(Not) A View From The Greenhouse; After The Goldrush. The End

Nowt A Dab Of Filler Won’t Fix
© Colin Cross, Going Postal 2025

I recently had the pleasure of visiting a hospital. Not an A&E, thankfully, but a famous hospital in the North West of England where I attended for a “pre-op” appointment. It’s an indictment, albeit a minor one, on the NHS (an organisation I’ve long been critical of) when one has to travel some eighty miles to spend five minutes in a room having swabs (for MRSA) and ones blood pressure taken, to at least have a chance of being seen both effectively and relatively promptly. Although the place is labyrinthine and parts of it look as if the maintenance budget’s been shelved in favour of hiring another DEI coordinator,  the staff (both medical and admin) were all very friendly and the “service” was excellent. The inevitability of a new hip has been shelved for the more pragmatic (if short/medium term solution) of a second steroid injection. The last one worked, so I see no reason why this one won’t. A cup of tea, a sandwich and a biscuit cost the princely sum of £6.35p, long gone are the days when money wasn’t the priority where health is concerned. The NHS remains this nations very own Curates Egg.

Catbells And Its Neighbours
© Colin Cross, Going Postal 2025

Little of any real import has been undertaken in the greenhouse, though I’m pleased to say it remains standing. There is some minor glass works still to do, but I’m expecting the serious business of getting ready for the growing season will commence some time next week. Watch this space! As a bit of a diversion I had a walk to the Friars Crag area of Derwentwater. The recent snows had turned it into something quite picturesque (if you like that sort of thing). I’ve eschewed posting pictures of the compost heap and a dead pineapple plant in favour of a couple of scenic shots. One hopes my reader doesn’t mind my departure from the norm.

Derwentwater Reflections
© Colin Cross, Going Postal 2025

No descriptor needed, the mountains overlooking Keswick and this particular “Water” provide a stunning backdrop.

Looking Towards Borrowdale
© Colin Cross, Going Postal 2025

Of all the scenes I enjoy viewing and photographing around Derwentwater, I think this one, especially on a bright winters day, is my favourite. I’m not alone in thinking this, people were queuing to have a go at this particular shot. I used my phone and I think I got lucky, in so far as all the elements I wanted to capture are there and in the “right” place and the sky, being slightly out of focus, lends a bit of something to the whole thing. Oddly enough, I took the same shot with my camera, but didn’t (IMO) get as good a result. It’s all subjective, I know, but I do like this “version”.

My faithful reader may remember my attempts to try and compose a dystopian short story/novella entitled “After The Goldrush” back in 2020 https://going-postal.com/2020/12/after-the-gold-rush/. Another “postponed” project where I got started, then decided to pen some historical context https://going-postal.com/2020/12/after-the-goldrush-an-historical-reprise/, before putting it to bed as it were, until a later date. Any road up, I’ve written a first draft of an ending (also with a bit of historical context), now all I need to do is write the middle bit. I’ve posted it below and any criticism (constructive or otherwise) is most welcome. I think (hope) it make sense;

After The Goldrush; The End

By 2035 the internal combustion engine powered personal vehicle, once known as a “car” had all but disappeared from UK roads. The odd bus and lorry, increasingly relics of a different age, continued to operate in some rural areas, but, by 2040, very few if any remained and those that did were increasingly both difficult and prohibitively expensive to maintain and fuel. In their place came the EV’s, the EV-One, the EV-Lux 2, 4 and 6 range, the EV-lim, the EV-Trans-P range for human transit and the EV-Trans-F for the transit of goods. EV ownership was (obviously) restricted. Some public sector retirees, on leaving employment, were allowed to retain tacit ownership of either an EV-One for sole personal use with a restricted mileage allowance or an EV-Lux 2 if they were in a licensed par-share relationship.

Every morning the old man could hear the faint hum of the EV’s in his village, as they took their designated place on the stretch of tarmac which served as an artery onto the nearby EV-Way. The hierarchy, he knew, was strict. First in line were a couple of EV-Trans-P’s carrying the few humans needed to oversee the work of AI Clen-Bots, Serv-Bots and the like, followed by EV-Ones, carrying single passengers, mostly functionaries, on their way to more important (yet still basic) roles in education, the health service and local government. Each EV had a time slot, each time slot had to be taken and wo-betide anyone who didn’t have good reason to not take up their designated position for the morning EV-Run and the corresponding return journey. Missing a designated slot was a sure-fire way to receive an un-credit on ones Gov-Card.  EV-lims, with their sleek designer lines and blackened windows, were rarely seen this early in the day, they’d emerge from behind high gates and long driveways once the EV-Way was clear of potential obstructions. Only the odd EV-Trans-F which hadn’t completed its nightly workload on time shared the roads with the EV-lims.

After half an hour or so the old man was able to leave his small cottage and take the short, now often painful walk to his plot and shed. Car ownership wasn’t forbidden as such, and many people still kept examples in sheds and barns and under shaped tarpaulins, where they could be admired for their design and functionality, worked on for the simple joy of tinkering with something mechanical and cleaned for the pleasure of seeing the gleaming paintwork and the shining glass and chrome.There was a seasonal nip in the air and, as he walked, the old man reflected on his final remaining days, only seven left now, until his appointment at retrieval station 4468, where his carbon, on his 95th Bir-Ann, would be finally and irrevocably captured. In the old tin shed at the top of the long unused and affectionately name “Crag Lonin”, cleverly secreted behind a pile of hay bales, was the old mans’ car. Ever his pride and joy, his 35-year-old Mercedes e-350 had seen better days, it was 10 years old when he bought it, but he’d treated it with love and care, and although he hadn’t driven it for over 10 years it still made him smile to look at it.

He removed the cover from its sleek, shiny black body and lifted the bonnet to inspect the mechanical beauty of the engine, before replacing the battery (which he kept charged in his shed)          in its housing and connecting the power cables. The cables were slick and shiny from the liberal and regular application of lubricating spray, which over the years had inhibited moisture build up and corrosion.With a sense of excited anticipation, the old man opened the drivers’ side door of the car and sat, not without some difficulty, in the comfort of the black leather seat, which remembered his shape as if it were a glove. He put the key in the ignition and smiled broadly to himself as the dashboard lit in response. He waited, almost teasing himself, before making the quarter turn of the key which saw the engine spring into life. Satisfied, he quickly turned the engine off, although he wasn’t doing anything strictly illegal, he didn’t need to be embroiled in any fallout from being discovered by a CivPol drone, or, worse still and potentially more awkward, a visit from inquisitive Civ-Pol functionaries, wondering what the noise was all about.

He’d made his mind up; In 7 days, at a time yet to be designated, an EV-Lim would arrive at his door to take him on his final journey, wrapped, for a short time, in State provided luxury, or so “they” thought. He knew there was no escaping his fate, it came to everyone, but he was also a cantankerous old devil, with one last act of defiance up his patched and timeworn old sleeve.He’d avoid the EV, sleeping in the car the night before if necessary, before driving it, with the top down and the wind in his face, to his final destination. He might even bump a couple of EV-Lims on his journey along the EV-Way, I mean, he thought to himself, what’s the worst they can do to me?
 

© Colin Cross 2025