A Load of Ballots

The last time I did a post involving a general election was in 2010 ( https://gravelfarm.blogspot.com/2010/05/postal-vote.html ) when the incumbents (Labour) lost to the Conservatives and heralded in an era of capricious, self-serving otiosity that put personal wealth and party before the good of the country. Not particularly out of line with much of the rest of the world though, so who are we to buck the trend?

I remember feeling a particular sense of ennui then because, although I was no great fan of that government, the alternative seemed predictably worse.

You didn't need to be Nostra-bleedin'-damus to foresee that.

Later, the populace would show continued astonishing levels of political acumen by voting for Brexit because the papers told us to, which I'm still not convinced wasn't a cry for help, or maybe a form of collective masochism. If no-one else is going to punish us, we'd better do it ourselves!

 

Again, no need for Gypsy Rose Lee to tell us how that might pan out.

"I see you're going to meet a tall, dark recession . . ."

I have to be careful commenting on politics on this blog because of the immense levels of  influence I appear to have. 

My suggestion of setting up the Anarchist Hedonism Party were tongue-in-cheek (ew), but some of the policies were obviously taken on board by one recent PM (I know that doesn't particularly narrow things down, but this was the one that looked like a deep-fried mushroom rolled in tumble-drier fluff), who stoically managed to party even under particularly arduous circumstances, even when it was illegal. I mean, that's dedication.

Anyway, in an exact reversal of fortunes just fourteen years later, the government has dramatically (hopefully) changed and and I have a small glimmer of optimism.

I await to see if I'm pleased because Labour are in or just because the Conservatives (or whatever that weird organisation the Tory party has morphed into over the last decade) are out. 

I hope it's the former.

No light there just yet . . .

The Land After Time

All is change, and nothing remains static. Not time nor space, not mind nor face. 

I mean, look how small Snickers are these days.

But it maybe isn't a bad thing. On the borders of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire this week, we took a wander along what used to be quite the Roman highway, connecting two areas of high populace and no doubt ringing to the sound of feet, hooves and cartwheels. Now it looks like this:

Not bad really. Funny to think the M5 might end up like this one day.

We crossed an ancient clapper bridge (human ancient, not really ancient, as it's only medieval) where time has simply made it beautiful:

Dipped our feet in the nerve-sparkling chill of the pellucid river where we could see, lying on the riverbed, cast off stones used by Roman engineers when constructing the nearby road. We're probably not the first to have done this.

Lunch under an ash tree in a natural amphitheatre, watching kestrels and red kites eyeing up my peri-peri chicken salad was an absolute treat. For me, maybe not the birds. Unless they're into human-watching:

If this is the future, I'm all for it.