Weirdities
First Published in USA - 'Atsatrohn' 1993

When ATSATROHN requested commentary from someone called DFL in England, I wondered if they meant me. There was my address on the tear-open airmail letter, OK. But is DFL me or someone masquerading as me, or vice versa? Whichever the case, the thought is more horrifying than anything I can invent - which brings me to the place I give my days to, a waystation of time to wrap my space in, called Great Britain. This is the only place with which I am familiar (other than a couple of trips to France in 1967 and 1988 ). Stitched with headtotail motorways, the delightful patchwork quilt of Old England can thankfully still be vaguely discerned shimmering beyond the gloomy flesh-corrupted gossamers of recession. In the job, from which I was made redundant on 30 November 1992, I was able to regularly travel the length and breadth of England in my trusty white Vauxhall Cavalier - arriving early on purpose so I could write my next story in another assignable ambiance before attending the sales meeting or whatever. I don't know what days fill in the USA - the only fact I think I really know is that it's a bigger place for space than here. But how much bigger? Well, perhaps we're the moon to your earth. Come in earth. Have you invented immortality yet? Are all your presidents ex-Hollywood stars with stripes of anti-entropy running through them? Indeed, no joke, Britain's a place where people die. But, at least, that'll help with the dilution of Thatcher's legacy. I suppose humanity (individuals as well as its collective conscious) is basically selfish. And American politics does not escape such accusation, as viewed from here. John Major is Bill Clinton's shadow. But, as shown in The Charwoman's Shadow by Lord Dunsany (an excellent fantasy novel), shadows can cast people. Have you heard of Di, Charles, Fergie &c? Well, they're dying, too. Despite the rumors, the British royals have no more immortality than anybody else here. Even DFL. Don't believe what's said about the royals - if only because the act of belief takes time and space. Why waste time? Why waste space? My mentioning people by name evokes the fear that this column may be past its spontaneous combustion date by the time you burn your eyes reading it. John Major may not even be our Prime Minister by tomorrow. You live a day a day to put life in. Meanwhile the Atlantic weir flows both ways. Till the next time. Plough the space.