Instalment Thirty

I can’t listen to this song, he said leaving the bar. It was Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time. My mother used to sing this to me, we can’t listen to it ever again, he sighed. I hate to admit this but straight away I calculated: do I like Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time more than this man. We had told each other “I love you,” said we would be together forever but, am I willing to give up listening to a song I have never given passing thought to? It’s a catchy tune. His mother had died, he was raised by an older brother, this grief wasn’t misplaced, but still it’s a good enough song. True Colours is the same thing right? I thought. Be happy with True Colours and this boy, you love him. Yes, True Colours and this guy will do. I felt somehow short changed, I wasn’t even thinking about what other grief landmines could be buried in our future, just this one song I kinda liked. We broke up a year later. “You always put yourself first Selfish” he said. I still don’t own either song but I turn them up when they’re on the radio.

Instalment Twenty Nine

“The Ranks of the Unemployed are swelling sir,” he was told.
“It is as I feared,” replied the Prime Minister, “This could well spell the end of our Government.”

The unemployed numbered more everyday. Factories closing, spewing forth overalled workers rather than goods. Banks were bankrupt, their broke brokers recommending floor staff face the axe. Cleaners, sweepers and sandwich hands. More and more they came from all across the country and they flooded into London. They weren’t just looking for answers, they were looking for a leader. They found one. Underground.

“Did I not tell you,” Pauper boomed, “Did I not tell them all? The End is Nigh.”
“You did Sir.”
“We must gather our forces, our numbers have never been stronger. Now is our time. Bludger, Beggar, Street Arab take young Vagabond and Guttersnipe to count or numbers in the Almshouse and Shantytown. Raise the Ranks – Tonight we march!”

Assembled The Ranks of the Unemployed were a formidible if shabby sight.

“Recite Pauper’s Oath,” someone yelled. “I do solemnly swear that I have not any property, real or personal,” they all intoned. “I will fight. So help me God.”

“Onward to Whitehall,” Pauper comanded, “We fight The Class War.”