The point where it turns

I’m coming to the end of my jobs list for other people which means I’ll have to start doing things for myself before long. It’s getting to be unavoidable. I do have to drive up to Nottingham and back before Christmas, but I’m mostly able now to just switch the lights off in the Al Barclay stall and wait for next year.

Christmas will carry a certain degree of obligation, and I’ve been using it as a deadline to try to sort my flat out, but the flat ain’t gonna be sorted. I can do a couple of days of arbitrating though and make it better. Better than nothing. And if the lockup hadn’t been robbed I’d be inclined to bring more things there. I was there today and the thieves haven’t come back, but I’ve never put good things in since the fuckers filed that bolt and nicked my impact driver and combi drill set. Maybe I’d be well served to start trusting it again. There’s room in it, albeit not very much.

This is the darkest night. This is it folks. We are at the bottom. From here on the days get longer. Solstice at long last. The most important day in many of the ancient calendars. Monoliths and buildings from forgotten civilisations the world over still catch and channel the light of solstice at sunset or at noon or at dawn. An awakening into a warmer brighter world to come. And here in the UK while our ambulance workers and nurses do what is to them almost unthinkable because it’s the only way they have left, we watch the darkness. They have kept the NHS that preserves us going despite being the financial victim of these stone-humans in Westminster killing it on purpose to replace it with the American model. “Paying nurses properly would be taking money from urgent care,” they say, not highlighting that they are the ones who can decide where the money is taken from. Replace “It” with “we”. Maybe it should have been taken from the PPE backhanders, or the Test and Trace debacle, or, dare I say it, the cost of this sociopathic Brexit. They found the magic money tree, and they cut it down and distributed it amongst their friends. Today, as fits the darkest day, the home secretary is crowing with delight to have legal permission once more to loudly fly people who have spent everything and risked drowning and potentially could prop up the understaffed nursing sector to Rwanda. Her parents came here in the 1960’s. She just wants to lock the doors. Maybe she’s aware what a horrible person she is and assumes that everybody coming in is a dangerous sociopathic narcissist.

It’s not even 8. It feels like it’s 2am. I can’t stay awake. I left the house at 4 this morning to take Mel to Heathrow and who knows how long she’s gonna be back home. She wants me to come join her Mardi Gras crew. Free accommodation. I don’t think I’ll be paid though and I’m a gun for hire.

Happy solstice. Happy corner.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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