My friend Stephen rang me in a tremendous huff, just as I was trying to eat a mince pie. ‘I no longer wish to be a part of this society. You can cease referring to me as a British citizen. I no longer accede to the precepts of this system we call Britain.’
I tried to sympathise through mouthfuls. ‘Yeth, itsth really terrible. Gordonsth rubbisthsth.’
‘I can tell you are busy, I will leave you to it. I’m going to Waterstones to buy L’Etranger.’
I tried to eat a second mince pie to make up for the enjoyment of the first having been ruined but it was no good. Why do friends think it a reasonable course of action to register all complaints about the downturn in the first instance with me?
And why do they always ring to complain about the things they unaccountably hold me accountable for just when I am trying to forget about such things? Barely had I latched on to the possibility of at least enjoying my cup of coffee before the phone rang again. This time it was an old school friend.
‘I’m just ringing to tell you that I’ve made up my mind, I am going to write a book. It’s all Gordon Brown’s fault and I am going to expose the whole thing.’
Recessions are like grief, I suppose. Everyone reacts in their own way. Some people lash out, scattering random thoughts all over the place, usually in my direction. Some decide to expose the limits of capitalism, a hobby that seems to be very much in vogue at the moment. I must say, it’s jolly annoying. I’m sure we used to have recessions all the time and people did not take it upon themselves to single-handedly re-shape the global economy.
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