Unlondoning (139 days to go…)

by Max Akroyd

We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is a regular return with my oldest offspring to their Mum’s house in Yorkshire. A stake in the old country, nailed on. Like our collie-cross, I prefer my significant others gathered together and my own bed made to lie in, and the return leg of The Journey – twelve times a year – isn’t that at all.

I visited my sister’s new field. Under an anaemic, London-brick sky, we stood there with our sociology degrees speaking of pigs and mangel-wurzels. I heard of family friends exchanging high finance for horticulture. I saw deer hiding in the railway cutting and dark brambles massing around the suburbs.

Don’t watch your deeds and your notes turn to paper in some bad alchemy. Don’t rely on luck or merit, which were puffed up anyway by the sooty bellows of cheap energy. The clever money is going to ride two horses. Uncomfortable, but better than no horse at all, probably.