Future Woman

I'm going to create a utopian future idea for my elderly self. This is to counteract and 

hopefully cancel out the possibility of the recurring vision that keeps surfacing of me as a 

vagrant, a bag lady, if you'll excuse the expression. This vague, hazy picture of myself

wandering around a bleak, rainy city in several layers of filthy clothes, a battered old hat, 

worn down, ill-fitting boots, pushing a shopping trolly bearing my collection of rubbish in old 

plastic bags started to form itself on the backdrop of my mind when arriving in  

Manchester many years ago and, walking across Piccadilly, I passed a lady who was just 

that. 

I remember her that way, but I may have elaborated on some of the details because 

memory's like that. The original lady who inspired the image was, I think, well known in 

Manchester, but I think I've mixed her up with other characters such as Mrs Tachyon in 

Terry Pratchetts' story Johnny and the Bomb and the lady feeding the birds in Mary Poppins 

for example. 


Except my old lady definitely does not have a time-travelling trolley. She is totally vagrant 

and absorbed in her own world with its processes. These are very time-consuming and 

complicated; esoteric and important and they must be done outside on the urban street.

Each time this image crops up, I try to modify it. I imagine she has a cosy little terraced 

house to go to each night, with a cat and a friendly neighbour to look in on her. But no, like 

one of those imposing, invasive visual edits, this image is rapidly swept aside to reveal the 

awful scene of a grubby wooden shelter somewhere, with gaps in its roof and a filthy floor 

and a bench where she lies, precariously balanced, with the trolly full of debris 

dragged beside her for some sort of flimsy protection. It will be stolen by young, 

heartless thugs now and then, raided for it's bizarre detritus, swung around and played with 

until, becoming boring, it is smashed to the ground, leaving her angry and raving at them 

with her frail fists.

So I must rescue her from this bad situation. It really isn't sustainable at her age. The rituals 

she is performing can be done elsewhere with equal effect.

I put her in a garden. It's a walled garden in Spring. I love crumbling Cheshire brick. There 

are apricots and apples and pears growing against it, Roman fashion. An avenue of Cherry 

blossom along the gravel paths that divide the different beds. It's all been divided up like a 

knot garden. From above you could see the intricacy of it's design. As she wanders along 

the labyrinthine paths, it has the atmosphere of a maze, but without dead ends and with 

vistas. As she pauses next to a bed bordered by lavender, just showing its new tips, she 

looks across to the open circle in the wall which is a window on the fields surrounding the 

garden. Somewhere in those fields is a large field where people camp. Other fields have 

crops growing in them. The campers tend the crops. Turning to face the opposite direction, 

there is a door in the wall. It's slightly ajar and you can just glimpse the path leading up to 

the house. It's a large old farmhouse with lots of bedrooms and an annexe. Visitors come 

and go. They share the cooking, shopping, cleaning etc. It's a place people come to on 

retreat. There's a room lined with bookshelves, another compact with records, a computer 

with hordes of music to access and a good sound system. The middle of the floor is clear 

for dancing and it's lined with sofas. There are headphones in case you prefer that way of 

listening. 

The annexe has a rehearsal space for musicians with a recording studio. It also has a 

couple of very light rooms for making art. One has printing equipment in it.

It's all run as a co-op. It belongs to everyone. I don't know who the members are or how

the guests and visitors get to know about it. I don't know what the racial, sex or age mix is,

but this is a much better future for my future self so I won't question it too closely.



There she is, she's forking over a bed ready to plant something. Someone's coming through 

the gate bringing two cups of tea. She looks to be about the same age as my future woman 

and as she sets the cups down on a table which joins two wooden chairs together, she 

beckons my future woman to join her. Oh, actually, it was a tray she brought and there's a 

plate with cake on it too. 

Future woman, smiling broadly, sticks her long handled fork in the loamy soil, takes off her 

gloves and comes forward to join her, throwing the gloves into the shopping trolly which 

is parked on the path. Sitting down, she sips the tea, takes a piece of light golden sponge 

and, looking out at the perfect order of the beautiful kitchen garden, says "you came 

then" and the two women turn to each other and laugh. 

Explanatory Notes

Language is illusory. Everything said or written has been so before, in a different arrangement.

The world goes backwards as it goes forwards. It's a pendulum swing.

Ideas are oscillations , they rise and fall, fall and rise ad infinitum.

As there is only the same amount of matter in the universe, so there is only the same amount of

ideas and language and progress and newness is illusory, born of a lack of experience.

Newness must come from outside. It must be pulled in from another dimension, as from a cloud in

space, along the lines of panspermia, propounded by Fred Hoyle.

An Old Feeling

My self within,

Raging energy,

A burning adolescent.

I become its dummy.


Out of my self,

Spirit suspended,

Looking down upon

the ugly contortions


of the ego in pain.

Descending, my spirit

opens wide its arms,

silently smiling,


too quiet sometimes

for my self to notice,

in the midst of my

noisy flailings.


Sometimes, when apart

I see you too,

Just one fraction of

an essence, your soul with


its head bowed in

susceptibility.

Slowly, as our selves

retract, we rise and stand



together, spirits

smiling at each other,

The distance rainbowed

between our gaze.