Orwellian Double-Think

Posted on by Opher

I can’t believe the level of double-think. It is very Orwellian.

The American people actually believe a convicted felon with a long history of law breaking is completely innocent and is a victim of political chicanery.

They believe a businessman who has had multiple bankruptcies, business failures and has lost millions is a great businessman who will lead the country to prosperity.

They believe a morally corrupt individual with a conviction for rape, multiple sexual offences and a known friendship with paedophiles (Epstein and DiddY) a history of cheating on wives and a relationship with porn stars (Stormy Daniels) is a moral man.

They believe a man who has been caught out lying more times than Pinocchio is the only purveyor of truth.

They believe a man who has married two immigrants and who employs cheap immigrant labour is the only one to stand up against mass immigration.

They believe a obviously greedy multi-millionaire conman, who uses every opportunity to sell tacky shit and exploit squalid business opportunities, for huge personal gain, has the interests of working people at heart and is working in the Whitehouse for free.

They believe a tax evader who has been brought up with expensive private education, private healthcare, private security, cares about the services provided to the poor.

They believe a man who spends most of his life on the golf course or banqueting with the wealthy is working hard for America.

They believe that a man who hangs out with billionaires, gives massive tax cuts to billions, is one of the working people and understands them.

They believe that a man who lives in a grandiose mansion with a gold toilet, a private jet and multitude of flunkies is one with working people.

They believe that a man who associates with and admires tyrannical, authoritarian, despotic leaders like Putin, Netanyahu, Kim Jung Un and Oban, who has tried to overthrow a legitimate election and instigated an insurrection that killed people, is a legitimate benevolent democratic leader.

They believe that a man who actively spreads conspiracies about global warming being a con, covid being a con and vaccination being dubious, that all the media is giving out fake news and every institution is completely corrupt, is the best person to uphold, truth and the state.

They believe that a man who is putting the future in old polluting industries, instead of investing in new non-polluting industries, will move America forward into the twenty-second century on a firm basis as world leaders. Drill baby drill.

They believe that a man who sides with extreme ultra-right, White supremacist, Nazi groups – like the Proud Boys, empowers right-wing groups, deploys them to march against the capitol, whose father was in the KKK all his life, is not a racist Nazi.


This man is obviously the most crooked, immoral, greedy, self-serving, lying, cheating conman in the United States. What does it say about the morality, education, thinking abilities, ignorance and delusional thinking of the American people? Is it total moral decay? Is it a collapse in intelligence?

It’s called Double-Think. It’s what Big Brother did in George Orwell’s 1984. They’ll probably ban it!

53 and imploding – I believe in fairness

Posted on by Opher

Every day is a critical time in life but some days, some years, feel like watersheds. 53 years of age was a watershed. At least that’s how it felt. I wrote this novel as a biographical antinovel – a journey into a mind – a stream of consciousness. I wanted to destroy all structure.

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

I have decisions to make. I am making this up as I go along but the ideas are beginning to gel. I have a lot of anecdotes and ideas that have come together. The rest of the book is coalescing in my thoughts. You see I am conceiving this as a book. I can already visualise it sitting on the shelf with crappy photocopied cover that I will design, spirally bound on the cheap binder and arranged along with all the other ‘books’ I have produced. Jan views them as more clutter, junk and dust gatherers. I view them as accomplishments.

I conceive chapters. I have already placed this in a period of time. I have selected characters. They are real people – my friends and acquaintances. Real places, real anecdotes. The time sequence is a little jumbled up. The problem is the names. Should I stick with them or change them? Some of what I am going to describe might not be considered flattering or accurate. It can’t be accurate. I am describing a poorly remembered event. I am embellishing without even being aware that I am. In trying to be accurate I am bound to misrepresent. I am already working out how to simplify the myriad of possibilities by amalgamating things. The chronology is hopelessly jumbled. Should I use their real names? I cannot use real names because I am going to jumble things together. These characters are amalgamations. None of them are real.

I have just taken two annadin extra for my hangover that is busily getting worse. I have made a coffee and have a plate of bread and humus. I have no hope that the headache will ease in the foreseeable future. These sorts of headaches rarely do. It will go when it is ready. I should be fine after tea.

Jan is tidying her room next door. My sister arrives tomorrow evening with my mother. There is much to be done in preparation. I should be helping. I am writing.

The Humus is delicate and tangy. The dog waits patiently for a tit-bit. He has his head on my thigh and he is drooling. He never takes his big black eyes off me.

We are products of our culture and our upbringing. We are taught, no – trained, to believe and do what we do. Even our rebelling is programmed. We have no escape.

Religion is hot-wired into our very cortex’s. When we pray and worship chemicals are released that alter our brains, our states of being. We are biologically programmed to worship. That’s very worrying!

I’ve just returned from New Grange, near Dublin, I’ve seen the Mexican pyramids, the cathedrals, temples and henges. Is nothing sacred? Is nothing more holy than a fix? Is there nothing behind that enormous expenditure of energy involved in the construction of such monumental edifices?  The universe seems such a cold and empty place.

There are things I believe in with religious fervour.

I believe in fairness.

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Bodies in a Window – The Diagnosis -Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

One look was all it took. He was dying. My novel flits back and forth – living, dying, old age, youth, sex, meaning, futility, hope, anger, rage, acceptance. Everything is there.

Now I’m standing next to the dead body of my father looking out the window:

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

There was no point in talking to him on the phone. He lied. According to him everything was hunky dory. He just had a stomach upset. The doctor had given him some antacids that would sort it out. No problem.

Except there was a problem – a big fucking problem. My old man was busy dying.

The guy was in denial. At least that was how it seemed to me. He did not want to face up to it. I’m sure he understood what was going on – he just refused to admit it to himself. His way of dealing with his impending death was to pretend that it wasn’t happening. And that fucking doctor wanted shooting. Regardless of what my old man thought he should have been on the ball and at least made an effort to see if anything could be done. That was his job!

I was fucking fuming.

I think I knew what the diagnosis was the minute I walked in and saw him. Any fool could see. He was seriously ill.

Fucking imbecile. There were things that could have been done. He’d written himself off. Burying his fucking head in the sand. Selfish bastard

I was furious with him – furious with the system that allowed it to happen and doubly furious with the sorry excuse for a doctor. I was furious with myself too. I should have become involved sooner. I should have noticed way back at Christmas. Perhaps if it had been caught earlier? But why hadn’t the fucking doctor done something? It didn’t take a genius to know something was wrong. That guy needed shooting and no two ways about it.

There was nothing for it but to head off down the long haul all the way down to see him every weekend. I had to do whatever I could. I just hoped my little Morris Minor would stand up to the pounding. I couldn’t take time off work, so it had to be weekends. I’d have to muddle through and do it. It meant heading off after work on Friday and heading back Sunday night. It was a good five to six hours by car, with a clear run. But there was no choice. I had to put the family on hold and do it. Who knows – perhaps it wasn’t too late? Perhaps there was something that could be done? They worked miracles these days.

Amazingly, somehow the guy was still dragging himself into work every day. He hadn’t missed a single fucking day. He’d worked up in Fleet Street all his life and only ever had a handful of days off in the entire time he’s worked there. He had to be at death’s door not to go in. But this was different. He was at death’s door. He didn’t have anything as mundane as fucking flu – no – this was no ordinary flu – no upset stomach, no common or garden illness. Something was seriously wrong. You didn’t have to be a medical expert to see that. They must have known that where he worked. You’d have to be blind not to notice. The man was an absolute wreck.

I took a few days off to take him in hand. I could see that his bosses were nor worried about his health – just as long as he reported in and did the job they were content. They’d allow him to work his way into the grave. They didn’t give a shit about him – but his doctor should have known better – That kept coming back to haunt me – the medical practitioner must have been having some kind of joke. And he called himself a doctor? In my view he needed a good kicking. You only had to look at the guy to see there was something incredibly wrong. Antfuckingacids my arse! That poor excuse for a doctor was seriously out of order. I wanted action and I wanted it right now! He should have got those wheels rolling long ago. Someone had to do something about it and as there was nobody else that someone had to be me.

I went in. I took the old man with me. I needed to make some kind of impression on him too. He wasn’t facing up to things. It wasn’t fair. He was being selfish.

We had quite a scene in the doctor’s surgery. I blew my top. I wanted a proper diagnosis. I wanted a specialist and I wanted him right now! I wanted action and I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was ready to punch the guy’s lights out. I think he got the message.

Dad didn’t seem at all embarrassed about my outburst. It blew over him like a dimly noticed breeze. He was very non-committal through the whole business. Nothing registered. He allowed me to guide him here and there to the surgery and just stood there while I harangued the feeble excuse for a medical practitioner keeping himself aloof from what was being said as if it wasn’t about him at all. He stood there blankly – not seeming to register what was going on. At work he was on the ball and in command but now he stood around like a bloody nincompoop not understanding what was going on. Some act. It was as if he put his brain in park.

It hadn’t been easy getting an appointment at that surgery. In the end I thought the best policy was to simply turn up. I was in no mood for shilly-shallying around. After a number of angry exchanges at the receptionist’s window, that upset the festering routine of the stuffy waiting room with patients craning their necks to catch what it was about, they didn’t often get entertainment like this in this part of the world, the family doctor had finally deigned to accept that there might be more of a problem than he had previously thought and agreed to see him. He really did not want a scene in the waiting room. It had nothing to do with the state my dad was in, in any way impacting on his conscience. He was not amused by the scene I had made and he let me know it by the way he petulantly examined my old man while I was standing there watching. He did it right in front of me, in a perfunctory way – like he didn’t have the time to devote any more than was absolutely necessary, as if my old man, who was a damn important guy in London, who ran a whole office and kept down an exacting job, was nothing more than an inconvenience, a piece of shit. There was not even the pretence of a proper examination or any show of remorse over his laxity. I had forced his hand and he felt put upon.

I suppose, to be fair, one look at dad told him everything he needed to know. But what irked me was that the guy did not seem interested. My old man was dying and he was almost infuriatingly offhand and dad just let him be like that without protest. This was someone’s life and he did not seem to give a toss. His whole manner stank. Everything he did was infuriating. After a cursory prod around of his swollen stomach and a peer into his yellowy eyes and red throat he pronounced his liver was swollen and asked him if he drank a lot. He didn’t. The guy was almost teetotal. I went ape-shit. Why hadn’t the dipstick done all this three months ago? I was worse than furious by now – I was steaming. It was obvious that the stupid man had simply written him off from the beginning. He didn’t care and still didn’t. My outburst was brushed aside. He wrote up his notes and dismissed us with an expressionless gesture as if we were of no consequence. There was nothing he could or would do. He’d send his report to dad’s specialist. Thank you – goodbye.

I was beside myself with pent up rage. I’m not sure how I managed to control myself. The only saving grace was that the lazy quack of a doctor agreed to organise a specialist appointment and that he’d assured us he would try to get one organised as quickly as possible. I think that was the only thing that prevented me from punching the supercilious prat right on the nose and strangling him to death in front of the receptionist – though from the look on her face she would have cheered me along, all the way.

I thought we were in for a long wait but miraculously there was a cancelled appointment the very next day. The receptionist rang up to inform us. Who the fuck cancels an appointment like that? – A life or death appointment? I figured someone had died before they got there. That’s how fucked up the system was. Unless you made a fuss and pushed it for all you were worth you got nowhere and dad had simply not pushed it at all. Consequently he’d been treated like shit. But then secretly I reckoned it was the receptionist that had pulled the strings. She obviously didn’t like her boss – Mr Sugballs, and had taken to us. It seemed to me that she liked the way I went for the bastard. I believe those receptionists have a secret cabal that operates behind the scenes. I wouldn’t give that shit of a doctor the slightest credit. Left to him we’d still be waiting for that appointment long after Dad had gone.

Looking back now I could see that dad knew all along. He just didn’t want to think about it, confront it or have to deal with it. He was probably pissed off that I had got myself involved. In his mind it would take its course and he’d go with the flow. In a strange way he had come to terms with it quicker than any of us. He allowed me to go through the motions but he already knew where this was heading. He had probably hoped that he could quietly go down without anyone being any the wiser or getting involved. Silly twat.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Reflections from a ditch Kindle/Paperback

Posted on by Opher

I wrote this novel based on my daily journey through the country roads into work. I imagined my protagonist trapped in a car, upside down in a ditch, slowly dying, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Excerpt – Reflections from a ditch 

The whole damn world is run on exclusive little clubs geared to keeping people down – making outsiders of them. The real power resides in grubby little dives and huge faceless palaces. Quiet thin lipped men in suits look down their nose at you and feed sops from the table. Here nothing is important except power and power can be bought if you have the price and know whom to ask – having the right name and connections help. Behind the overt corridors of power there lurks a dim recess of real power. Narrow eyes watch your every move. The games are played out with winners and losers but the strings are pulled by the faceless power brokers. They use religion. They use drugs. They use politics and they are patient. They sit in dingy leather chairs and think in terms of centuries. Fashions come and go. Life goes on.

Love and intrigue? Nothing matters except the hypocrisy of the meetings behind the scenes. Rich or not those rooms are sealed to all but the necessary. You may even rise to sit at their table, but voice your views, as they smile, tilt their heads and acknowledge your genius, and it slides off them like shit off a window. Jeff and Blackie are meaningless little snotty kids with no value, worth or purpose other that to be manipulated like pawns on a board. Little pageants played out on inconsequential stages, which will not touch the minds of the masters – the fashioners of destiny. Us little zits, pimples on the face of the universe, worthless units to become consumers, their work force, and then die our grovelling little impoverished deaths in the meaningless mediocrity of everyday nowhereism. Suckered with the carrot of possibility – ‘You could become one of us – if you work hard – get lucky – get rich’. Bought with little sops – ‘Find your place in life’  ‘Be happy’  ‘There’s a place for you in Heaven’.

Bullshit.

And we are all, masters included, pimples of inconsequence, self-obsessed simpletons. In the face of a raging eternity, before the cataclysmic silence, we scream and stand our ground with the magic Tantric repetition of the word ‘I’. We are just leaving our mark for eternity, a name for ourselves, our place in history; just changing the world, imposing my views, sharing my perspective.

What I have to say and do is important, worth listening to.

 Listen!!!

Every true story is a work of fiction.

            Nothing matters in eternity. The sun will grow and the Earth will be subsumed. The sun will die. The universe will die. There is no God. Even a life made of air will fade away. Some way off all there will be is darkness and cold lifeless space. Long before that we will all be dead. There will be nothing to leave for eternity to mull – no fossils – no archaeology for future civilisations.

What does it matter if that’s a million years hence or four zillion.

What the fuck does it matter.

Every moment in the whole universe has contributed to this moment. This is true magic.

Reflections from a ditch eBook : Goodwin, Opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Illness – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

Writing about my Dad’s illness was hard but cathartic. Using his illness and death as a backbone to this novel gave me an opportunity to rationalise and come to terms with it. It messed me up for a long while. He was far too young. I was angry. It puts life in perspective.

Bodies in a Window

It was Auntie Di who first alerted me to what was going on with Dad. She rang me up. I was at the other end of the country. I didn’t get to see him too often but I rang him up every week and he sounded fine. He’d come up for Christmas and he’d seemed OK. I let him carve the turkey. He didn’t have much of an appetite though and left most of his Christmas dinner. That wasn’t like him at all – but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. He was just a bit off colour.

Have you seen your dad lately? Auntie Di asked ominously.

There was a lengthy pause while I ruminated on the import of what she’d just said.

Not since Christmas, I informed her hesitantly.

I think you should go down. He’s not well. She kept all emotion out of her voice and somehow that made it worse. It was what she was suppressing that came through loud and clear – something serious was up with Dad.

What’s wrong? I asked with a feeling of panic welling up in me. What was she telling me? For her to ring me up and say that meant that something bad was up.

I just think you should go and see him.

Dad had been complaining of being off his food and having an upset stomach. But it hadn’t stopped him going in to work. But that meant nothing – the man was a workaholic. He never took any time off work. He was a juggernaut. He went in even when he had flu.  I knew he’d been ill for some time now but was making very light of it to me – just an upset stomach. The doctor was sorting it. But Auntie Di wouldn’t have phoned unless there was something serious would she? I had this horrible sinking feeling.

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. I drove down as soon as I could. It was quite a journey – 250 miles in my old jalopy. It took me nearly six hours.

I could not believe my eyes when I got there. He’d withered away to nothing in three months. His suit hung off him. His cheeks were hollow. He was yellow. I’ve seen worse victims coming out of concentration camps. To say that I was shocked didn’t come close. But I tried to cover it up as best I could. I didn’t want him to see my reaction. I covered it up by giving him a big hug and averting my face.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Bodies in a Window – introducing Bert

Posted on by Opher

Introducing one of my characters. Bert is an ageing pensioner who has lost his wife and lives on his own with his little terrier.

*

I don’t understand it at all. The whole world has gone nuts. I can’t comprehend what has happened to young people. They don’t have any values. They are rude, scruffy and ungrateful. We fought a war, two wars, so that they could have everything we didn’t and they throw it back in your face. It makes me bewildered. Sometimes it makes me angry and sometimes it makes me sad but mostly it leaves me in despair. I just don’t understand – still, never mind, best to get on with it. The whole world has gone to pot. Put it to one side and forget about it. That’s the way.

Best listen to the telly and forget it.

I could feel Tom settling his head on my lap. I ruffled his head and he settled contentedly on the settee with his head in my lap – his favourite position. Margaret would never have stood for it – him being up on the furniture – unhygienic and dirty – not the done thing. She was house-proud. She wouldn’t have had him in up on the settee – not a chance in hell. Makes me chuckle to think about it. He most likely wouldn’t have ever been allowed in the front room. She’d probably have railed against him being in the house at all, but she would have eventually compromised and allowed him a bed in the corner of the kitchen.

I miss Margaret. She had standards. We didn’t use the front room at all when she was alive. She had the furniture covered and put newspaper down on the floor for us to walk on. You should have seen the caper when someone called unexpectedly; all that crumpling it up and shoving it in the cupboard. The sitting room was for guests. She kept it pristine. We lived in the kitchen. The rest of the house was done to a turn as well. She polished the doorstep every morning, dusted, swept, cleaned and washed until everything was shiny and spotless. Even when she was really ill she kept up the same routine. Nothing stopped her. She had principles. It is sad that I’ve let it go like I have, but I was never like that, really. Besides, I’m past caring.

I wasn’t like that back then. She used to nag me rotten. But I’ve let things slip. I know it. She’d be horrified if she came back now. She’d probably have a fit. But Margaret has been gone these last twenty years. She is not coming back. I’m on my own. Well, apart from Tom that is. Tom is my only companion now.

It will be Coronation Street soon. I like Coronation Street. Ena’s got herself in a right strop with Minnie. I can’t wait to see how that one is going to turn out. Then I might watch Harry Worth and call it a night. I’ll take a hot cocoa up to bed with me. I used to like to read but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. My reading days are over. I even have trouble watching the telly now. I have to watch it out of the corner of my eye.  It’s an effort. Everything’s a bloody effort these days.

You have to laugh. There’s not much to look forward to, is there? More of the same but gradually worse. Still Arthur rings me on Sunday night. He’s a good lad. That’s something. At least I know he cares. But he’s busy. He has work and kids. He can’t keep worrying his head about me. I have to jolly well get on with it.

*

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

The Purpose of life – People, Travel, Writing and Reading.

Posted on by Opher

I left work early so that I could do the stuff I wanted to fit in to my life. Thirty-six years in teaching felt long enough. I loved teaching but running a school was hard work. When you were putting in fourteen-hour days there’s not much time for anything else.

I wanted to see more of my family and friends.

I wanted to write and develop all the ideas that I’d been sketching out. I had thirty-six novels I had roughly written and wanted to complete.

I wanted to travel. The world is an amazing place, full of amazing people, incredible culture, fauna, flora, architecture and geology. Nature and beauty. I wanted to see it all.

I wanted to read. There were hundreds of books that I wanted to savour.

Time and age were the enemies.

Well, I’ve travelled the world from Australia to the Falklands. Seen and touched komodo dragons, cobras and casawaries.

I’ve seen many of the wonders of nature.

I’ve seen some of the greatest works of art, architecture and fashion.

I’ve shared meals and good company with friends and family.

Enjoyed hundreds of memorable gigs, theatre and film.

I’ve read 378 books.

I’ve written 123 books.

That’s a lot to pack into a short fourteen years! There has not been a second wasted.

Surely this is what life is about?

Still going!!

The Blues Muse – Kindle/Paperback – Rock Music novel!

Posted on by Opher

This book tells the story of rock music but as a novel!

The Blues Muse

I was in conversation with a good friend who, like me, is a Rock Music fanatic. We have both been everywhere, seen everyone and have had our lives hugely affected by music. However it is not who you have seen but what you failed to catch that you dwell on. I said to him that it would be brilliant if we had a time machine and were able to go back and see all the major events in Rock history; Robert Johnson play in the tavern in Greenwood, Elmore James in Chicago, Elvis Presley in the small theatres, The Beatles in Hamburg, Stones in Richmond, Doors in the Whiskey, Roy Harper at St Pancras Town Hall…………….. and a thousand more. Then I realised that I could. I knew it all, had seen much of it first hand, and had the imagination to fill in the gaps. All I needed was a character who worked his way through it, was witness to it, part of it and lived it; someone to tell the story and paint the picture. I invented my ‘man with no name’ and made a novel out of the History of Rock Music. This is that novel. It starts in Tutwiler Mississippi in 1903 and finishes in Kingston upon Hull in 1980. On this journey you will breathe the air, taste the sweat and join all the major performers as they create the music that rocked the world and changed history.

The Blues Muse: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781518621147: Books

A Shitstorm

Posted on by Opher

A Shitstorm

There’s a shitstorm on the streets

                The poets are all asleep

The world run by a clown

                Keeping their heads down.

The red caps came for Jeff

                But the singers are all deaf

It couldn’t happen here

                To the migrants and the queer

But the victimised

                Are normalised.

They are coming for the migrants

                Women and infants

They are coming for the woke

                Soon the other folk

There’s a shitstorm on the streets

                The poets are all asleep

Opher – 29.1.2025

A madness seems to have taken over. We’ve forgotten about kindness and compassion.  All you need is love. Those were the days.

All you need is hate is the new mantra.

They are coming for the migrants. They are coming for the woke.

They are busy burning books.

They will soon be attacking the queer.

Intolerance  rules.

They’ll be stonings in the square.

They’ll be burnings in the stadia.

Another Excerpt – Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

I had the idea for this novel years before I wrote it. It took the death of my father to realise it. I stood in the hospital room next to his body.

Chapter 1 – Perspectives on a Sunny Day

Life goes on.

That’s all I know. As far as I’m concerned, right now, life is trivial, pointless and boring. It’s nothing more than a repetition of the mundane, periodically interspersed with equally nonsensical novelty. Nothing makes sense. Sadly, today, that is exactly how I’m seeing it. There is no purpose to anything.  It appears to fall into a reassuring pattern – but I think that is an illusion. Change is all there really is. You can be sure that nothing will last for long. Everything you do is doomed to be destroyed in the vagaries of time. Nothing lasts. It’s a pretty miserable state of affairs when you really get down to thinking about it.

I stood in the sanitised room, breathed the Dettol and allowed my mind to run freewheel. Well, I didn’t really allow it to run free, so much as lose control of it. I’d let go. There was no hand on the rudder. It went where it wanted and that appeared to entail a long string of gloomy observations. Right at this moment in time life was looking pretty miserable to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t always been this morbid; my brain has not always flowed in such a melancholy manner. I used to be a happy, easy-going, positive sort of guy. But that seems a long, long time ago now. I’m no longer that person. Life knocked that naïve optimism right out of me a long time before today.

It is days like this that have robbed me of my positive outlook, and I’ve had a few of these kinds of days. Though fortunately not too many on a par with this particular doozy of an example. This was in a category of its own – a kind of one-off. This truth is, for obvious reasons, you can only experience this event once.

Back when I was young ….. I could laugh at my own naivety ….. I used to postulate solutions to the world’s problems. I even used to have faith in the intrinsic goodness of human beings and believed there were things worth striving for. What a fool I was back then. That was before I realised the true nature of all those movers and shakers out there, the wealthy and powerful, greedily clawing in all they can, and willing to carve up their own grannies for self-advancement. They are a bunch of callous self-servers.

The problem is that I woke up to the reality of humankind but probably didn’t really believe. Today brought it all home with a vengeance.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books