Ben Nuttall-Smith

1. The Bank will never call you – be it VISA  MASTERCARD  BANK CARD.
2. The kindly voice said “This call is from the Bank Fraud Squad. You will receive instructions in your messages. Do not share the number provided with anyone else. Just follow the instructions.”
3. At this point, remembering The Bank will never call you, I hang up and dial the number at the back of my card. The same voice answers immediately.  (He did not hang up – thus he was still on the line.) Fooled by this deception, I answer all questions, including card numbers, etc.
4. After a few more questions, I begin to suspect. … I hang up. Wait a few minutes and once again dial the number listed on the back of my card. This time there’s music and a waiting period.
5. YES.  I’VE BEEN SCAMMED.

1. I receive an email to update my address on the government Income Tax website.
2. To reach my account, I’m required to enter via my choice of bank.
3. I select my bank and this time, I’m required to answer a number of seemingly irrelevant questions: 
4. What is your favourite colour?  What was your mother’s middle name? What was the name of your first childhood pet? ……….
5. “Congratulations!  You’ve qualified for the following charge cards”      …….  SCAMMED AGAIN.

Only yesterday, I was young and newly married. I blinked and two children arrived without instructions. Of all the university courses, no one offered a course on parenting. Time flew by and I found myself three times a grandfather. Grandchildren are magical creatures and so much smarter than I ever was. How did it all happen?

I remember older people through those years and thinking how behind the times they were and how little they knew. Of course, they were years away from me and winter was so far off I had no idea what it would be like to be old myself.

Suddenly, tomorrow has arrived and, at last, I realize how valuable every moment is and has been. I meet people I once knew and they’re all retired and getting gray. Some are in better and some worse shape than I.  We are now those older folks we used to see and never thought we’d be. 

I have regrets.  There are things I wish I hadn’t done. Mostly there are things I wish I had done. Then again, there are many things I’m happy to have accomplished.  

I have entered into this new season of my life unprepared for the aches and pains and the loss of energy and the ability to do the things I wish I’d done but didn’t.  At least I know, that though the winter has come, and I’m not sure how long it will last, I’m not afraid of death. 

I’d like to say to those of you still waiting for tomorrow: don’t hold back. Whatever it is, do it now. Foreswear all those reasons “why not”. Don’t wait to say, “I love you”. Say it today and prove it while you still have the energy. Don’t wait for others to appreciate and love you for the things you did for them in the past. You want to write a book, paint, travel, explore new hobbies? Start today.  

The way you live this part of your life is your gift to those who will want to be like you.  Make it amazing and relish every moment you have left.          

Ben Nuttall-Smith

a postcard story by Ben Nuttall-Smith

         Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones approaches the park table, looking to right and left, to make sure no one else has the same spot in mind. Under his left arm he carries a folded newspaper and a long black umbrella. In his right hand he carries a package, neatly wrapped in newspaper.

         Mr. Jones is a tall, thin man in his late seventies or early eighties. He wears a bowler hat, a dark blue raincoat extending to his knees, and thick, horn rim spectacles that contrast strikingly with his snow white goatee and moustache.

         Fastidiously, he circles the table to find a spot that suits him, before he places his package, umbrella, and newspaper on the wooden bench. He draws a large blue handkerchief from his right coat pocket and flicks crumbs from the table. Observing a spot resistant to his efforts, he picks up a twig, scrapes at the table surface, and blows the residue off the table at the far end. The flicking, scraping, and blowing take three minutes at least.

         Mr. Jones shakes out his handkerchief with both hands, until a crumb falls, before he deigns to return it to his coat pocket. After that, he opens his newspaper and spreads it on the table. A picture offends his eye. He shakes his head, turns over the paper, and smooths it with both hands in an outward, sweeping motion.

         He places the umbrella on the far side of the newspaper, adjusts it until it’s perfectly centred, and positions the package precisely opposite the umbrella.

         Before he sits down, there is just one more thing he must do. He extracts his handkerchief, dusts the bench, shakes the cloth with both hands as before, and returns it to his pocket.

         Gazing in satisfaction at the arrangement before him, he at last sits down, looking to right and left to ensure he’s alone. He removes his bowler with both hands, places it carefully above the umbrella, and adjusts it. Just so.

         Still far from done, he reaches into another coat pocket and extracts a small biretta cap, patterned in tartan. This he places on his nearly bald head.

         At last, Mr. A.P-J. carefully begins to open the package, folding back each sheet of newspaper at a time.

         The meal exposed before him at last, he rises to shoo away the gathering pigeons, first to one side, then to the other. Again, he sits down. His handkerchief will serve another purpose now. He tucks it behind his collar and spreads it out as much as he can.

         For just a moment, he bows his head in thanksgiving. Then he pulls his sleeves up a notch and commences his meal. With customary precision, he chews each mouthful twenty times. Occasionally, he breaks off a part of a chip and tosses it to the pigeons, now reassembled nearby, scolding one or two for apparent greed as he does so.

         At the close of his meal, Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones removes his “bib”, shakes it out, and returns it to his pocket. Carefully, he folds up the newspaper within the one he used for a table cloth, removes the cap from his head, and replaces it with his bowler hat.

         Only then does he pull out his harmonica from his vest pocket and turn away from the table. To serenade the birds.

Ben Nuttall-Smith

bennuttallsmith@me.com

A fire rages across the fields. It pours forth from angry mouths. It consumes everyone in its path… Then, like all fires, there soon comes a time when everything is thoroughly blackened. All is chaos and deprivation.

The heat dies down. Angry faces look for more victims but there is nothing further to consume.

Life pauses.

There remain hot spots underground. These are forgotten as the sky clears and seeds sprout through the ashes, pushing up green stems and leaves that search for sunlight.

The same people who were victims now grow back to full life as the diminishing hot spots simmer deeply under rocks.

Those who are inclined, clean up the mess.

The rest try to forget. And they do.

Titanic Trump

Imagine…

One hour before the inevitable, a very privileged occupant of a first class cabin complains to others around him about the lack of proper amenities afforded to him and his entourage. The food, liquor and service have not been to his liking. The privileged families agree with the insistent, pompous fellow.

A bachelor In the group suggests they should take over the ship to correct the situation. When asked how they could possibly do so with the approximately 900 crew members and almost 2000 other passengers on board? Surely, it is suggested, none of the lower decks would go along with such an audacious scheme. After all, none of them had anything good to say about the few upper crust passengers. “We all know that us upper crusters are sucking them dry, as it is.”

The bachelor replies, “They are easily manipulated. If we promise them better conditions and free food, they will gladly join us.”

A British upper cruster retorts, “They hate us. They see us as the very reason for their being on the bottom rungs of a very tall ladder. And I certainly am not going to give up any of my status nor portion of my food. And in no way on God’s green Earth am I going to allow any of them to take over even the closets of my quarters!”

“You don’t understand me. When I say ‘promise’, that doesn’t mean actually giving them anything.”

“Oh. Well then…” The upper cruster ponders. “But how we are possibly going to turn them to our side?”

“With chaos and deprivation. We pay off part of the crew to reduce the rations of the passengers, cut back on any heat and water they may be getting, make sure the loos are backing up on their levels… Chaos and deprivation. Then we say to them, ‘It is such a shame that the crew are treating you so very poorly. Why don’t you join us and we will make everything right again. Just like It used to be.'”

“Oh. That might work.”

And so, by the time of half an hour before the Inevitable, the rowdiest of the passengers are convinced to lead an insurrection against the crew. The surprised Captain and other officers are led to a lifeboat and told to leave, and do so before the Boss changes his mind and just dumps them overboard. Many of the lower ranks join the Boss, along with most of the crew.

Then a jolt happens that shakes the ship…

---

Image generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence

Trump’s ascendency has pushed the conversation back to base emotions. All the eloquent and impassioned speeches are now heard only by the respective chorus to whom they are directed. The ability or desire to have constructive discussion is effectively past.
Therefore, it is instructive to speak in terms of base ideas, with an overhead view.
We, as primates, show certain tendencies that are reflected in our cousins. We have been, until about 13,000 years ago, loosely organized in communities that were matriarchies, or guided by the principles of matriarchies: peace within the community, enabled by respectful communication, with the general goals of enabling survival, creativity and family growth.
Rambunctious males would be tolerated for a time within the community, but if their actions became destructive, the designated silverbacks would be required to drive them out. This type of behaviour is reflected in observations by Jane Goodall and the late Diane Fossey, and others.
The rebuked young males would often gather in packs for mutual protection and support. Those packs would occasionally raid their former communities for food or fun, but they would usually be repelled and kept at bay by the concerted efforts of the community.
Until the Bronze Age and Iron Age.
When overpowering personal weapons, converted from agricultural implements, came into the hands of, shall we call them, the punk packs, they started decimating and/or taking over communities. From this came feudalism and other forms of repressive control of communities by the various punk packs.
Humanity has struggled over the past 5,000 years with the balance between the primal need for principles of matriarchal stability, against the randomly directed forces of raw power.
The ascendancy of Trump – and the meme of raw power that has spread throughout the world – has set humanity back millennia. Egoistic bluster that was fought during two world wars, and many other more local conflagrations, has once more become the power in charge. The weapon used in this case is not bronze or iron, but money.
Multibillionaire punk packs now rule humanity.
World-wide, those who viscerally feel in jeopardy are protesting. The multibillionaire punk packs and their supporters – whose rallying cry is “down with all regulations” – laugh at the protesters, knowing they now have the Power. They control the power-points of society. They are now in charge of writing and enforcing legislation, which they use to further entrench their power. They have legitimized the focus on Money as being central to all activities in society. Where “money” had been merely a measure of activities in the past, it is now the end goal. That this is a circular argument is beyond the ken of the multibillionaire punk packs or their supporters.
The multibillionaire punk packs are circling the carcasses of gutted societies.
So, we have the vision of Pink standing up to Money.
Who do you think will win?