Underneath the Clear Skies | William Parker
George was spirited that morning, the same way he was almost every morning. Living in a hamlet nestled in the countryside was, after all, typical for any well-to-do British man and George was certainly no exception. He didn’t need coffee, which was not drunk by anybody on those fair isles; all he needed was a hearty brew and a hearty breakfast to boot. Driving through his village, he saw how every pothole was filled and every good morning was as kind as the last. It was a marvel that the residents of every hamlet in the nation had employed the tactic of flatpack democracy and elected members of their community, not bound by any party, to manage local affairs. The community was directly involved in decisions, if the majority were not in favour of a development then it simply would not go ahead. At the last town hall, George had supported the move to build more homes in the area as all homes were required by law to be in-keeping with the area – and modernism was rejected by everybody whenever it managed to rear its ugly head.
George passed the local memorial, maintained by the community as all historical pieces were. Preserving and learning from the past was one of the highest kept values in Britain – taught at every school. If you were not a warden of history, you had no business in running affairs at any level. George clocked into work, the pay was right and the boss was firm but always fair. The factory buzzed, and the workers felt like they were part of a wider community. No hamlet was left behind; every region had their own identities that existed in harmony with each other. The young listened to their elders and so the values were passed on and maintained, so the society they had could be maintained and only reformed when it was really required. George was rather excited because tonight was the great election debate, which naturally was broadcasted from a local pub and watched by everyone in a pub. Debate was encouraged, but any disagreements were always met with cheery understanding and the drawing of another pint. Pubs were central to politics, a place where the issues of the day were discussed. The two candidates, over a brew, made their pitches. Both of them valued institutions, another pillar of Britain, regardless of any other differences they may have had.
In this election, there was a male and female candidate but George knew this was because they were the best for the role – gender or race mattered not to anybody. He was glad to be a man in Britain, because men built the railways and the buildings that surrounded them. They were not hounded for being masculine, it didn’t matter what they were like as long as they fulfilled their responsibilities and found their own meanings in life. Responsibility was key, welfare was not a heavy presence so anyone had to make it with their own spirit and every mistake was a lesson learnt. After finishing his pint and watching the debate, George looked up at the clear skies above. Underneath those skies, he decided he wasn’t going to vote. This fact didn’t matter, he didn’t have to and no one was going to better an eyelid about it. He was free, truly free, and that was a great feeling.