The Horizontal Road to Socialism
It was just a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive, but I was trying to impress nevertheless: A bag of chicken pate with port, French sticks, a jar of Olives, some little Portuguese egg flans and some flashy Spanish Cava. I had cleaned most of the fag ends and wrappers from the van and had bought one of those smelly dangly things. She arrived in our street and boy did she arrive. She flowed like a flood, freezing roll-mops mid-gossip and snotty-noses mid-punch. Her pink shirt hugged her bum, which she wiggled deliberately asking for attention. I had met loads of her type, who’d progressed from University and dreams of Paris to the backrooms of pubs where the promise of Revolution was always postponed until after closing time. I helped her out of the car and set out the picnic in a pretty field by the river with the ruined castle on the opposite bank.
‘The castle reminds me of a place I once knew.’
‘Oh ye, somewhere on holiday?’
‘Not really a holiday, I visited Columbia a few years ago, doing some voluntary work, you know, working with the some villagers, helping the women try to reclaim their lives. We set up women’s groups a tried to teach them about contraception, health, giving them ideas about how to create some extra money, to have some financial independence from their husbands.’
I smirked and nodded. Bloody middle-class do-gooders! Always interfering. Bloody life style lessons for the under-privileged. The makeover road to socialism.
submitted at 11:18am
18 May 2009