The Central Committee meeting

On the train to London, when asked,

He explained that he was off to see a show at the Royal Academy

A play at the Donmar, and maybe shop for books in one of the few bookshops left in

Charing Cross Road, now the

Philistines had won and the

Planning departments lacked a

David to defend them.

In the busy Wetherspoons near Baker Street station, where an industrious

Rodent scratched and chewed under the bench seat he read a copy of the

Tablet and explained to a barmaid who couldn’t care less, and had only

Just scraped through the English Language test for her diploma at a

Private college that he was going to a re-union of former priests.

She did not take the bait, and he returned to the sated rodent and a paper

Full of controversies he recognised but did not understand.

The routine continued.

In the bar of the Premier Inn opposite

Elizabeth Garret Anderson’s hospital he was a horse racing journalist.

In a bookshop in the Brighton Lanes on Saturday an

Academic researching the early history of British Trotskyism.

Each episode of his weekend brought a new identity. Even with the

Sex worker he could only just afford he pretended to be a

Sexual adventurer who wished to test her full range of services before

Feigning impotence, making his excuses and leaving

Poorer but no wiser.

The train home to Darlington was no better; he wrote

Furiously in a leather bound notebook he bought in Smiths in a

Cypher of his own invention, that even he could not decode.

Home, in Bishop Auckland,he kissed his wife, told her the

Central Committee had been bloody, as always,

Ostentatiously left the book of cyphered text on the worktop

And fucked her with genuine passion over the dining table in the

Half hour they had left before gran and grandad

Returned the boys from their carvery lunch.

At three am he woke, stared at the  ceiling, and reran again the

Memories film of the last real meeting of the CC,

Central comm, not the Control Commission,

When they had all lied to each other about

Adopting deep entryism when what they meant was

They had failed, and no longer had an alibi for their lives of

Quiet mediocrity.

His only rebellion now was these weekends when the

Central Committee re-convened so far as his family was

Concerned, and he lived another sequence of

Elaborate lies.

 

 

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