262. Presumption



I’m always unsure about people who are so sure of themselves.
Joyce Rachelle



They entered a corridor. Through the next door, old and oaken, five stone steps descended to a mezzanine level. “A long list of the great and good have taken this route,” said Eric. “One such soul, now deceased, was a ‘disc jockey’ by profession.”

They sat on carved seats overlooking a stone floor, where candelabra illuminated a reversed pentagram, with two points projecting upwards. “My favourite room – I often come here to think,” said Eric. “There are tunnels extending from here to other City safe holdings.”

Sal detected smells, embedded in the walls. He asked about Jimmy Savile’s visits.

“Certain people bring an ability to unravel the discipline in others,” said Eric.

Sal was more precise: “He tipped others into behaviour that left them open to blackmail.”

“Oh yes. And he procured many of the children involved.” Something lightened in Eric’s eyes. “I read recently that 140,000 go missing each year in Britain. Most of them find their way home, but what of the others?”

Sal let him talk, feeling sick again. “Well, some are trafficked overseas, for the astounding profits. Some are kept, brainwashed and thoroughly used for sexual and blackmail purposes. Others are slaughtered.” Completely matter of fact, his hand pulled his lip again.

“For their blood?” Sal knew the answer.

Eric looked disdainful. “Ask merely why Hollywood makes films about vampires. Again, the real information is there, in open view. Rituals are a fundamental practice of our clans.” He referred to April 15, marking the ancient Festival of Bastet, a cat-headed Egyptian goddess. “Deities require sacrifices. Did you know that the Titanic went down that day, exactly 101 years before the Boston Marathon bombs? Almost a round number.”

Satan knew what was next. But waited to hear the old man say it. “Also, the secretions from a teenager’s pineal gland can extend adult human life. Think of the Pigna statue – the Pine Cone – at the Vatican. More tangible, visible information. Why on earth do you think Savile received a Papal Knighthood?”

Sal didn’t even ask about the other organs that were harvested and sold. His next question was uncomfortably close to home. “Who and what do you summon in that pentagram?”

For the second time that evening, Eric smiled. “Well, we have tried to invite you to our soirees, as you must remember.”

“I gradually learned to ignore that shit, like a fly in my ear,” said Sal. “I prefer a single malt and a joust on the dojo mat these days. When I do come to your world, the portal is more mundane. Through toilets and sewers.”

Despite his complete loathing of the old man, Satan couldn’t help himself. “As I think you know, I’ve accompanied and observed mankind’s journey since time immemorial. You also know that magic works, and spirits are real. But…….They do not go away easily, once solicited.”

Eric’s face showed zero concern, in the flickering candlelight. “If one wants to be near a Great White shark, one climbs into a cage,” said the old man. “We observe the protective spells available in the Lesser Key of Solomon and other grimoires. And follow the optimal timings indicated by the planets.”

“You’re stupidly naive,” said Satan. “Spirits lie, often because they are bullied to show up. You are playing with hostile beings, some of whom were previously Gods. Look through the Old Testament and you’ll find over 30 demi-Gods. Give them your attention and they always want more. Always. What point is there to your insane blood sacrifices if the recipients insist that only a nuclear or environmental holocaust will sate them?”

Eric was quiet, so Sal continued. “Angels and demons are not so dissimilar, whatever Dan Brown might say. The Watcher Angels taught humans metallurgy and farming, but also impregnated women, both against God’s will.”

“Angels helped the Elizabethan magician John Dee envision a British empire,” said Eric. “Consequently, you are sitting at the very heart of the most civilised social structures the world has ever known.”

“That’s debatable. You brought into your rituals a man who had sex with corpses. The bigger point is that those entities will play you, in a long-term game stretching way beyond your lifespan. And yet you trust them?” asked Sal, genuinely astonished. “Having rattled on about how deceptive holograms are!”




Sid’s students were remote viewing the encounter. Mary had called the Leigh centre shortly after Satan roared away to London.

Stan’s pencil captured the long table, with two lone diners. Sally drew a tall figure with a tail, bursting with anger. Towering over a white-haired man standing on top of a pyramid. A third figure featured at the margins, in an army uniform. Sid was reassured by the lack of violence.



Information was the only thing of any value to Sal from this worthless human being. Given the earlier mention of the SEC investigation, Satan asked about 9/11. To cajole, he traded the reality of the Akashic files, while elaborating their inability to access certain individuals and locations, and particular ceremonies.

“What do you know about that awful day in September 2001? Much of the information was inaccessible from my home dimension.”

“Well, it was handled at the US end. Frank went very quiet for months beforehand. He volunteered no information, and I have never asked him for the details, for one compelling reason.”

“The money that your families generated.”

“What else counts? The subsequent profit made by the armaments industry in blowing Afghanistan and Iraq back to the Stone Age was beyond belief. All Frank’s business. Then our Israeli colleague Shimon, he oversaw businesses that engaged in the almost endless installation of homeland security equipment at airports and other transport terminals in the USA and around the entire world, to counter this dastardly new Islamic enemy lurking around every corner.”

Eric pulled at his lip. “And here, in London. Well, it pleased me deeply that the governments of the Allied forces borrowed themselves silly for their military campaigns. Believe me, that money did not come cheap. So you see how sizeable business opportunities emerged after those towers fell. Conflict breeds commerce, and the richest never spurn those options.”

“So who exactly was responsible for the 9/11 attacks?”

Eric shook his head. “Honestly, I never asked. Seriously, I didn’t care. 3,000 dead on Frank’s patch. So what? Stock markets were out of control, and we benefitted from the volatility. We always do. Too busy to dwell on unprofitable detective matters.”

Eric relented. “But I can see you want to know whether I believe the farcical fairy-tale. This laughable lunacy that 19 Muslims, who couldn’t fly planes, and lacked any overt government or intelligence service support, outwitted not only all 16 US intelligence agencies, and airport security, but also the NATO and Mossad intelligence services? Marshalled and overseen by a man in a cave. I was blessed with a brain, so I think not.”

Satan was quiet. Listening hard, trying to shrug off the sleepiness induced by the wine.

“Look, Edward Snowden clearly demonstrated the breadth and depth of surveillance by the NSA. So let us be very clear. Every Arabic fart and burp would have been monitored, and these supposed ‘terrorists’ taken out without a second thought, had they been operating as reported. As it was, 8 of the 19 alleged hijackers who died in plane crashes later turned up alive and well, in their own countries, minding their own business. Our wonderful media somehow neglected to explain that magical impossibility, while jerking themselves off about Bin Laden’s ludicrous monochrome ‘videos’ that somehow emerged from the hills of Afghanistan.”

“And how strange that just 14 airforce fighter jets were left to cover the entire USA due to ‘drills’ and war games,” said Eric. “Always ask the old question of who benefits. Qui bono? On that note, I watched, not unhappily, the destruction of whole WTC floors that contained Enron prosecution papers and other financial information best not examined. Documents from the SEC, CIA, IRS and Salomon Smith Barney.”

A minor pause. “Actually, Frank did tell me one thing. A massive gold bullion haul was taken from the WTC 4 and 6 basements as the commotion broke. I was never told the value.”

Using the phrase that Sal was coming to despise, Eric pointed out more “real information”. That the FBI had publicly admitted they had no evidence on ex-CIA operative Osama Bin Laden; while Dick Cheney himself, in March 2006, had acknowledged that evidence that the Saudi was directly involved in 9/11 “has never been forthcoming.”

“But by that time the West had of course flattened a country rejecting the petro-dollar, seized control of its oil, and fastened its grip on the Afghan opium trade. That last point was a priority for Ignacio and his family. Come on, how much more obvious does anyone want their information?”

“I mean, consider the Patriot Act, swiftly signed into law in October 2001, but written and ready to go long before 9/11. Further stripping away US constitutional rights. Surveillance of citizens stepping up towards a point where every move can and will soon be second guessed. Coming soon, in your town.”



Maggie was anxious. She could not see Sal, and his conversational partner. Might she know the individual? She fell into a deep reverie.

Her martial arts learning curve had soared, then hit a stout brick wall. She could now take on and often beat Satan’s boys on the mats: even Beelzebub. But the next step, the minotaur, petrified her. Whenever she tried to imagine the beast, the Levantine face of Jesus appeared to her.



Sal pressed on. “In your honest opinion, could there have been an inside plot behind 9/11?”

“Jesus, why would I even care? Can I tell you how I enjoy my days?” Receiving no reply, the old man proceeded. “Naomi is one of ten girls employed here. All stunningly beautiful, all paid exorbitantly to service my needs. Aside from maintaining the house, and cooking, they are my playthings. My medication permits phenomenal activity. Let us do the maths. 30 penetrable orifices to choose from…no, 32 holes and a hefty penis, if you count Jamil, who participates if asked.”

Satan couldn’t resist. “34 and two dicks if you count Hoskyns. Do you ravage and sully him as well?”

Eric’s answer surprised Sal. “No, he is probably my best friend. We have played each other at chess for nearly 50 years.”

The old man scratched his ear, looking comfortably around the cold underground room, where death sat in the air. “But as you want my opinion on September the eleventh so badly, then here it is.”

He paused. “I would speculate, looking back, that it was a huge sacrificial death ritual, a quid pro quo to placate whatever dark spirits Frank is engaged with.”

The notion was horrific and outrageous enough to qualify as a valid explanation, as Satan mulled over how the families operated.

Eric was picking his words very carefully. “Again, in my retrospective opinion, the events of that day were also designed to open the military floodgates to the Middle East. It may well be that a flimsy terrorist plot was discovered and allowed to go ahead, and then significantly added to,” he argued. “The WTC7 collapse is there, documented, unignorable, unhit by planes, but in plain sight.”

Eric chuckled. “Now was George W Bush involved? In my opinion, the poor man could not organise a piss up in brewery, as my dear departed dad was wont to say.”

Eric nonetheless suggested that it was “nothing” for Western powers to plan attacks on their own citizens. He cited Operation Northwoods, an early 1960s CIA plot, which – but for JFK’s veto – would have seen attacks on American civilians and military targets. And then blame dished out to Cuba, to justify a war against Fidel Castro. All on public record.

Satan calmed himself by remembering Gandhi’s words: “A coward is incapable of exhibiting love. It is the prerogative of the brave.” To stay wholesome, Sal flipped to the memory of Dave Dawson, whose spectrum of talents encased human artistry at its fullest. And clearly an irreplaceable father and husband. The sack of shit beside him, by contrast, viewed the world as a giant chess board. With human pieces.

“It’s the profits that matter,” emphasised Eric. “Eventually over $50 billion of work came to Western companies to rebuild Iraq’s bombed out remains. A cornucopia: $12 billion worth to Dick Cheney’s Halliburton alone. In the smashed-up oil sector, awards for ExxonMobil, and our companies: Royal Dutch Shell and BP

Satan couldn’t think past the multiple birth defects that riddled Iraq, linked to Allied forces using chemical weapons and depleted uranium. Women in some regions were advised not to become pregnant. But this was of no consequence to the old man. Sal’s thoughts drifted to the child sacrifices undertaken yards away. And then the youngsters abused and murdered by Britain’s elite while Maggie was in power, ignoring the vile perversions under her nose. The Firm had made a drunken mistake in recruiting her.

Satan was decades away, revisiting Elm Guest House in Barnes, South East London, where 1970s and 1980s guest-lists united spies, politicians, aristocrats, police and celebrities. All intent on abusing and sometimes killing children before covering each other’s backs.

Eric was underlining how the “whole Iraqi state” was dismantled after the invasion. New laws allowed foreign investors to own Iraqi businesses, 100%, and send their entire profits home. Sal recalled how, when Blackwater contractors killed 17 unarmed civilians in 2007, they were deemed beyond Iraqi law.

“Enough!” Sal raised his arm. He related his comprehensive torture, and total evisceration, of Jimmy Savile. He watched the Old Controller quieten.

Sal ordered that they return for dessert. As a prelude, he walked into the pentagram, and relieved himself. Only tiredness and the excess of alcohol were preventing him from killing the old man. It could wait.



The dining room lights were dimmed, candles lit. Apricot & cointreau soufflé awaited, alongside Chateau d’Yquem, the gold standard of dessert wines. The label said 1847. Silently, Jamil and Naomi watched.

Satan opened another boasting opportunity. “What is the City of London? The Files cannot fathom it.” He let the wine soar through him, while the Old Controller painted a heavy picture, suitable for his walls.

“If Goldman Sachs is a ‘vampire squid’, as some say, the City is a shoal of such creatures – M15, M16……The Bank of England, Lloyds, the Stock Exchange – all overseen by George and I, operating invisibly behind fronts and agents.”

Eric chose words more carefully than ever. “It may be better conceptualised as the Crown, the corporate Crown, which Hansard struggles to define, and yet which holds the bonded indebtedness of much of the world. How many people know that?”

“Its juristic arm is the Temple Bar, but this goes beyond British entities. The Crown’s tentacles stretch offshore to many institutions, including the Federal Reserve, IMF, World Bank, Mossad and the UN, and almost all tax havens. Those tentacles reach into the governments of Australia, Canada and New Zealand. Yet you must never lose sight of the Vatican’s gravitational pull on the Crown, steered by our colleague Vito, in Italy. It can cause ferocious tilt.”

Sal had to ask. “And the British Royal Family?” Pleasured only by soufflé, he listened to the answer. “No more than a token power now. All royals lost their wealth and fortunes by indebting themselves. Wars, always wars. And then insemination by some of our families. Carry out DNA tests, and you would find banking blood running deep.”

At least the apricot and cointreau was soothing.

The Crown Corporation was a commercial company, yet sitting outside of UK law, specified the old man, thus able to ignore any claptrap about capping bonuses within the entities it controlled. “The lip-service to democracy known as Parliament is convenient, convincing and efficient in representing our families’ interest by proxy. The Remembrancer spots the truly dangerous dissent. We deal with it, accordingly.”

It was difficult for Sal to think beyond the astonishing power of the amber-gold wine. Raisin flavours, intensely sweet and long. Concluding with an incredible finish.

“Please peer through the miasma.” The old man allowed himself another chuckle. “Tell me when the UK parliament last pulled rank on the City. We are talking immunity on the level of the Vatican. What happened in the 2008 crisis? We dictated to Prime Minister Brown how it would unfold. We grabbed the taxpayers’ money, after the token slap. Who was in charge?”

Satan wondered just how far genes could twist inward, as Eric’s hand fondled his mouth. “Think of a pyramid, power flowing down. Those holding key positions within the important City structures are mentally anaesthetised by excellent salaries.”

Satan recalled chatting at Southchurch with the lawyer who helped found the moneyless community. Clifford De Ricardo had worked in London extensively, and swore that greed, rather than organised conspiracy, was the root of City behaviour. “I know an ex Lord Mayor and the recent CEO of the City Corporation pretty well,” he had told Satan, in September sunshine. “They are not bad men, involved in secret hand shaking societies trying to make the lives of the underprivileged any worse than they are already.”

Eric explained what happened to dissenters. “Those whose eyes insist on opening are blackmailed, brainwashed or just eliminated.” The old man spoke slowly and carefully.

Too many questions flashed through Satan’s head. Eric explained the City was originally the Knights Templar Church, also known as the ‘Crown Temple’ or ‘Crown Templar’. He said the British author Ian Fleming was accurate in his depiction of the almost boundless power of M16.



The first remote viewing image that came to Jess frightened her. Her hand drew a dragon tearing apart a child. Sid laid his hand on her shoulder, reassuringly, bidding her to continue. The second one puzzled her. A set of scales, in perfect balance.



“Who controls the Bank of England,” asked Satan. He poured a second glass, almost too drunk to care about the answer.

“After tugs of war, centuries ago, it became our private bank, to scam with as we liked. It lent money that it created out of nothing to the English government and was paid back with interest. In 1946, our bank was nationalised, due to the exceptional political climate, but there was a complexity to that transaction.” Satan listened, almost inured. The wine seemed to change flavour as it breathed.

“Because the British government was completely broke after World War 2, it was unable to buy out the shareholders. A complicated-looking arrangement ensued whereby our families continued to take profits, but the bolshie lefties didn’t like this.”

In 1977, said Eric, “we buried things a little deeper, by setting up a wholly-owned subsidiary called Bank Of England Nominees Limited, a private limited company. This company, bless its blue cotton socks, is protected by the Official Secrets act, and its Royal Charter status, and so exempt from the normal disclosure requirements that other companies comply with to meet section 27 of the Companies Act 1976.”

Sal was fully aware how this complex-sounding language deterred ordinary men and women from nosing around in finance and law. He despised the use of the Official Secrets act, akin to treating British adults as children. “Trust uncle that it doesn’t concern you. Go back to sleep, little sheep.”

As he considered the contempt that this utter legal bollocks would receive in Iceland, more information was forthcoming. “You may ask what that all means. Well, I’ll crown things, metaphorically, by telling you that major financial players, including our families, use this company to purchase shares and remain anonymous.”

To Satan’s drunken eyes, the body language of Jamil and Naomi, who brought a cheese board and coffee, contained something more active. The wine serving was finished, and so was much of humanity, according to Eric.

His next admission riveted Satan’s attention. “All our clans have done well. The Pope and his Jesuits have run the equivalent of a Stalinist bootcamp for centuries, swelling the riches in the Vatican Bank beyond avarice and imagination. But most humans and governments are on a runaway debt train. The track is running out, yet everybody still argues over seats.”

He referred to the UN’s Agenda 21, unveiled in 1992 at the Rio de Janeiro Earth Summit, facilitated by “one of Frank’s generals”. George Bush senior. The old man underlined the sprinkling of compassionate-sounding, politically correct terms like “population stabilisation” contained in the 40 chapter document. “Dig down to the real information,” he entreated. Eric described a coming cull of global populations, through various methods, leading to a subservient remainder, mostly micro-chipped.

Standing up, he asked Satan what the clans genuinely had to fear. “What does God have up her sleeve? We own Western money, politicians, military, intelligence agencies, police and courts. We rig economies, unemployment, inflation and Libor. We have been doing this for a very long time and we are not fucking around.”

Satan recalled a moment from the previous evening. Cheese bubbling on top of a fish pie, as residents trooped happily into the cafe from the cold darkness. He did his best to tell Eric how Southchurch Park was evolving, how a coherence was emerging, with goods and services being freely exchanged. despite the park’s fair share of hiccups, and the horrible death.

“It sounds ……bucolic,” said Eric.

“What you don’t realise, never will,” Satan retorted, “is that it’s all inside. Call it love, the God gene, whatever. You might have a zillion quid, a million tanks at your disposal, but you lack it. It ranges from simple acts of gratitude, of caring, sharing and humility, up to the higher spiritual levels, where the human imagination can manifest results in the physical plane. And you will never overcome it, however many sick ceremonies and rituals you hold.”

“Anything else?”

“In addition to Gandhi, the Buddha is helping our experiment accelerate.”

“Disappointing answers. The time of Holy men is long gone.”

The evening’s final phase had arrived. Eric suggested they might entertain themselves. Satan proposed a hand of Uno. “Winner ends with absolutely nothing. The individual left with the most loses.”

Eric ignored that. “Let’s forget our differences. Jamil and Naomi will offer you a range of physical comforts.” Sal said nothing.

As he stood, he noticed the woman who was clearing the table move behind Eric, wrap her left arm tightly around his throat, kick his legs away, and snap his neck.



Any movement in the old man’s body ceased in 10 seconds. The woman let his body fall to the floor. She was trembling, as she looked across at Satan.

“Am I next?” he asked.

“Are you really….Satan,” she said. He nodded. “Call me Sal. Why did you do that?”

“It is the first time that I have ever heard him talk at any length. His comments about black South Africa disgusted and appalled me. Amongst so many other things.” She was sweating profusely. Satan pushed across his wine. “Drink the rest of that, it will steady you.”

As she gulped down the dessert wine, he pieced together a plan. “Can you drive a motorbike?”

“Yes. I learned many things in the Nigerian army.”

“Aha. OK, where is Hoskyns?”

“Jamil has tied him up downstairs. Jamil and I will both leave tonight.”

“Will the other girls wake up?”

“I doubt it. Our accommodation in any case has its own, self-contained facilities. No need to come over here.”

“Will you drive me back to Southend? Too much alcohol in my blood.”

“I feel too unhinged to drive. Would you first fuck me, hard, to calm me down?”



Afterwards, as they donned their crash helmets, he asked Naomi whether she had enough money to get by. “I have saved up enormous amounts. In different accounts and currencies and names. On top of our salaries, Eric paid us eight thousand pounds per fuck.”

“I hope you charged for any extras.” She grinned.

“You might want to lay low with our community for awhile,” he offered. Maybe make up your mind in the morning?”

“I do not know that such caution will be necessary,” she said. “He told me once that he does not officially exist. That he quit the world at large when shedding his surname.”

As the Diavel pulled away, Sal looked up. Never-ending reptile heads were gazing down from old buildings at the unregistered number plates.


8 thoughts on “262. Presumption

  1. Hi, Kevin.
    My quality of life is way low and super pathetic if it’s taken me almost a week to finally get to read this and then three days to keep returning to where I left off because of whatever idiotic chore or slave duty called me away.

    Okay, taking deep breaths to calm down.
    I totally understand where Naomi was coming from when she asked Satan to help her calm down, lol !!!

    There’s so much to say here, but I’ll try to keep it reined in, as usual.

    Favorite line: “He let the wine soar through him.”

    I looked up J. Savile again and this time saw that he was once a Bevin Boy, and that they volunteered to do the mining work instead of being conscripted during the war, but they made a LOT of them keep working that job even after the war was over!!! Come on, guys. The war is effing over. Their job should be effing over!

    The overwhelming feeling I have from reading your take on reality along with a boatload of fresh and terrifying possibilities/probabilities on how the world really runs is just resignation and despair. Because in your story, people are trying to change reality. And God is watching and rooting for them. And Gandhi and Buddha have returned and are helping. And Sal’s a good guy, right?

    But that’s not really happening. There’s a couple “independent”-like communities scattered around here and there, but 99.9% of the world isn’t aware of them and the powers that be and media will do nothing to change that lack of awareness. I definitely don’t feel like any god is watching–probably too far removed–and the last time I murdered someone, Satan didn’t thoughtfully offer me a glass of wine to steady my nerves.

    So it leaves me wondering: IS the time of holy men long gone?

    Or maybe what Sal says is true–the things that Eric lacked that some on the planet still have–gratitude, caring, humility….imagination manifesting results in the physical plane–there might still be enough and we might overcome the evil of blind materialism and ultimate power. One day. Who knows when, though. But only that thought keeps me from wanting to off myself every time I read your horrible stats and figures………..!

    Speaking of which….the week continues into the weekend as I go in tomorrow for 8 hours then Sunday for 4 more hours. But I try to turn “I am a slave. I have no life. I am doomed” into “I’m healthy. I have a sense of humor. I have someone who loves me.”
    It usually works. 🙂 🙂 🙂

    Thanks again for the mental stimulation, albeit depressing as all get-out, but still……………….. 🙂


  2. Reading your comments, Stacey, it strikes me that living in northern Europe might be so fundamentally different to LA that you can measure the gap in terms of individual optimism. Does that sound plausible? If October is shite, and March wet, it leaves only six months for outdoor life in Britain. Some of that is windy and wet, so It impacts hard.
    I hadn’t realised it, but that dark pessimism that flows over all Brits from November to February is mirrored in OOE. The last 10 or 11 chapters take place in the cold, under dark skies. There probably doesn’t seem to be any hope.
    But spring is coming. You’ll see the optimism re-emerge. There are tricks up my sleeve, irons in my fire, maybe even hope in my rope.
    On a technical note, do you know of any literary sleight of hand through which I might (almost) seamlessly bring in a three-optioned ending? Almost letting the reader choose. Because that’s the plan. The original book had two options.
    Back to Rae. I can’t wait to see what she gets up to in book two. The pitfalls and wins of Immortality.
    Shit weeks always pass. The possession of health, love and purpose is no small compensation for the work treadmill.
    Speak soon 🙂 🙂 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Are you saying you guys are pessimistic because of the weather?

    I didn’t notice any overt pessimism when I was living in New York, but I do think there was more of a general restraint present which L.A. tends to lack.

    And if Angelenos are more optimistic just because the sun is always shining….then I was the black sheep of L.A. because I was depressed from about age 14 to 35…and still retain a core of pessimistic doom which never seems to diminish with time. Lightens, yes, but never diminishes.

    You think it’s connected to weather, though?

    Thanks for your encouragement concerning Rae! In fact, I was going to spend 6 hours in the library yesterday mapping out books III and IV, and, as you know, ended up here instead, where I’m at now. Work. Which is often what happens. But I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir.

    How is YOUR new position going? Have you stopped the healthcare one yet and gone to the other?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I had a look at the global suicide rates, by country. Aside from a few anomalies, the northern hemisphere suicide rates are far higher than in warmer parts of the world. (However, also found that New York City is slightly more positive than LA in that respect). In the depth of a UK winter, the light starts in full at about 9.30 in the morning and is gone again by 4 p.m. Can only speak for myself, but that darkness has impacted me enormously as I’ve got older.
      Re depression, I’ve had my share down the years. I’m inclined to think it sharpens up the writing skills. 🙂 🙂
      The care job is now a few weeks in the past Stace. The work with the Belgian company is in full flow. Combined with the income mainstay (the fortnightly newsletter I write and edit), it means we’re OK until end-April. Then the hunt starts again. It’s all a gigantic pain. Don’t like to be too self-indulgent or negative in print, but it’s probably worth a blog just to get things off my chest.


  4. Seasonal depression. It can become part of the DNA, thought process, and entire perspective, I guess.
    I’m still trying to get over the fact that you say in the middle of winter it starts “getting” light at 9:30 am??!!! Wow.

    So in summary what you’re saying is the guy who wrote “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” would NEVER have come up with that song if he’d been born and raised in your town, lol. Artists from your part of the world write songs like “Comfortably Numb.”

    But if we were all happy, it would be pretty boring.
    I think a “get it off the chest” blog about your work issues is important, ’cause a lot of people can relate, on top of you blowing off steam. 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Nobody has ever captured the latitudinal misery of being British like Morrissey and his Smiths. When I first heard his voice it was like somebody had discovered a way to sing out the sheer mournful ache of life under grey skies and short days that can seem to last forever. I have SAD for sure. And would gladly live all year round in Lanzarote or somewhere equally southerly if it was affordable.
      I found this previous blog just now, which gives a tiny flavour of how spring is like an explosion of joy for us melancholy Brits.

      https://thebiscuitfactoryonline.com/2019/03/29/167-back-in-the-saddle/ 🙂 🙂 🙂


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