New life

The end is nigh

Zenga Longmore

There are times, are there not, when you feel yourself to be a lone coward, trapped in an unfeeling world of stark brav- ery. Ponder, for instance, on the occasions you have been in an aeroplane which sud- denly boggles in mid-flight. Lights flash on and off, throwing you in so great a terror that you scald yourself badly with the con- tents of the plastic cup which has dropped from your nerveless fingers. Ghosts from your unwholesome past life loom before you. Uttering a soundless `Aagh!' you grope around for a lily to clutch to your heaving bosom. Then, as your eyes travel heavenwards, they stop in mid-roll at the other passengers. For some reason they are blithely getting on with normal life. Busi- nessmen are drunkenly sniggering over air- port magazines, and the two old ladies next

to you are still happily comparing grand- children.

`Why,' you ask yourself, 'does no one else realise the diabolical danger we are in? Why is it only me?'

Now the reason for relating this vignette of unconcern versus cowardy-custardism is that I am wondering why the rest of the population is getting on with the important things of life, such as washing-up and talk- ing about their boyfriends, while I am the only person in England who thinks that this is the end of the world. The weather, which started out in early April as a promising greenhouse spring, turned icily cold and dark for weeks on end, and a strange, almost Biblical mist set up seemingly per- manent residence over Britain. Everyone I know was coughing, wheezing and com- plaining of 'poppy ears'. Yet none of the newspapers mentioned that something had gone drastically wrong. Even the telly has not made an announcement at the close of the news that the end is nigh. Maybe that is why no one has realised that things are not as they should be; nothing is real unless it has been on the telly.

It seems to me that the Government, not wishing to cause alarm, is withholding the fact that poison gas escaping from burning Kuwaiti oil wells is casting a pall over Britain. Somehow I feel that I would rather know the blunt truth. Over to you, Govern- ment.

And now over to Mrs Wright, who called round earlier this afternoon.

`Mrs Wright,' I asked my ninth-floor neighbour, as I poured her a fresh cup of tea, 'is this the end of the world?'

`Oh yes, dearie. More sugar please, to very much. Haven't you heard the prophe- cy:

When cock crow turns to piping call, This old world begins to fall.

`Mother Shipton,' she added impressive- ly, as if making a classical quotation.

`Well, there's one flaw in that, namely that the local poultry are clucking away as if nothing's the matter.'

'Ali, but cock crow is the sound which wakes you up, dear. Since when has a rooster awoken you? The prophecy refers to digital alarm clocks, and it goes on to say that: In nineteen hundred and ninety one, The end of the world has just begun.

`But don't fret yourself, sweetheart! It's only just begun. It'll wind down gradual- like.'

I was stunned into silence as I watched little Omalara innocently playing with a tepid teabag that she had fished out of the teapot with the leg of her toy panda.

Just then, Olumba strode through the door and whisked Omalara into his arms, announcing: `Chaff! Why you look plenty sorrow like the baboon when the tortoise bit the kink in his tail? Cheer up-o. It's not the end of the world, you know!'