(With thanks to Thomas Gray)
The curfew tolls the knell of coming dread,
The lowing management wind slowly to their ends,
And homeward plod, their weary tread,
To leave the company to darkness and thee, my friends.
Now fades the glimm'ring sites of outsourcery,
And all directors a solemn silence hold,
Save where their money should be paid, tax free,
And drowsy workers face winter's fiercest cold.
A breezy call of "Will you help?" from PM Cameron
Meant Chairman Green became an advisor,
An 'industry czar', to plug the theme and hammer on
That private enterprise works, the eulogiser.
But yonder Philip (not BHS) who saw it coming.
Arrived at Number Ten but who would listen?
So he jumped ship before succumbing
To the push of May, newly elected, and on a mission.
Beneath those rugged oaks of commerce,
The outsourcing board their costs did tighten.
Worker's wages fell, while to directors honours
And extra cash were showered - viz Baroness Huyton.
The shares slid down, the market aflutter.
Investors lost savings, their nest eggs in ruin
But Howson laughed, oh, no life in the gutter,
A contract's a contract and if not I'm suing.
If only workers could say, “Enough
Of free enterprise, it doesn't always apply.”
As commuters on Southern Rail, who have it tough,
Or weary East Coast travellers will testify.
The problem is the Tories - yesterday's men,
and women, and ethnic minorities - who seem to think
our daily life and sole concern is money, Amen.
The country heads down a darkening path to the brink.
Come on, Jezza, save our wearisome nation
And lighten our loads with fairness and money.
Help the old and the poor and infirm rise up from their station
And lead us to the land of flowing milk and honey.
‘From nowhere, Special Constables arrived…
An Easter Day in London
Early in 1907, a month after my seventh birthday, our new coalman asked my mother, Matilda Morton, to walk out with him. She was no beauty. Drudgery had worn that out of her and given her a hardness totally in keeping with the battle she waged to keep our family afloat. Washing, ironing, and folding, day in day out, a penny here, penny hap’ney there. But it all added up, and she kept going through thick and thin, for poverty stalked us, waiting for any mishap.
Throughout the winter, the widower John Sutcliff flattered Mum. He was persistent. Twice, I heard him ask her out after sliding a bag of clunky black coal noisily into the bunker in the backyard. On one occasion, Mum, with her arms deep in the copper wringing out the washing, her black hair awry beneath her plain brown headscarf, told him, ‘Be off with you John Sutcliff, can’t you see I’m busy.’
One night, lying in bed, I heard Gran and Mum talking downstairs.
‘You know Tilly, I think the coalman likes you,’ said Gran. Continue reading “The Teesdale Affair”
Up the gradient, it puffed furiously, belching black smoke into the blinding whiteness of the snowy surroundings.
Igor Pavlovich Radiorksy’s death in a car accident on a Moscow road marks an ominous start for Peter (Petya) Cuthbert as Head of Operations of Goldberg Bank’s Russian subsidiary. Quickly, he discovers that the computer problems at the bank run deep and perhaps Radiorksy’s death was not accidental. Things are compounded when the head of the payments section is found dead. And are the newly promoted chairman, a young Kazakh and the ravishing Tatiana Sholokova all they appear to be? Pressure from headquarters in New York and demands from a major client mean a trip a fifteen hundred miles east of Moscow to Chelyabinsk for Peter Cuthbert and the new chairman with fateful consequences.
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