A fun blog of 'soft' philosophy about the life and times of a Westiepoo called Chester. Written as a prelude to a more serious novel raising the question: Who is the most bankrupt: the banker who won't whistle-blow or the chef who loses her livelihood?
It's Spring Bank Holiday weekend, and the news is good. My Master, Mr. A, hasn't, after all, had to move away to Scotland, which means I still get regular walks with him each day. He does, however, suggest to me that he is still likely to have to work full time elsewhere meaning that I shall miss my mid-afternoon walks. That is, unless, Miss T, Master R or Master J are prepared to be my guardians.
Mr. A also says he's angry and upset, even possibly bitter with the fate that now seems to await him. You see he has been reading this book called Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe. In this antislavery story, the negro Tom is sold from a good home to pay a master's debt and is to obtain his imminent freedom from involuntary servitude when disaster strikes: his second benevolent master dies a fateful death. Uncle Tom falls victim to a heartless and evil plantation holder whose brutal treatments leads to his untimely death. Tom's character is pious, cheerful and generous, deserving of nothing other than the best. At the pinnacle of his would-be happiness, he is suddenly thrown into confusion and despair.
The story of Uncle Tom's Cabin is supposedly the wood kindle that set the fire alight for the American civil war. Similarly, Mr. A believes that the freedom and joy he felt from deciding to devote himself to writing and authorship is fast dissipating. He feels dejected and sorrowful because he doesn't want to work for profiteers but rather for better values of charity and liberty from debt through the writing of stories. As much as he would like to feel keen and enthusiastic for paid employment, he fears the worse, especially on minimum wage and commission based on Key Performance Indicators. He and his family may never escape from the entrapment of the modern slavery of debt. Just like Uncle Tom, they deserve better.
In the meantime, while Mr. A anxiously awaits progress on the jobs front, I continue to monitor the garden steadfastly and forbear patiently with my spring and summer friend and companion Henrietta, the Tortoise. So long everybody and farewell. Who knows when I will write again?