Mary was a true opsimath. All her life she has been devoted to others, first because she was the eldest of a regularly growing family, then as a wife and mother. She was bereft when her husband died and all her children had left home to pursue their own careers.
The day she saw the notice in the newspaper giving the details of the forthcoming programme for the University of the Third Age she knew where she wanted to go. Living in Cambridge meant all the tutors were well respected academics and she enrolled herself for several lecture sessions on everything from Ancient Egypt to modern day politics.
Mary was a small wirery lady with lots of energy and a willingness to join any event suggested by the organisers. Years of domesticity led to her wearing comfortable practical clothing. A discussion one day about reality T.V. shows prompted her to apply to take part in a quiz broadcast each afternoon on the BBC. Round by round one competitor is eliminated until the last man standing goes home with the prize. She was eliminated in the fifth round at her first attempt but enjoyed the experience so much she decided to try another quiz. The format of the one she chose was slightly different as it relied on a combination of knowledge and luck. She was lucky enough to be chosen at random to join twelve others to compete for a place on the hot seat. The first time she did fastest finger first she was no where near, her time of 3.9 seconds was beaten by a man in three seconds. He failed to get very far winning only two thousand pounds and once again fastest finger first came up. She failed a second time by an even smaller margin and gave up hope of ever getting into the hot seat. The winner however failed at the second question, an unheard of result and once again a new contestant was needed. By this time she had given up hope and took her time to answer the question. To her horror she was the only person to get the answer correct and was escorted into the hot seat. At first the questions were so simple she paused a long time before answering and consequently was still there when the programme came to an end to be continued the following week. During the week she slipped on a patch of wet grass and broke her arm. The producers of the show offered her the chance to defer her appearance but Mary declined saying if was bright enough to win she was not going to let a broken arm stop her.
Need I say she became well liked by the audience and when she won £50,.000 she was given a standing ovation.
Offers of work poured in; from quiz shows to advertisements.
This was not what Mary had in mind and decided to use her winnings to enrol as a mature student. Mary became a well liked diligent student and put herself up for president of the union: after all she was not going to join the workforce and thought this a worthwhile occupation for someone with a desire to learn and the time needed to fulfil her duties.
I met Mary for the first time when she was a visiting lecturer at the University of the Third Age. I asked her to marry me but she declined as she was currently writing her fifth book and would not have time to devote to me. We moved in together six months later as equal partners. The one thing Mary had not learnt was the difference between wife and lover.
I made the journey to Marrakesh not in the traditional way by magic carpet but in a Ryan
Air 737. The ride in the taxi from the airport to the medina was hair raising to say the least. I had forgotten the Hurley burley of life outside the EU. The Taxi stopped in a square full of vehicles of every description; the driver got out, unloaded the bags and indicated we were to follow him. We trotted behind him pulling our bags through cobbled streets, under arches, round corners until he stopped in front of an unmarked door. The door was opened by an exotic lady whose beauty was only surpassed by the amazing house behind her. We had left the real world behind and entered a new and exciting existence. The architecture of the house is 100% Arabic but the eclectic collection of paintings and works of art could only have been put together by a true master. We drank the local wine and ate a few delicacies before going to our rooms to change for dinner. Once again we are escorted through the streets to a restaurant. We are in the medina, an Arabic term for a collection of houses. The streets are clean and ladies walk about after dark unmolested and very comfortable. There are a few shops still open and everyone is very friendly. ( No hassling). The restaurant is small, clean and very French: it is run by a young lady with sparkling eyes and a terrific sense of humour. It was almost closing time but we were made to feel very welcome and given a menu with twenty pages. Everything we tried to order was off and we settled for chicken pie which was delicious. I caught the girl’s eye as she was rubbing off most of the sweet menu and we both laughed. The next morning we started breakfast at 8a.m. to be ready for our caliche ride at 9am. We talked so much with our hostess that we did not join the caliche until later. Matching horses, shinning brass and bold yellow and black upholstery and I felt like a Queen riding through the streets looking down on everyone. Actually I was more like a child in a sweet shop snapping away with my camera from the high vantage point. The first stop was the Majorelle Gardens. These gardens were made by Majorelle, a French artist, but fell into disrepair on his death. Yves St. Laurent came along, bought the house and restored the gardens to their former glory. The hot chocolate in the café was welcome as it was a chilly morning. The garden walls are painted a rich blue, known as Majorelle blue, a colour the artist saw surrounding the windows in Berber houses. Blu is the colour reputed to keep flies away. The remainder of the morning was taken up looking at the town but nowhere could compare with the Medina. I asked at a spice stall where the best place to eat cuscus was and we were taken to a near-by restaurant. Every surface from the door into the heart of the place was covered in tiles; the seating was comfortable divans, the music was local and the place was full. The cuscus was wonderful. In the afternoon we made our way to the main square alive with jugglers, snake charmers, performing monkeys and traffic. We arrived home exhausted, carefully following the landmarks we had noted on our way out. When we found the knife grinder we knew we were almost home. This week is the celebration of eid-ul-Adha where household kills a sheep and divide the meat so that everyone can eat meat at least once a year. There has been a lot of sheep riding up front on motor bikes, in the back of taxis and being walked wheelbarrow style through the streets. The knife grinder was doing a roaring trade and his wheel was almost square! There are only doors and a few shops, no windows to be seen. Enquiring we were told behind each door could be a mansion or a hovel, no other indication. Just a quick drink before dinner led to a wonderful evening of talk and reminiscences with dinner abandoned in favour of a good red wine with pate and biscuits. A visit to the Atlas Mountains gave us the chance to have an easier day. Wonderful views with camels and donkeys waiting at the roadside. Cynics would say a tourist trap; I like to think of a more romantic notion. The river got wider as we went up the valley, a very popular place to eat with numerous restaurants accessed by rickety rope bridges. Arriving home to a cup of tea and more talk we agreed on a siesta before meeting for drinks on the terrace before talking our hostess to the Vulgar Palace for dinner as to-morrow is her birthday. Walking to the restaurant with Rosie an adorable toy Yorkshire terrier in a bag, we made our way through well lit alleys to the Vulgar Palace. As we were the first diners to arrive we had the pick of the seats. Congratulating ourselves we waited for the other diners to arrive and by the time the entertainment started only three other tables were occupied. Perhaps the festival to-morrow had kept everyone at home. The entertainment started with a lady, well past the first flush of youth, dancing with a tray of lighted candles on her head followed by three little maids who could well have been men in drag but the star of the show was the belly dancer. She gave each table a private performance and encouraged the younger ladies to dance with her. The food was also good. T0-day is the festival of Eid-ul-Adha and our hostess’s birthday. We start the day with champagne followed by a walk through almost deserted streets for brunch in a near-by café. Along the way there were fires in the street and boys were roasting the sheep’s heads. The sheep had been killed at daybreak, and the meat divided into thirds; one part for family and friends, one part to neighbours and the remainder to the poor. This is the portion we saw being roasted on the streets, the heads and horns. The deserted streets made walking a bit easier, not so many motor bikes to dodge. The main square was quieter than on our first day, most shops are closed for the holiday but the café’s overlooking the square is crowded. The taxi collected us at 3pm for the airport and our exciting and exhilarating few days in Marrakesh came to an end.
Light as a Feather Mabel was always the first on to the floor at the weekly tea dance. Her knarled hands and thinning hair gave the show away. She was no longer in her prime but still imagined she was. Wednesday was the highlight of her week and regardless of any aches or pains she might suffer, nothing was going to stop her enjoyment that day. Every Tuesday afternoon she made an appointment to have her hair done and her nails manicured. Then she went round the other residents booking them to dance with her. One of her favourite partners was a man who had some form of dementia which left him unable to speak but performed magically when dancing with Mabel. Much as she enjoyed this she felt it her duty to include some of the other residents and had no preference, male or female they were the same to her, a dance partner. Without Mabel the staff would have a very hard time coaxing people on to the floor. How could she be told that the home was to close ? Mabel never had any visitors and talked very little about her past life. The reason she was in care was that several years ago she had a serious traffic accident and with two broken ankles it was thought that at 78 she would not be able to look after herself. The social services stepped in and when no relatives came forward, sold her house to pay for her care and thought this was the end of the story. However Mabel was made of sterner stuff and within the year was walking again and wanted to return home but had no home to return to and had no alternative but to remain in the nursing home. She made no fuss and got on with her life determined to enjoy her remaining time on earth. At the time of the accident, Mabel had been a normal 91/2 stone lady who dressed well and led an active life. She took three holidays a year but strangely she did not know her neighbours. I once heard her tell someone that during the worst winter on record not one of them came to ask if she was O.K. After this she kept herself to herself and did not even send them a Christmas card. Perhaps this was true but it seems unlikely for such an outgoing person. On the dance floor she was so light on her feet she seemed to be floating and even her non dancing partners felt she was carrying them round the floor with her. Things changed for Mabel one day when a man came to see her from a law firm in London. I was asked to sit in on the meeting and the news he came with astounded me. Mabel at the age of thirty was left a legacy from her grandfather. Her own father said she was irresponsible with money and took control. She fought this through the courts and lost the case. There was no where for her to go so she took her remaining money, went to a shipping line office and asked where she could get to with her meagre sum. Arriving in Canada with only the clothes she was wearing made her take immediate action. She presented herself to a hospital and asked if she could train there to be a nurse. Because she was older than the usual trainee the matron told her there was a place for an orderly on one of the wards. She accepted and offered to start at once in exchange for board and lodgings. While in Canada she married and left nursing as her husband was going to work in Alaska where he was prospecting for oil. One day he went to work and did not return. The months passed into years and finally he was pronounced dead and she left to return to England. The sale of her possessions in Canada enabled her to buy a small house in England and her husbands company gave her a small pension to live on. During the turbulent economic times of the 70’s her pension was transferred from company to company with each new take over. The Lawyer came to tell her that her husbands body had been found and with his remains were documents relating to the purchase of some land from an Eskimo family who needed the cash. The land had been sold and the race was on to find an heir to his estate as it was in danger of going to the government after all this time. Mabel did not change her routine, Wednesdays were still the highlight of her week . she floated like a feather round the dance floor. She is now the owner of the nursing home and nothing was to change in her lifetime. Copyright 2010 *******************************************************************************************************************************************
A Visit to Mulranny
Talking in the pub one night about the interesting place names in Ireland, I found everyone had their favourite. It all started with me telling the story about a friend who came to stay and wanted to go Ballydehob. She laughed every time she said Ballydehob and it almost came like a password between us. I could not understand her fascination with the name, I thought the place she came from much funnier, Ballybunion.
As the night wore on and we all became a little light headed someone suggested we all put a name into the hat and at the next bank holiday we would all go to our selected place and report back.
I picked Mulranny.
Looking at the map, I decided to take two days to get there stopping over night at Ballynahinch as this happened to be my favourite hotel in Connemara. I first learned about Ballynahinch from a friend who read a book about Ranjitsingh the one time owner of the house and knowing I had spent time in India told me about the Hotel. I of course knew the name as my family were great followers of cricket and as children if a good stroke was made you were likened to Rangy as we called him. The story of how he acquired wealth, fame and fortune is so typically Indian. He was adopted by the Maharaja of Baroda and designated to be his heir. He was educated in England, first at Eton then at Oxford where his prowess as a cricketer gained him a place on the England team. He visited Dublin on a diplomatic mission and fell in love with the country, eventually buying the estate at Ballynahinch where he improved the way of life there building roads and bringing the railways to the far west of Ireland. He was never out of debt inspire of his title in Baroda but this did not deter him from continuing to spend money.
The next day I took the route north via Clifden, Westport and Newport arriving in Mulranny at three o’clock. I found a B and B near the start of the Atlantic drive; it was set in a garden teaming with giant fuchsias and all manor of exotic looking plants I had never seen before. I asked the owner about a castle I could see in the distance and was told it was Rossturk castle, one time home of Grace O’Malley a notorious pirate queen.
Grace O’Malley was a legend in her own lifetime and has gone down in history as one of Irelands most colourful characters Born in1530 the daughter of a sea captain Owen O’Malley she was determined from a very early age to go to sea, tricking her father into taking her by dressing as a boy, he gave up the struggle and allowed her to go with him on his voyages.
She married twice, both were political marriages, the first at the age of 16 to Donal O’Flaherty the son of a sea faring family and secondly after his death to Richard Burke.
The O’Flaherty Clan refused to give her a decent share of her husband’s wealth after his death so she gathered her followers and went back to sea. Returning home she moved with her followers back to the O’Malley clan and became a chieftain in her own rite. By this time she had built herself an empire of five castles and several islands in Clew Bay. Because of harassment from the English she needed Rockfleet Castle to defend the North corner of her empire so she married the owner Richard Burke.
Twice she presented herself at the court of Queen Elizabeth the 1st to ask favours but was looked upon with scepticism, returning to Ireland empty handed. The second time to ask for the release of her property taken by Sir Richard Bingham after her capture at sea by the English fleet. She escaped execution but was harassed by him for the rest of her life.
After listening to Graces life story I felt it was too late to take the Atlantic drive and decided to take a walk on the beach. The sun was setting over Clare Island and the last few surfers were packing up for the day. The scene was breath takingly beautiful.
Tired out I looked for a pub to get my dinner and afterwards was entertained to traditional music and dancing until the early hours of the morning. There was magic in the air and I could not leave the next day and began to wonder if I would ever leave.
I arrived home with more than a story to tell about Mulranny, I also brought my bride.
Once upon a time, when the world lived without television, mobile phones, video players or even the cinema, two people who were destined to meet, lived in the same village. He was the son of a widow and they lived a quiet life at the edge of the woods in a modest house lent to them by the boys’ godfather. At the age of eight the boy was sent to school in a town near his godfather but he came home each holiday to live with his mother. He chopped wood for her in the winter and tidied up her garden in the summer and he had very little time to go out and meet friends.
The girl lived above her fathers shop in the village. Her mother knew that at her christening, one of the guests predicted that the girl would grow up very beautiful but this had to be nurtured. Not knowing quite what that meant she became very protective of her daughter, not allowing her to go to school but taking her to the rectory each morning for her lessons with the rector’s daughters.
The Rectors daughters were a very wild trio of girls who were always looking for mischief. Their mother was sickly and spent most of her time in bed and their father who was dedicated to the work in his parish, had no time to keep an eye on them
When the twins reached eighteen a coming out ball was announced and everyone in the village invited. Henry, our hero, asked his mother if they could go; they had so little to do with he village people he was becoming curious to know why. She did not want to go but said he must make up his own mind.
The day of the ball arrived and Henry was determined to go in spite of it being a long walk from his house and his boots would get very muddy on the way. Clean boots were an essential for Henry as he was to join a regiment in India where his godfather had bought him a commission and he was determined not to let him down. As he got near the house there were several villagers arriving on foot and he grew in confidence. The girls were all giggling together and the boys looked uncomfortable in their best suits and tight collars. Henry knew no one.
Inside the carpet in the sitting room had been taken away and a fiddler and a drummer were playing merry jigs. The twins, Maud and Muriel with their younger sister Fanny were standing with their father and mother beside the fire. They raced over and grabbed the first three boys to go in and one of them was Henry. Maud liked Henry and kept every dance for him but he had seen the girl in the blue dress and wanted to dance with her. Maud had different ideas. Henry didn’t want to leave until he had spoken to the girl in the blue dress but Maud would not hear of it.
“What do you want with her she’s only the daughter of a shop keeper” Maud insisted.
Henry was rather glad when midnight came and everyone went home.
The next day who should visit Henry and his mother but Maud and Muriel. “ I thought no one lived here after the general left” they told Henry’s mother but she did not reply, instead asking if they would like to drink tea with her. Henry didn’t tell them he was leaving for India the following week.
Before he left he walked to the village and saw the name above the shop where he had been told the girl lived. He made up his mind to write to her when he arrived in India.
Parting from his mother was difficult and he decided to ask why she cut herself off from the village and had no friends.
The story unfolded little by little as it was a very painful thing for her to tell the secret. She was born Sarah Jane Ponsonby, the fifth child and only daughter of Colonel James Ponsonby who lived in the next county in a large Manor house. Her mother died giving birth and her father with the help of the servants brought her up. One by one her brothers left to join the army, the priesthood and trading in the West Indies and her life became lonelier by the day. One of her father’s friends came to stay and she fell in love with him. Unfortunately he had a wife who had been in a lunatic asylum since the birth of their first child who only lived three days. He showed no signs of leaving and they grew closer and closer and one day she found she was pregnant. Her father was livid and ordered his friend out of the house. After a further six months of crying ever day she gave birth to Henry. Later that year her father died and when the will was read she found herself homeless and penniless. When her lover heard of her plight he moved her into the house at the edge of the woods, expecting her to say she was a widow with only one child. In stead she became a recluse and her lover visited her less and less.
“Is my godfather my father?” he asked. “No, his brother” she replied. By this time she was too distressed to talk any more and I left for India with only half the story.
Dear Miss Peters,
I hope you are not offended by my writing to you. We briefly met at the ball given by the Rector and his wife for Maud and Muriel. I admired your blue dress and you blushed when you thanked me. I know it is a long time to ask you to wait for me as I will not be back in Meremarsh for five years. I would consider it an honour if you could find time to write to me,
Yours faithfully
Henry Black
Dear Mr. Black,
I have asked my father if I can write to you and he needs a recommendation from your parent or guardian.
Yours faithfully
Mary Peters.
This seemed a reasonable request and I contacted my Godfather but learning she was the daughter of a shopkeeper he refused. I was heartbroken; every day I thought about the girl in the blue dress.
When I finally returned home my mother was pleased to see me and said she had a surprise for me. We went inside and sitting by the fire was the girl I had fallen in love with all those years ago. Lost for words I looked at my mother who was smiling.
“There’s been enough unhappiness caused by interference in this family and I decided to nurture this girl and her love for you “
I sank to my knees and blessed them both.
We lived happily ever after and after years of waiting my mother was finally reunited with her lover.
My first memories of the portrait were seeing it at my grandfather’s house, hanging in the Billiard room. The cousins used to make up scary stories about it. One said its eyes followed you round the room but I was too young and too frightened to look that closely.
The war came and my parents moved to another part of the country and somehow we lost contact with the family. My father died during the war so perhaps this had something to do with the situation.
I can only remember the good times I had with my brother and sister, how we were free to roam the woods around the house, swim in the river and play games by the fire in winter.
After the war my brother went up to Cambridge and eventually became a doctor. My sister who had always been good with words went as an interpreter at the newly formed UN in Geneva. One day out of the blue my mother told me I was to go and visit my grandfather. The first reaction was to ask if he was still alive.
The journey to his house was tedious, a bus, two trains and then a taxi took most of the day. It was dusk by the time I got there and the house loomed out of the twilight. I did remember parts of it from my childhood and at first it was interesting looking round and talking to Grandfather but like all teenagers I had a very low boredom threshold.
The house was in a poor shape as he was past caring and his housekeeper who was even older than him had long since lost interest in caring for herself never mind him and the house.
The billiard room was still there of course, everything encrusted with cobwebs and I was reminded of Miss Have shams wedding breakfast in DickensGreat expectations. I picked up some darts and looked for the dart board, not finding one I remembered the portrait I was so afraid of as a child. Hardly recognising it behind the dirt and cobwebs I remembered the eyes. Why I did it I’ll never know but I found myself using it as target practice with the darts. I became excited by the power I felt and decided the eyes were to be the focus of my aim. The eyes became too easy to hit so I decided the pupils only were the target. Dart after dart flew into the tiny spot and as soon as it proved easy I lost interest.
It was a puzzle to me why grandfather wanted to see me but once we managed to become friends he told me that I was so like my father and even found photographs from his boyhood. The resemblance was uncanny I had to admit. How did he know, I was only a small child the last time he’d seen me and I could not recall seeing any of the other relatives recently. I became bold enough to ask why the family had not kept in touch after my father died, and he said it was because they blamed my mother for sending him into the RAF. Apparently she was heard to say she liked the uniform the best.
I stayed with the old man for about a week, during which time we got to know each other quite well. He was clearly strapped for cash and had no energy to do anything about it. I asked about my other cousins but he only knew that most had gone abroard to work after the war.
Although I did go to university I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and was in serious danger of drifting when a friend of my mothers’ asked if I would look after her antique shop while she went into hospital for a fairly minor operation and would be out of action for at least a month. Poor woman, things went hopelessly wrong during the operation
and although she survived she was unable to carry on the business. She did not sell it as she always though
t recovery would come eventually.
Meantime I found my niche and loved trading. I often thought about grandfather and all his possessions i
n such a state of decay. I did go to see him one day with an offer to help him but it was too late.I told him what I was doing but made no effort to force any ideas on him. He died in his sleep a month latter.
Out of the blue I had a letter from a firm of solicitors in London asking me to contact them and I was amazed to find that the old man had left his estate between all his grandchildren. There were some specific requests and I found I was to get the portrait that hung in the billiard room as well as my share.
Christies, the auction house, recognised it as a 17th century painting from the Dutch school and suggested to achieve the best price it must be restored as it looked as if it had been used as a dart board.
With the proceeds I bought the shop and have plenty left to keep me comfortable for years to come.
The sex trade has been thriving since Eve first bit into the apple. Over the years changes have come and gone, sometimes being a highly respected trade to the downright sleazy. All levels of society indulge themselves, but now we have a powerful tool THE INTERNET. There’s a web site to cater for every taste and I took the plunge in the interest of research to find out more.
Glamorous blonde age 19 seeks friendship with a very, very rich man. Absolute discretion, guaranteed a virgin. Contact Elsa 087 563 429.
I contacted the number and was asked for my bank details! I gave a phoney number and an astronomical amount in the account. Amazingly I was next asked to send a photo over the internet. Having got this far in I sent one of Brad Pit. She thought I looked quite nice and wanted to meet me but first I had to send one thousand pounds. By this time I had to share the experience with a friend as it was just so unbelievable. He suggested we make a date over the web but before I could get it worked out; there was an irate reply from the girl’s father. His daughter was only eight and if there was any further contact he would have to alert the police. At least you would hope she was a virgin at eight. Now that there were two of us searching we became much bolder. “Let’s try the small ads in the Sunday papers.” He suggested and we decided the criterion was virgins only.
Newly arrived from Eastern Europe virgins with no English ready to exchange sex for lessons. Leave a message on 086 843 926
I liked the sound of this so a message was left with my e-mail address and the next day I was contacted by a young girl describing herself as blonde, 18 and willing. She also sent a photo. When my friend came round I showed it to him and he laughed himself silly. That’s one of the spice girls from ten years ago! I quickly deleted it all from my computer. The next day another e-mail arrived asking me to send a photo of myself so that when we met she would recognise me! This time I consigned it to junk mail and put a stop on her contacting me again. I thought the subject I had chosen would be good for a laugh all round but quickly realised there was an element of danger in it. “Lets try foreign sites as they won’t be able to come after us” my friend suggested so we typed in foreign virgins. The choice was enormous and we began to make our selection. I was all for trying a Thai girl but remembered hearing about a man who bought a bride on the internet only to find out on the honeymoon that she was actually a man!
Dusky maiden fresh from school. I am a 17 year old virgin looking for love. I can guarantee you a good time as I’m very experienced. Contact 087 553 2761.
This seemed worth a try, I wondered what exactly she was experienced in? One evening in my room we made the phone call. It was an answering machine asking me to leave contact details. Within ten minutes I had a reply. Could I send a registration fee of £100 to a post office box number before she could meet me? There’s more to this sex business than I realised, perhaps it was not such a good idea for a school project after all.
2009? Amongst Old Joe’s possessions I came across his predictions for 2009, or was it some other year he was envisaging when he wrote it. I had not put him down as a scholar; he did not seem very bright when he arrived to live at the rest home. There were never any visitors and he spent a great deal of time alone in his room. The staff was not expecting him to suddenly die in his sleep as physically he was quite strong. However his room contained a lot of unexpected surprises one of which I would like to share with you.
The year will start with the world sliding into deep recession resulting in changes the world never thought they’d see again. Somewhere in the universe the clock has been turned back without anyone noticing until it is too late. Lack of money will hit all sections of society and only academic studies which have been years in the pipeline will reveal anything significant. Physics and maths will tell of unexpected discoveries leading to a better understanding of the world we live in. The afterlife has been something of a mystery but concrete proof will emerge about the reality. This must be a boost to the church which has been in the decline for several decades. I see no improvement there yet but it must come sometime. An eminent physicist will finally crack the phenomena of time travel before he dies. Discontent amongst the people will result in widespread demonstrations attracting thousands. The police will have great difficulty controlling the crowds and many people will loose their lives. Law and order will eventually break down and the present government will fall. The scourge of aids will disappear as Africa is decimated first by cholera and then by smallpox which was thought to be eradicated decades ago. There will be no medical breakthroughs as no money will be given to research. In education, all books will be down loaded from the internet and there will be a collapse of publishing houses and book sellers. The shortage of jobs caused by the recession will mean teenagers staying at school until the age of twenty. Employing extra teachers will be a way of the government keeping the unemployment figures down. The universities will be able to keep going by selling off some buildings and increasing the yield on their farms by using the students as enforced unpaid labour. Designer fashion is totally gone. People are attending classes to learn how to sew on a button and how to darn. Make do and mend will once again be the order of the day. Issues such as global warming are no longer a problem as cars will become scarce following the collapse of the car industry. Survival will be the order of the day. On the positive side the family unit will once again become the most desired way of life, people will realise that the support net work is very important. Sharing cars, food, heat and shelter are not such a bad thing after all. These changes came about by the sheer arrogance of the leaders of the world. Hope is near in the form of a new leader who will be hailed as the new saviour of the world. His unexpected skin colour will unite half the globe. The war which has been raging for the last ten years unnoticed in the civilised world will be at last out in the open. First they tried to undermine the economy of the west by manipulating the oil prices. That was only a partial success so they started to under mine the global monetary system. This was much more successful and they will tighten the screws even further in the coming year. Banks will no longer lend money and their activities will be strictly monitored but is too little too late. The world economy is run on credit and consequently currencies around the world will become valueless. So where has all the wealth of the world gone? Who are the faceless “they”? Constantly changing the terror they inflict is a great strategy on their part as it is almost impossible to know when, where or how they will strike next. No one has seen the face of the enemy but I can now reveal the name……….
It looks as if Old Joe died while in the process of writing his gloomy predictions. May he rest in peace?
