3/7 - Mr. S
He wouldn't stop. He kept wobbling on his heels, like a jelly in a suit, warbling away in his pompous, overripe voice. He was telling me how unemployment benefits must be cut entirely. Just find another job, he said. How else are we to incentivise, he said. You see my friend, he said.
Yes, I see. I see a card-carrying Tory like every other traitorous, jumped-up Asian wog that goes to Oxbridge. I see someone who doesn't understand empathy, who doesn't understand despair or how easy it is to slump into despair when you live your life constantly chafing against the edges of society's cards stacked against you.
And I see that I am, after all this, a well-meaning, hand-wringing, somewhat patronising liberal, and that of the many levels of struggle against non-liberals, I belong to the level of words. Because I'm good at them, and Mr. S is good at them - and he says he wants to be an academic. Over his dead body.
Yes, I see. I see a card-carrying Tory like every other traitorous, jumped-up Asian wog that goes to Oxbridge. I see someone who doesn't understand empathy, who doesn't understand despair or how easy it is to slump into despair when you live your life constantly chafing against the edges of society's cards stacked against you.
And I see that I am, after all this, a well-meaning, hand-wringing, somewhat patronising liberal, and that of the many levels of struggle against non-liberals, I belong to the level of words. Because I'm good at them, and Mr. S is good at them - and he says he wants to be an academic. Over his dead body.