Ahead of his Time by Adrian Cousins (children's books read aloud .txt) 📕

firmly believed who I was, an event that I could predict was going to happen imminently would just help cement that belief.

The national newscasts focussed on the continued grumblings from various trade unions regarding pay, or lack off, and the link to inflation. But as it had topped out at twenty-four per cent, it was clear the government would not be able to sanction any public-sector pay rise anywhere near that. Otherwise, inflation would get to the levels of post WW1 Germany. The comparison to West Germany’s solid economy and the UK’s, which was in freefall, was often a conversation in the staffroom. Many of my colleagues were unhappy with the lack of pay increase since the agreed pay deal in 1975 of twenty-seven per cent. I would have loved to tell them in 2019, a full half a per cent was the average public-sector pay deal – but I guess these were different times.

Unemployment was another heavily discussed subject when us teachers fell into our moaning sessions. Even though I benefited from hindsight, it was tough to see how the government could square that circle of inflation, pay demands, and unemployment. I knew they didn’t and was also aware of the economic doom that the next few years would bring.

Jenny and I watched the Saturday lunchtime news, which was as depressing as usual. Jenny had said, “Itcan’t get any worse, can it?” I wasn’t able to alleviate her concerns as I described the up and coming ‘Winter of Discontent,’ which would spiral the UK economy to even lower depths of depression over the next two years. Jenny thought it sounded horrific as I described the strikes that led to dead bodies stacked up as the gravediggers’ pay dispute was unresolved.

The picture I painted of rubbish piled up on the streets when the council collection operatives refused to resume their weekly collections was equally grim to hear. However, Jenny did laugh at my description of ‘dustmen’ as she put it. I remember George in my previous life recounting these times, and now the poor bugger had it all to come again! Well, no, it seemed like again, but it was the first time … again.

The local news continued to report about the bombing in Fairfield, with a different angle on the story each day. It had slipped off the national news as it was now ten days old. Although, on Saturday evening, the Fairfield bombing made it back to the national news as a reference point to the events unfolding in Oxford Street. The IRA had accepted responsibility for seven bombs, one of which caused Selfridges to be set alight.

Jenny was pleased to hear that the Good Friday Agreement would bring lasting peace. The news that it would take another twenty years to get to that point was not so good, especially as I advised her that there would be many more bombings on the mainland in those preceding years.

Sunday was a quiet, uneventful day, which was a bloody miracle in itself after the last week. After we’d finished our Sunday tea, which consisted of sandwiches and cakes, we settled into early evening television. Christopher loved the lemon-curd sandwiches but had spat out the Heinz Sandwich Spread ones, saying it was yucky. After I dished out his telling off for saying horrible things about Jenny’s sandwiches, I banished him to the naughty step – the bottom step of the stairs in the cold hallway.

In my view, he was totally correct in his assessment of the sandwich filling. Not in his earshot – I agreed with him. After suffering a decade of the stuff in my school packed lunch in the ’80s and definitely not daring to criticise the sandwich filling choice with my grandmother, Jenny agreed not to purchase the product again – what a relief.

After Christopher had served his ten-minute sentence on the naughty step, we allowed him to watch some TV with us before bedtime. He was super excited watching the biplanes on the TV show ‘Wings’. The basic plot was a blacksmith’s son becoming a pilot in the First World War. I was sure the storyline was sugar-coated, and I expected Don would be berating the TV as he sat and watched it. The show appeared dated, with over-exaggerated accents and shockingly poor cinematography.

To me it was tame and boring, but this was all we had in this era, and I had a long wait for the digital age and hundreds of channels to choose from. Although I used to moan about that at the time, “Thousands of channels and piss-all worth watching,” I could hear myself ranting at the TV.

Jenny thought the show was too scary for Christopher, which did make me laugh as I thought back to my youth when I’d watched the film ‘AnAmerican Werewolf in London’ at the age of ten and the ‘Evil Dead’ only a couple of years later. Children’s innocence eroded at a lightning pace over those forty years from the ’70s through the millennium.

After Christopher was soundly tucked up in bed and Beth had her last feed for the evening, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it.” I sprang off the sofa, surprised with my enthusiasm, although it was probably to avoid any more pain of the utterly dreary TV on offer. That said, I was looking forward to ‘The Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin’, which was showing later – now some comedy was timeless.

Standing a few feet back from the doorway was a forty-something woman wearing heavy makeup, which appeared to have been applied with a trowel. She stood with her arms folded in what gave off an aggressive aura.

“Hello,” I said and smiled, now slightly concerned who this woman was standing on my doorstep on a cold Sunday evening.

She stepped forward with her arms still tightly crossed. My smile wasn’t reciprocated, just the offer of a cold stare and said nothing.

“Err … can I help you?”

“You know who I am?” she coldly delivered, and there appeared to be