We Live in the Best of Times

I, Mr. Esmond Fortune, formerly of Affluent Avenue, Dublin More, am loathe to recount my recent unpleasant experiences, but I feel I have an obligation to do so. I apologise in advance if you feel traumatised by the graphic details provided below, but it would be remiss of me not to inform you of the horrors now widespread in our society; horrors precipitated by a most distasteful economic downturn; horrors which I feel no decent man should have to bear. “We Live in the Best of Times”, only one with a most perverse sense of humour could venture such a shocking statement in these harsh, unforgiving times. Allow me to furnish you with the particulars of my predicament.

I have been long aware that the Irish climate is unpredictable, as we are prone to sudden changes in temperature and rainfall. Imagine my shock however, when I was cruelly made aware that the economic climate, seemingly a close relative of the weather, also suffers from severe instability. he Irish property market, in which I had invested heavily, suddenly collapse. In an instant my numerous properties, many of which I was still paying a mortgage on, were stripped of their value. In a further wicked turn of events, my shares in the various banks were rendered worthless. I had been stripped of my means, and forced, by my financial situation, to live the life of a peasant.

The first injustice I suffered was my necessary enrollment as a recipient of Social Welfare, known in layman’s terms as “The Dole”. As an individual held in high esteem, and of great breeding, I was appalled to find myself surrounded by individuals most base and common. It is perplexing that in these supposedy great times I should have to rub shoulders with such undesirables. The tracksuit-wearing proletariat was out in great force, and as I queued, the air stank distinctly of booze, cigarettes and body odour. The recipients were in high spirits, owing to their imminent collection of the week’s drink money. Repulsed as I was by their presence, I exercised my great willpower by waiting in line until my turn came, upon which time I was presented with my allotment, and I could not conceive how such a paltry sum could possibly even pay for my evening meal, for I had at that time been partial to caviar.

The next unpleasant manifestation of my financial woes was soon to unfold. Having sold my prized automobile, I had no choice but to avail of something called “Public Transport” in order to get from A to B. This is a service whereby a large number of people who cannot afford cars are carted by way of a large capacious vehicle to certain destinations. Having boarded one of these vehicles I momentarily forgot myself, and offering my credit card to the driver, I requested First Class. My request was most rudely met with a scornful laugh, and I was asked to relinquish a small sum of money for the service. With the fare paid, I viewed the vehicle’s interior. Immediately I was reminded of a cattle truck, as the passengers were packed in together in nauseatingly close proximity. The seating was also unsegregated. Resultingly, I had no choice but to take my seat beside an individual of questionable decency. I consequently did not enjoy the journey, and I feared for my possessions as well as my life on several occasions. Such torturous conditions ought not to be suffered by any man, particularly those of class and distinction, amongst whose number I count myself.

In order to raise funds I had no choice but to sell my stately premises on Affluent Avenue, and to move to a most unsavoury apartment block in Ballybreadline, a working class development in North Dublin. My family and I made the delightful acquaintance of Dylan, our new flatmate who can be heard coming down the corridor by the jingling of his cheap jewellery. Dylan has never heard of caviar, claims the dole in several counties, drinks milk with his dinner, lives from week to week and has neither class nor table manners, as proven by a recent episode when I returned to the apartment to find him eating my steak like a candy apple, with the fork stuck in the middle and him tearing at it like a starving pitbull, an animal which I would have no trouble envisaging him owning. More disturbing still is the effect Dylan has had on my family, particularly my young son, who has picked up a few choice expletives and has taken to wearing a Celtic jersey around the flat.

It became clear that my family and I were in dire need of a holiday in order to put behind us the hellish few weeks we had so nobly endured. Lacking sufficient funds to sojourn in our Caribbean villa, we were forced to holiday in Ireland. Aiming to get as far away as possible from Dublin’s Northside, we planned a stay in Kilkee. Having never holidayed previously in Ireland, I looked forward to a new experience, and assured myself that a most pleasant stay would result. Upon arrival, I initially believed I had taken a wrong turn, for this particular location was maggoty with plebeians. The aforementioned plebs seemingly spent their days crawling from the pub to the betting office. They evidently knew nothing of art, cricket, classical music, horse riding, wine or any other of life’s great pleasures in which I frequently indulge. I regret to inform you that during my stay my life was endangered on several occasions, particularly when one ruffian stared at me in a most pugnacious manner, before heckling me in a nasal, high-pitched voice which I subsequently decided was the sound of poverty itself. We spent the entire stay holed up in our hotel room, doors locked, windows fastened and lights turned off, a necessary precaution I assure you, which most probably saved our lives. Only at daybreak, when the town’s inhabitants had retired to their squalid doorways, did we see fit to make a safe escape. I must profess, I won’t be making a return visit to Kilkee and it’s truculent locals in the foreseeable future, as I value my life too much to do so.

These times cannot justifiably be called “The Best of Times”, for they have stripped me, an honest citizen and member of the upper-class, of my means and brought me to my knees, brought me to a way of life that I never knew existed, and that surely cannot be commendable?