Must say, I've been really enjoying my reading lately. It took me a while to finish Jon Gresham's Gus simply because I kept breaking off to read further chunks of Andrew Marr's A History... regarding which I've just reached the end of the Thatcher era. Thoroughly enjoyed reading about her fall for the basest of reasons - my deep dislike of the woman and all she stood for. Not exactly gallant of me, but there you are.
I could pick out all sorts of segments from Marr's tome that made quite an impact on me in my reading so far, but one I'll mention here for oddly personal reasons. He gives a clear-sighted account of the Winter of Discontent of 1978 - 79, and I found myself thinking back to the piles of rubbish on the streets and the accompanying sense in the press of things falling apart. But, in truth, none of it had any real affect on me. I was too busy from September 1978 being utterly miserable as a completely inept teacher. The four months up to December of that year were without any doubt the most stressful of my life as I faced failure on what seemed to me an epic scale. It was only as Christmas arrived that I found the wherewithal to start to turn things around.
The early months of 1979 were a lot better for me, though not for the country. I didn't get good at my work over night, but I knew I was making progress and that was enough. And that progress meant I was able to get my weight under control with an ultra-strict, and very successful, diet. Hence, a minor transformation took place and a much happier me emerged.
Which is my version of the late 70s. Incredibly selfish, I know, but I suppose that's the way it is for most of us. I've lived through tumultuous times in their way and somehow managed to thoroughly, and gratefully, enjoy myself for most of them.
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