Sean Gabb
We had a cast iron fireplace delivered this morning. While opening his van, the idiot of a driver allowed his big trolley to slide out into the street. I felt it brush against the fabric of my trousers before it dug a hole in the asphalt. Another half inch, one of our builders assured me, and he’d have had to load me and my shattered left leg into his own van for a dash to hospital, where I’d now be delirious with pain.
My response was to lament how I’d missed my chance of a juicy pay-out for negligence. Now alone and trying to do some work, however, I’m beginning to fret about the uncertainty of life and how many more lucky escapes I shall have.
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Well I am glad that you have escaped injury Sean.
Also it is good that business (in your case authorship and book sales) is good – so that you can afford a new fireplace.
You and your family will continue to have success in the years ahead. You have wisely chosen to settle in a quiet part of the country – very unlikely to have riots or anything like that. And people will continue to buy historical novels – there will be a market for literature even if there is starvation (and whatnot) in the cities, and it is GOOD that such a market should survive hard times, otherwise how will future generations get enticed into learning about the origins of Western culture?
You may well live to be 100 years old – and your children and grandchildren live in an age when nanotechnology (and cheap new energy sources) produce wonders beyond all thought today.
Indeed nanotechnology may develop to the point where human cells (including brain cells) can be repaired.
Thanks. One can hope. Would it get me into unnecessary trouble if I confessed that Mrs Gabb and I chose Deal on account of its rather “old-fashioned” – er – culture?
Well, old-fashioned places will be getting harder to find. You might have to escape into the villages one day.
Southport is still fairly old-fashioned. We had similar ideas.
The Bootle-based Sefton Soviet is however trying to “diversify it” and “improve” it. it needs so much money to spray up the wall in Bootle that it’s desperate now. When a 10-bedroom Victorian villa falls empty, or is put on the market, the Soviet buys it, demolishes it, and builds either 24 “modern apartments” or three rows of “affordable housing” sheds/kennels.
But there’s a very deal of big old places to go yet, so don’t worry too much.
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Yep, and there’s always Slaidburn.
If it took even someone as powerful as Sauron 500 years to find what “Shire” meant, it’ll take the GramscoStaliNazis at least an ordinary human lifetime to find Slaidburn.
Don’t be too complacent. NICE found its way to Bracton College.
Oh dear, this is my first really bad poem of 2015…
What is that noise? Pierre Curie cried,
As he crossed the street;
A brewer’s dray had come untied;
A slip, a trip, and – sheet!
Once underneath that brewer’s dray,
He didn’t live another day.
But Dr Gabb is sterner stuff.
His figure now so svelte
Propelled him backwards; only fluff
Was taken from his belt.
Let us rejoice for Sean. Hooray!
Tomorrow is another day.