LONDON LETTER
Dear Editors: To start for once in a poetic vein:
The realization of the Labour dream
Bewilders even well-informed spectators
Who say, when in Great Britain on a visit,
"This can't be Revolution, but what is it?"*
What, indeed, is it? To make the puzzle more interesting, I will
put it this way: "Why would the present writer, in the third year of
the reign of British Socialism, consider himself a happy man if he had
an ailing grandmother of the Catholic faith?" Ans;wer: "Because if he
had one, the Government would give him petrol to drive her once a
week to mass to the nearest Catholic church, which happens to be in
Bangor, fifty miles away, and in this manner he would be able to go
places and see the world." Even an Anglican, or even a Wesleyan,
ailing relative would help, though their respective churches are nearer
and would mean less petrol. However, as I am not possessed of the
requisite kinsfolk, and am not a church-goer myself, my position is as
follows. At the end of this month the petrol ration will be abolished. I
live in the Welsh hills, one mile from the next cross-country bus-stop;
there are no buses after 9 p.m., and none on Sunday. The nearest shop–
ping center, the cinema, railway station, etc., are a further two miles
away. I may,
if
I am lucky, obtain a special allowance to go shopping
twice a week. But
only
shopping. I shall have no right to use my few
drops of shopping petrol to see a friend, go to the cinema, or have a
meal out. Every policeman is in duty bound to report me if he sees
my car, moving or stationary, at any place outside the shortest line con–
necting my domicile with the nearest shops. This means that during the
whole winter my wife and I shall be unable to visit friends, to ·go to a
restaurant, cinema, theater, lecture, or concert. Let that sink in before
you read on.
Now substitute for "I" several hundred thousand people who live
* From Sagittarius' brilliant political satire:
Let Cowards Flinch,
published
by the Turnstile Press, London,
1947.-A.
K.
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