I actually had a proper dream last night.
I was on board a boat throwing a party. There was a pile of presents waiting to be opened, guests – including my ex floor manager – kept arriving. ‘Alright Now’ was blaring out of the speakers and I was having a good time. I decided not to change out of my vest and pyjama trousers since nobody seemed to care, and then I sensed something.
The old git was standing at the end of the bed. We were meant to be leaving for Hastings at 8.30 so we could listen to a Radio 4 programme at 9.00. I peered at the clock on the wall it was nearly 10.00. I was really sorry to leave the party. I had overslept. My right eye was blurred, I couldn’t stand up straight and ‘Alright Now’ was brain worming. I leapt out of bed and was ready in ten minutes, although my bed looked like a ‘Help The Aged’ jumble sale with clothes strewn everywhere. I eventually chose a strapless bra, white drawers and a lacy number I bought from ‘tkmaxx’ years ago.
We climbed into his car, the temperature hot enough to open all windows, turned Norman on to get us to Hastings and off we drove. Down the hill, left at the first roundabout, left at the t-junction, through a village then sharp left down a winding road – all of sudden we were in ancient countryside.
‘This’ll be the first to go with global warming’ said the environmentally friendly driver. ‘It’s so dry.’
Old hawthorn hedges framed the road and big bold trees formed an arch.
Staying in the moment cancels hysterical thinking, don’t you think? And aren’t we living in historically hysterical times?
Interest rates, inflation, tax rises, mortgage bollox, never mind the price of tomatoes.
Years ago I was told by John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy that if you asked somebody the price of a tomato and that somebody couldn’t tell you it was because that somebody was living the life of the idle rich. I don’t know if a tomato is a good bench mark anymore, asking somebody the price of a bag of crisps is a better indicator. A bag of Kettle fucking crisps is now four times as much as a cucumber. The worlds in a spin. China is heading for a recession as is America, South Africa has 600% inflation whilst our little island is bobbing around in a polluted ocean whilst the ruling party argue whose going to wear the emperors new clothes. We are witnessing the breaking down of the old order. The Globe needs a reset because the system ain’t working
You can almost hear the selfish bastards scheming over their bloody Chateaubriand.
‘Finally we have found the solution to over population’.
Those slippery pricks will gloat over the oncoming chaos as millions and millions of people face destitution/starvation/death.
‘Let them eat cake’, giggles Esther over her £99 Gold Leaf bread roll flown in from Pan Pina Bakery in Algatocn.
‘Why cake?’ squeals Nadine ‘Let them eat nothing.’
Dribbling foie gras down their greasy chins they will delight that no more Syrian boats will muddy their shores.
Tucking a white linen napkin over his corpulent belly Eric will intone;
‘No more smelly homeless, no more Somalians, no more Glaswegian junkies’
‘No more worrying about levelling up,’chuckles the chinless Dominic sucking the head off a prawn
‘Hit them where it hurts’ simpers Suella as she slurps down a goblet of Bulls Blood.
‘Our world is being crowded out by the Untermensches, we must hit them where it hurts.’
‘And where is that?’ enquires Georgia
‘In the fucking pocket? they shout in unison.
Then out of nowhere a sign appeared for Ashburnham Place, a Christian retreat with an orangery where tea and scones could be had. After a long drive – and by that I mean a driveway not the drive drive – we arrived at the house only to be told it was closed for a private event. So we did a u-turn, just like our friend Liz, and ended up in Battle.
Five miles away and six miles from Hastings.
The Abbey loomed large in the sunshine and the high street looked worthy of a mooch. Hastings could wait.
We parked the car, went into the main entrance to pay for the privilege and was asked by the ticket mistress
‘Are you both over..’ and here she hesitated not wishing to offend, ‘Are either of you over 60?’
Fucking stupid question as the old git and I look like ageing septuagenarians which is exactly what we are.
Taking a map of the Abbey we tripped down the steps – not literally – and sat down at the very first coffee shop which had 11th century writing on the wall and a Julie Walters waitress who wiped the tables with a large damp cloth. The coffee was good the lemon drizzle cake better and the sun comforting.
We walked up the high street and down the high street. The Charity shops full of affluent cast offs. We looked at the scarecrows hanging on the railings, and decided that it was too hot to see where Harold lost his eye, and too hot to walk around the battlefield, so we asked each other kindly whether we could go home.
So we did.
The moment we got into the car I whipped off my underwear, slipped out of my sandals and settled in for the homeward journey. By the time we reached home the lunchtime news had confirmed that the Bank of fucking England doesn’t know what its doing, that the new Tory leader will be walking into a shit show, that Putin is an arse and Xi Jinping is a cock. I turned the radio off as he parked the car next to the field where two delicious Simmental cows were chowing down on dry grass, their tails swishing away flies.
The water has dried up in our wishing well, we have a hose pipe ban starting on Friday, the courgettes haven’t taken and the runner beans have given us just one bean to date. Our gas bill has gone up, our electric bill has gone up and I won’t go shopping for fear of overspending. I send the Northern hunter to stalk out bargains. As Evan Davis tried to make sense of the economy I cleaned out the tea cupboard, rearranged the spices, sorted out the supplements, put the saucepans in order of size and silenced my troubled mind by thinking about poor old Harold who lost an eye in 1066, although we got a jolly nice tapestry out of it, and that ‘Time heals all wounds’ although it could be said ‘Time wounds all heels’ so you’d better watch out – you know who you are.