Why I'm not a Something Something Rights Activist
It's raining, at the moment, but (vide supra) probably not for long. We may get another week and then that's yer lot until next winter. So I'm trying to do what I can with this rain, but find my thoughts turning increasingly to England, and the wise thrush, and all of that. England. I left the place in '85, and haven't been back except for flying visits (holidays when my mother was alive). I watch enough YT and read enough Guardian to know that the place has become unrecognisable since, and that I would be a foreigner, of the comical stuck in a timewarp sort, like Rees Mogg only loucher and more disgusting. I wouldn't fit in any better there than I do anywhere else. I'm a statistical anomaly on any scale you can invent. Even my vowels are behind the times. But none of this stops me fantasising about, what was it, old ladies cycling to church through a morning johnmajor, or in my version, lining up at the National Gallery or plonking down in a Turkish tea...