On March 6, 2019, I had a hard feeling in the morning. Ever since Theresa May has taken the lead over the United Kingdom Cabinet of Ministers, my nightly sleep grew volatile. In general I’ve never felt sympathy toward this monstrous butch with the twelfth size of flappers (it’s no less than the continental forty-fifth), but still more repellent appears the politics conducted by her government. As a matter of fact, the population of the British Isles is as heterogeneous as of any other country out of two-hundred-and-fifty states on this globe, so there could be no "one size fits all" approach.
Even the notion of state itself is still not entering the absolute category, and as of January 2019, one-hundred-and-ninety-five independent nations officially exist throughout the world. Among them 193 countries are the United Nations members and two others (Vatican and Palestine) participate in this organisation as observers. An additional point is that seven more states have been itemized on the world map with the uncertain belligerency. Among them, Abkhazia, South Ossetia, as well as Kosovo, North Cyprus and Taiwan refer to this number. And these figures are constantly changing and under definition.
I teach the English language at a Russian school together with the English literature and culture; I work as an interpreter and translator for more than thirty years, I have German, French, Spanish, Italian, Dutch and Latin beside of English and Russian in my toolkit; I communicate to different English-speaking people, among which is my Dutch husband, on a permanent basis. In other words, I’m wide from being indifferent against the fate of the mentioned country in spite of the shallow policy conducted by its governance.
Not every British is a Russophobe, but most of them have their brains pretty washed by means of “official” mass media. This is a well-known maneuver by power in law, which is practiced at its all levels: if you prefer to cover own faults and distract public attention away from persistent problems inside of the kingdom, then find or invent a foreign enemy. Subsequently, the nation building shall be furnished in the sake of an effort to forget oneself in a historical lethargic sleep.
Russia has always been an irritating factor for the Anglo-Saxons with all Russian immeasurable and inaccessible treasures, to which the British crown has been constantly stretching its hands and eternally getting a rap on the knuckles. This is one of the reasons why the modern Russian Federation has been appointed to the position of enemy number one, and from now on the western community diligently supports all the marbles of popular fables and legends of the Russians who “are coming”.
But in truth, the principal threat for the native and visiting Brits comes from the transoceanic descendants of the Anglo-Saxons and other European ethnic groups, which had formed the ethnicity possessing exceptional ambitions from Yankees and fading away into nothing any traditional scrupulous attitude of islanders to the matters of reputation. In particular, let me put a question point-blank, what the hell the former jail breakers had forgotten at this Continent? It’s a perennial question that can be put already in the category of rhetorical ones. But still there is the answer to the arisen matter at issue: Yankees, after seizing up the empery in the Western Hemisphere, are rushing to the world supremacy. Lest we forget, who and how have colonized Americas, then an obvious conclusion is forced upon us about the methods of “American business” dealing and “American democracy” exporting.
After bombing out several countries of Middle East and Africa, the American hawks have swung opened the European gate for immigration of evident and fake asylum seekers. People of different faith, and diverse cultural traditions, as well as of uncouth practices, have been flushing as a pour into the Grand Dame Europe out of the demolished states since the beginning of that chaos. It’s helpful to remind that half a millennium ago in consequence of Columbus’s mistake, hordes of movers sail off the shores of England, Ireland, Scotland, France, Spain, Portugal and others not only in search of Indian treasures, freedom of religion and social prosperity, but also because of elemental public tightness. Europe looked like a motley patchwork quilt flung on the giant’s chilly feet, and since then the picture has not much changed on this count.
The beginning of the ÕÕI century was marked by the in-draft of undesirable mouths instead of hands into the confined space of Britain and other European dominions. Well, there ought to be a law about such a financial and economic unfairness, but the matter of fact is that some casus de jure without certain designation is lurking in own legislations of former colonial metropoles. While the governments were rigidly defending peculiar sovereign frontiers against passport holders from the Soviet Union and post-Soviet Independent States, they have overlooked the non-relevant migration acts from the WW II period indoors European consolidated shared apartment.
Unwilling to declare off some cheap labour, entrepreneurially ungenerous capitalistic powers of the failed slavocracy system have stipulated a variety of privileges for fresh free citizens of former colonies seeming to redeem their apparent historical guilt. But instead of work dorks they let hordes of scam in their littered territories. Surely, every fool knows this fact, but only American democratic imperialists made profits out of it.
The British monarchy is one of the most influential powers in the modern fast-paced world. Aside from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the present queen in good health (and relatively soon perhaps the king) is recognised as their sovereign by Australia, Canada, New Zealand and 13 more states of the British Commonwealth. But of course, Elizabeth Regina II doesn’t have any real authority yet by virtue of the same post-colonial legislative amendments to the unwritten constitution.
So, simple-minded but executive Theresa from the Right gladly yields to common anti-Russian hysteria and comes to a believe that Brexit can help her in solving the problem of the illegal and excessive continental migration and conjugated social, economic and political difficulties, as well as the items of antiterrorist security. O sancta simplicitas! No doubt that the public being sick and tired of omnifarious distortions in common European market, naturally, has embraced the constitutional rights, the referendum has been conducted in the time of the late prime minister of the United Kingdom, the advisory nature of the affair has been taken into account, and the only thing for her to do is to handle the procedure of divorce from the European Union.
And here she has failed because the machine of institutional power slipped mire down bureaucratic bog, so that May has found herself in the middle of political row due to her slanted views over the absolutely non-virtual reality. Well, how to explain to her in a best way that the dalliance with Muslims in the form of video congratulation to the sacred holiday of Ramadan without headscarf wearing, or demonstration of European identity on the back of Brexit slogans and cloak-and-dagger passion against the former Russian agents that have “mysteriously” died inside UK may not cause any sympathy nor would solve true nationwide challenges? That is why I have written a circumstantial analytical report with the enclosed package of proposals in respect of disaffiliation with the occurred European and British crisis along with complete noninvolvement of the Russian party. Further, I have sent it as a valued registered letter to the address familiar from my school-days: 10 Downing Street, London, UK.
I promise you, I scarcely thought that the wrapper would ever reach the addressee, and even less expected that I would be given a response. Nevertheless, the reciprocal message has happened to be after a little while and it contained the kind invitation to arrive for an audience with the Prime Minister of Great Britain at the Specified Time on the Scheduled Date: at 5 o’clock p.m. on March 21; it also contained the guarantee for unobstructed issue of visa through the diplomatic channels, which in its turn would be glued into the span new MFA passport waiting for its holder, id est ego sum, exactly at the British embassy in Moscow. Without the slightest doubt, I’ve started preparing myself for travelling since I understand that such kind of circumstances may arise not to everyone and hardly often.
I leave out the specialties of the parting abroad ceremony and pass over the details of the air trip from Sheremetyevo to Heathrow airport, because the two-hour flight by Aeroflot has elapsed in a routine mode. In London, I was expected by a black London cab exercising the taxi functions. It was served directly to the air terminal exit and had a driver of rather nice exterior, behind which one could guess an experience in conducting of counterespionage activity. He was the person who delivered me to the five-star hotel, The Ritz London at 150 Piccadilly street, and before saying goodbye he asked in what way I would like to reach the residence of prime-minister, while intimating his assistance.
It got me thinking for several moments before giving the response. By all means, moving along the alien city looks the most comfortable while on the rear seat of an automobile driven by a handsome chauffeur. But suddenly, I got a very strong will to ferret for some time through London, which I had not reached back in the old days. And indeed, how it can be called the unfamiliar place for me if starting from the second grade of my school days, piece by piece I’ve been learning by heart “London is the capital of Great Britain…”; and later on, I by myself have been teaching children in every detail, who constructed Big Ben, why “London Bridge is falling down…”, and where Westminster Abbey is located!
By the gross, after obtaining the cab-driver’s approbation and in exchange for the business card containing his telephone number for an emergency call, I announced that I would get to the place by a tube train and would go for an airing on foot, and certainly would appear in front of the madam May’s eyes at the appointed time sharp. The man gave an enigmatical smile and bowed out, and I paved the way to the counter, gained the key from the smiley girl at the Reception and took the lift to the third floor for my base room. The urban business has already broken out; I had around seven hours remaining before the fixed meeting; I might have not to be in a hurry, but there were no reasons at all to sit up in a cosy lodging. Nevertheless, I laid out my belongings, took a shower after the journey, changed into other clothes in such a way to make it both convenient and presentable, looked thorough fresh newspapers, thumbed the reference book of Yellow Pages and went downstairs.
The girl at the Reception was still beaming at me while accepting the key. From the writings on her badge I have learned that the girl’s name was Jenny, and personally from her – that today’s weather is beautiful, that she is tremendously pleased with my showing up and living in the hotel and that my English is bright. At this point, actually, the most interesting part of my narration commences; in other words, you have just finished reading the complete guide on politics and economy. A promenade down the street named Piccadilly gives the unexaggerated pleasure when the weather is fine. I decided not to cross the traffic way for the other side immediately, because I was moving in the direction of underground station Piccadilly Circus, so I could only watch the facilities situated over there passing by, namely, The Whisky Shop eye-catching with the friendly nicknames, and Caffe Concerto attracting with its Italian cuisine; I stopped short at the womenswear show window by Cath Kidston, and dropped into the book store of London-Hatchards-Piccadilly, while on return and through its glass I viewed the front of a building for The Geological Society; and further on I transferred glances between Lloyds Bank on the left, and NatWest Bank on the right; goods for sports and touring from Cotswold Outdoor London-Piccadilly on the left, and touristic duffel outlet at Arc’teryx Piccadilly London Store on the right; apathetically I walked by all snack bars and finally observed the old pal tube symbol.
London underground is the oldest subway throughout the world; it is also one of the symbols belonging to the capital of Great Britain. Due to the shape of tunnels, built owing to the invention of tunnel-boring jumbo by Mark Brunel, the English engineer, the people of London nicknamed the underground railway as "The Tube". From Piccadilly Circus to Westminster one can easily walk along the surface on foot, but I’ve got an insane desire to embrace the legendary metro, so I stepped on the strip of escalator and set off under the ground for new impressions. At the platform of Piccadilly line I hesitated examining the station walls, lamps and pointers, and surely missed a train, and then I changed for brown line. I would have committed much longer and spacy journey in the interior of London, but the travelling charge varies according to vulnerability, and in principle, you can't compare it to Moscow, it's a bit too much expensive. Expecting the next train to Bakerloo line, I've already known that I would travel through Charing Cross to Embankment, then I would transit to the green District line and after the next but one passage I will find myself at the station of Westminster.
Kind of a deja vu feeling is my most habitual state. It didn’t lease me off for a minute even under the ground of the city founded by ancient Romans. I would not swear on the Bible that I had beheld the precious London underground some time before, while in the arms of Morpheus, but there is such a suspicion in my soul. Bright colours of stations, red carriages, low tunnel crown and the smell of special purpose grease resurrected in my consciousness some images from the land of dreams. But in contrast to reality, somehow, I had to swarm up and down through green metal climbing frames between different levels of subway over there, and I have swell escalators to my service over here. However, the width of platforms and passages occurred to be the same moderate, as in my visions, but the trains were two for two with the very same. So, for some long moment, or short eternity, I lost the sight of existential horizon and levitated together with the smoothly waggling deck, completely got tangled in what and which to compare.
In such a lethargic prostration I made it to the station bearing the name of historical district of London. No rave of colour can be observed over here; on the contrary, the interior scene of Westminster is tolerated in severe and stylish neutral tone laying emphasis on royal courtliness of administrative district. Without waxing too poetic I didn’t feel like abandoning that underground temple of machinable art, but there were more beauties waiting for me on the surface, so I made a move toward them through the chain of escalators and passageways.
In case of laying the route from the hotel to the residence, wherein I have been abided, then it would look like as if I slipped a bit farther. Well, don’t forget I did it on purpose for the sake of the wonderful sightseeing, which can’t be passed by a single traveller while in London. From the chaps of tube, I was carried out by the queuing traffic of people dreaming the same as me to find themselves at the foot of the eminent clock tower. The most popular touristic denomination for the mentioned Horologium at Westminster palace made possible to keep in history the name of sir Benjamin Hall, the construction activities supervisor. Officially this building is the Elisabeth’s Tower since 2011. From the beginning, the largest of six bells was referred to as “Big Ben”, however the name of Big Ben is frequently applied both to the clock and to the clock tower itself in general by mistake.
After squashing together with other idlers in the proximity of the palace for English Kings (and Queens), the same where the Parliament holds its sittings nowadays, which in their turn are enabled every season by a monarchal person, I enjoyed the view of the painfully familiar bridge skyline, and leisurely wandered along Bridge street in the direction of Parliament square. In weekdays, it’s relatively comfortable over there in comparison with the neighbouring lanes, through which the major tourist trails take course. Fountains are not functioning yet in March, trees are still not green, but all the objects of touristic attraction are visible and spread before the eyes from that square. A lad and his lass were sitting on the lawn. As long as the outer world was absent over there, and I was sick and tired of keeping the vow of silence, I came nigh, waved my hand and hailed them with the words of the English language (well, we are in England indeed!). A couple reacted gladly, the boy even stood out and the girl carried her light weight over the hip and turn out to be kneestanding. They both smiled at me so widely as if they were perfectly familiar with the woman in austere grey mantle tenderly stepping over the carpet of grass.
Kiddies turned out to be the architect students at the excursion who got tired of roaming through the museum halls and they were currently tarrying for their group in the open air. We had a chat about weather, on situation in the international field, regarding the latest fashion trends in urban development and relating the problems in education. When there came the turn to private matters, and as soon as I confessed the purpose of my visit, they, as I methought, brightened up still greater. The young man, whose name was Matt, pronounced meaningfully: “Oh, soon you’ll make sure that you’ve arrived in London for a reason! “, and the young woman, Wendy in name, nodded highly drastic and positive. At that moment it sounded for me approximately like: “Annushka has already bought sunflower oil. And not only bought, but also spilled”. We terminated the conversation neither earlier nor later than it’s prescribed by the procedure rules provided for polite Englishers, and heartily said goodbye till never see each other.
They stayed sitting on the lawn, and I walked slowly toward Parliament street. There was no need in a hurry at all, time to rendezvous could be measured with a carriage and a shrimpfish trolley. But it was considerably far away if to go to the other two nearest castles, and indeed there was nothing to view over there at particularly such hours. The guard mounting takes place in the morning, as for the guardsmen, their frozen statues evoke rather pity and compassion than curiosity and interest of mine. Reaching Derby Gate, I turned right with a view of taking a walk along the Thames Embankment to Trafalgar Square, to have a bite out there and to come back to the residence in question along the famous street of Whitehall. Further, nothing special had happened, I did everything exactly as I planned, thus it’s high time to pass on to final scene of the present story.
Downing Street is a short side lane in Westminster. It is situated within easy reach to Whitehall, a few steps away from Houses of Parliament, as well as nearby Buckingham Palace. This street is known with the governmental residency located over here for more than two hundred years. House No. 10 at Downing Street is the national character, as well as one of most distinguished addresses in both hemispheres. Some important political statements influencing the world's fate are sounded from the doorstep of this building. Before the attack initiated by the guerrillas of the Irish Republican Army, one could easily approach premises and take photos as mementos; the residence was slightly watched. Only one policeman mounted guard, just as presently. But after the politicians and army men sitting in the house were attacked by the mortar fire, the passage to Downing Street from the direction of Whitehall was comparted, and the trespassing is now performed through the checkpoint.
Passing the control with little effort, I reached the internationally acclaimed front of a building through the narrow passageway as a matter of minutes in advance of the cherished appointment. I did nothing but stopping in front of a bobby in guard and looking in his sightless blinkers, when the residence door sweeped open, and a red cat appeared on the threshold, and following it my morning cabdriver showed up. Of course, I did recognise him, but the man had changed mightily. He was shaved clean, combed and dressed, just like the prime-minister. He was the first to break silence, and I was the last to “shut up forever”:
“How do you do, glad to see you. As far as I understand, you are surprised to meet me instead of madame May. But it was you who pointed out the crucial mistakes made by the British nation, so we decided to act promptly. Some politicians in UK are excessively detached from reality, and there is no mechanism for returning them “from sky on earth”. In the service of situation and kingdom rescue we took your recommendations into close consideration and, from the outset, got assurance in any accuracy of conclusions done by you. You are right, the influences of revelation of cause-effect links to the nature and effectiveness of the taken politically-motivated decisions play terrific role. At the moment, a whole task-specific institution is working at your recent report. I am really and greatly interested to learn how you could get through such an intricate problem individually? Will you tell me?”
I mutely gave a nod, and he continued: “Please be so kind to become my guest for tonight! Je vous prie, come in. To begin with let’s come to tea, currently it is five o'clock, teatime indeed. Oh, I beg your pardon, I have not introduced myself, I’m Paul for you, just Paul”, with these words he stretched out right hand. Aha, well, certainly, now we are acquainted pro forma, hence, it would be proper to accept his invitation. So tranquillised with this thought I took a step in the door opening of the house number ten at Downing Street in London gently moving aside the fat cat frantically chafing against my limbs at the verge.
Post scriptum. By no means I claim for the position of seeress or prophetess, but regard as a mandate to mention the undeniable fact that all my night fantasies win affirmation sooner or later, and sometimes also follow-up in real life. Believe it or not, yet once upon a time that vision appeared in my dreams. (2019)