Nothing happened, other than the two of us having someone else to hold as we slept. She slept with me because with me, she feels comfortable, safe and secure. I pose no threat to her. This particular young lady typifies the collective. Sometimes I can see how they might perhaps be a little naive, or too trusting. There are others who might abuse that trust but I wouldn’t throw away everything those girls have placed in me and risk losing the pleasure of their company. They are free with me and they know where to find me.

I met with my sometimes assumed arch nemesis recently, when he was invited to the bar as my guest. If anyone was expecting fireworks, sorry to piss on your bonfire. The situation between us wasn’t of our making; it was based on rumours circulating about both of us individually. Between us we managed to deconstruct the myths which had contributed to the rumours and identify sources. There are no scores to be settled and there is clear and level ground between us. No doubt the rumour mill will start up again but it’s something else I’m moving on from. I just needed to put some things straight first. If anything gets twisted, I’ll know how and by whom: it all still feeds back to me, even though I have less to do with the old family these days. But we’re still family and the plastic police didn’t reckon on the accused and their appointed guard valuing family ties as much as we do. They underestimated at least one of us. Both of us have better links to some of the family than the other, so we can be of mutual benefit to one another. The Pink Hearts will not be divided, no matter how divisive others try to be: we find a way. They still come to see me, even if they have to find inventive ways of doing so, invent alibis, cover stories or smoke screens. Most recently, this has included a couple of boyfriends and at least one parent. One young lady arrived a while back, seeking sanctuary because she was being stalked: not physically in the street but she came here. Because safety for her is here, with me and where I live is a licensed establishment with a landlord. The landlord of the pub is also my landlord, who I pay rent to for the bedsit. Because this is a licensed premises, fire regulations state that the landlord must know who is in the building outside of the pub’s commercial operating hours. He will not allow anyone to stay here who he doesn’t know. He knows the ages of anyone who enters the premises as entrance to the flat is via the bar, which guests to the flat patronise and where those guests are subject to ID checks. The landlord therefore knows that seventeen year-old girls stay here and it’s cool and the gang because he knows me and trusts me.

What do the girls see in me? Personally, I’m at a loss but they say it’s simply me. The one who can’t be categorised or contained; the free spirit, anarchist and punk: everything I was when I was their age and which I still am. They may be romanticizing or fantasizing but that’s where it stays. In much the same way that I can live within a character I’m writing about and take on the role, I can live within them. I can relate to them, play devil’s advocate and assume the role of protagonist or antagonist in the stories which we build together. I give them time and space to express themselves, as I am privileged to do for myself when I’m writing. The nature of my job means that I can spare those girls the time which others can’t.

A couple of days ago, I had one of my regular brunch meetings with the mother ship: always a pleasure, as mother ship is an affectionate term. We were joined by the man who only in the last eighteen months I have realised is the one whom I admire the most: my dad. I shall not attempt to describe such a great man in the confines of a blog post largely about other matters but my dad is as relevant as my mum in the making of me. My father is as modest as he is deep, in an almost impenetrable way but I shall permit myself one reference from the old man: that he is proud of me and what I’ve become. Nowhere near as proud as I am to be your son. I can only keep telling the girls that there are others besides me.

“…I am there for them when you are not. Where is your daughter now? Not with me…”

I’m the same as them, largely thanks to my depression. For their parents’ sakes, as well as that of my own sanity, I hope that none of the girls follow the route which I’ve taken. My parents bore a great burden with me but it was them who made me. There were other outside influences though, just as there are with the girls.

To understand depression is – in my view and experience – very much like understanding teenage girls. Both require one to understand themselves, as well as the subject of study. I don’t understand myself fully, any more than anyone else could. Like the girls, I’m stuck with me. I am of fascination to them: the guy who fell off the rails, fought back and became a writer. Only by knowing me do they understand what it took to get here. But I like the me who I’ve become and I try to teach the girls to love the person which is developing but confused and conflicting within them. I also continue to teach one of the young ladies to read: she has an untapped intellect and so much pent up anger that her most powerful weapon could be the written word, if she could only read. She’s doing well, under my tutelage.

There are bridges which remain to be built but those are for others to construct. I have built all of the bridges I burned and wished to re-build. As I set sail for a new land, the gaps which the unbuilt bridges need to span grow ever wider. The people I leave behind are those who gave up on what they saw as a lost cause, or were scared. Frankly, that is a greater act of betrayal than any I was guilty of toward them. I’m glad those people are out of my life.

I have achieved financial stability after a long fight for recognition. I have a lifestyle which I love. Pretty soon I’ll grow bored of being single, now that I have less to worry about and I’m not so much of a burden. I don’t expect an orderly queue to form because I’m for keeps and I’m not easy to keep.

My condition, my parents, family and those girls – among other close friends – are what have allowed me to become whatever it is I am: whatever that is, I like it and I’m taking it all with me.

Reading back over this blog as I often do, it strikes me that a year ago, there was one small, clingy reason for my happiness. Generally though, I was wallowing in myself, not just in self pity but in self righteousness as well. I was shallow and wrong on many fronts. I have so much more now.

Things really are falling into place: a rather agreeable living and working environment has been built around me, thanks to my friends at the pub. Those friends and others form an inner circle who continue to support me in what I do, including my two new beta readers, who are recent admissions to my inner sanctum.

My place of writing is where I coined the collective noun for teenage girls: an understanding. Within that group is a suffrage of the teenagers. Those girls crave freedom and expression. Green, white and violet: those girls can vote with their feet.

I’ve been paid some of what I was due in back-paid benefits. A proportion of it is already spent: repaying priority loans taken when I was needy and loaning out money to others who are needy now. I’ve treated myself: to a new Rotary watch, which is just the right side of bling but which is retro-futuristic in looks. It’s a bit steam punk in appearance actually and will form the basis of a forthcoming story, entitled Mechanical Manacle. That’s as well as the three books, ongoing regular fiction for Schlock webzine, straight-to-print work and various other projects I have in my new in-tray, under-submission tray, in-progress folder and filing cabinet of curiosities. Pretty soon I’ll be submitting work for competitions, as I’ve taken out a subscription to Writing Magazine now that I have the financial means.

I’ve taken out an Amazon Prime subscription and bought a Fire TV stick, which is brilliant, if you have a Prime account. Streamed TV, on demand. It’s very quickly changed the way that I watch TV and although I have more of it now, television has become very much secondary to me, after writing, no matter the hour. It’s a shame Fire TV doesn’t include many catch up services at present but I’ve been enjoying box sets and movies via an additional subscription to Netflix, so-bad-they’re-good movies via that service and Tubi TV; anime, horror, sci-fi, after hours, grind house and kung fu, including Sonny Cheeba features, placing me right inside True Romance; TED lectures and more. I’ve also bought some box sets of my favourite American comedies, as I do like to have things on display: Cheers, Friends and That Seventies Show. More to follow. Plenty to entertain me and any guests.

My immediate surroundings are much improved as I now have a proper desk, the dining table which I previously used as a desk now serving as a dining table. One slight extravagance is my chair: a high-backed, lumbar support office chair with arms. If I’m writing more or less full time though, I need to be comfortable. I’ve also got a rather iconic anglepoise lamp on my desk and a filing unit beside it: the aforementioned cabinet of curiosities, where I keep clippings and notes which can’t be categorized and therefore have to exist in limbo before being turned into something or destroyed. Or both.

Financial stability was a long time coming but now that I have it, I appreciate it and am not taking it for granted. Larger purchases aside, It’s the little things, like being able to have a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel with a cafe au lait for lunch, rather than a slice of toast with black coffee, or nothing at all.

There are a few loose ends to tidy up on the home and office / studio / study front, as there are in life but the new place will be me, truly personified and unlike any other place I’ve lived because this place is my personal expression and not one dictated – even subconsciously – by any outside influence. I’m like a teenager who’s been given their own room for the first time and who can express themselves, within the confines of parental control but with the latter constraint lacking. My home is me now, with the me that I’ve become within: the inner sanctum which is my cradle of filth. I’ll Instagram a panorama once it’s all in its resting place.

I have personal and financial stability to do what I love: to write. Expression is freedom.

Over-riding everything though is the fact that I have the means and the freedom to visit the young people whom I begat, with the next meeting due in a month. My refusal to delete anything from this blog has been frowned upon by some but I have always maintained that it should stand as testament to whatever might happen. As things stand, all is well and I hope this will still be the case a year from now.

I’m determined to keep going because I want to make my own kids as proud of me as my own father hinted he was of me, as I am of him and of my own resilient youngsters. 

Thank you for your understanding.