After being in a mental health hospital for a few days, it was nice to be home, my lovely, sweet home. Upon returning, the welcome of a cheque from the benefit agency put a big smile on my black Lancashire cat face.
Now, I can shop with some cash in my pocket, I feel comfortable with myself, and have money to do as I choose. I’ve lived in Newington Green since 2002, which is mainly a Turkish Islamic community. I know a good few people, but it’s a face one says, ‘Hello.’
I don’t seem to know their names.
I shop as locally as possible because I have no car to keep the local economy flowing. Some shop owners complain that times are hard and business is slow, or is it greed?
One doesn’t know.
A mini-Tesco has just opened, which is handy for me. However, with what Tesco does to small traders and new starter businesses, they do not stand a chance.
There is one shop where my friend Beste Aydin runs a second-hand shop. She is a lovely, late-forty Turkish woman with good intentions.
Still, when it comes to making money, she is a clever businesswoman, dominates her British ex-husband, and is a forceful older sister. I’ve known her for as long as I’ve lived in the manor. I seem to be getting closer to her as a friend.
Occasionally, she would stay in my spare bedroom whenever her boyfriend, Mehmet Cetin, was there. He came over from Turkey, or was it Holland?
Her love life is complicated, but we won’t discuss it here. I walked past her shop on my way to Tesco, and she pulled me up and said, ‘Hello, Fitzroy.’
The spring sunshine shone on her warm, glowing smile.
She asked, ‘I have some concerns about your health. Is it okay for my man and me to stay with you in your spare room for a few days?’
It was free.
So I informed her of the fact, and with that, she continued, ‘Could I move back in on Friday?’
When I heard that, I was slightly pleased and replied, ‘Yeah, not a problem.’
Thinking to myself, I could do with the company.
Then I went to do my shopping; after the shop, a tap on the keys, writing some words in the hope I would be heard: please stop fighting.
On the next page is an edited blog published on a social media platform on April 22, 2009.
Boring Song
The most boring thing is this boring song.
What can I do when there is so much to be done?
Without cash, nothing can be done; there is no fun, no love, not even a holiday in the sun.
Just four corners of a room, the curtains are always drawn.
Does that ceiling need paint?
No money, nothing can be done, not a bit of fun.
A promise on a promise, what a philosophy, corruption, robbery, unemployment, pensions fraud, murder, isn’t that an illegal war, a sacrifice that should never be made.
I pace, I walk, I walk a pace, thinking a thought, achieving peace is no disgrace.
The Glory of War
Control creates disorder; your logic is out of order.
Justifying the truth in secular law that rewards dishonesty within natural morality, this isn’t humanity, isn’t that the truth?
If a murderer gets a brave medal, the reward is but a cold heart.
Proud of winning a war, where is the sorrow for losing a soul?
Feeling good, you’ve killed a heart just to inherit gold.
Honours for courage are dreams of a living nightmare.
John T. Hope
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