The thing is you get sick of beating around the bush.

If you are from a Northern English town where your culture has been seen, through that North/South divide, as being blunt to a point of –

not having any finesse, not knowing the meaning of ‘acceptability’ – in effect, being on the fringes of society –

and, you are getting on in years at last – you always thought that, once you were 70 or beyond, you couldn’t expect to be alive, even – three-score-years-and-ten and all that – a system of religion to which you have been well-exposed but not officially slotted-into further than bare essentials (being Christened in a church; marrying in one; being buried or cremated through one, hopefully (not going to happen)) –

and you’re close to that point of biblical old-age (the definition of which you did internalise) – and, after all, you wish you could look forward to more time, because you haven’t said everything yet –

and according to that, you only have another couple of years . . .

And then the whole landscape around you changes – what used to be local industries become obsolete –

and so many different cultures are admitted and overlay yours –

and you wish you could just say it as it is.

But you do and people don’t get it anyway –

(not necessarily about that but about something else).

And you’re bursting with what you really think –

But you don’t want to be had up –

And your language is quaint, if you let it in . . .

2 thoughts on “The thing is you get sick of beating around the bush.

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