Chapter Two

Welcome to the next thrilling chapter of the exciting novel, Two Enclaves:

Over the water in Remainia, an equally aged troika was made up of three, erstwhile well-established parliamentarians. The elder statesman was undoubtedly the one with the white hair and beard, whose appearance was decidedly gnome-like. For as long as anyone could recall, he was known as Sydney Carton – nobody could remember his real name, who he actually was, or what he actually did. To have said that he was soft-voiced would have been an understatement. In matters political, the man had no voice or presence, at all. Rumour had it that he had earned his present moniker by means of a single act of extreme selflessness. In the turbulent year of 2019, Sidney Carton had, putting country first, bravely manoeuvred his party into abstaining from a vital vote concerning the call for a general election, which move was tactfully engineered in order to confound the Government of the time. It was after this extreme display of heroism, that he was heard to exclaim: “It is a far far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.” After that exclamation, Sidney Carton (as he then became) lapsed, once again, into political silence, speaking only when spoken to and then, only on matters pertaining to his allotment.

The second participant in the troika was fairly tricksy.

This was Diane Rabbit, who, on account of her bouts of bad temper and pursuit of trumped-up grievances, was widely referred to as ‘The Diva.’ The astronomical number of these imaginary grievances made it necessary for The Diva to re-invent herself at least twice a month. She was currently deeply immersed in the life events of Madame Defarge, a revolutionary character, created by Charles Dickens, who depicted her as an evil tricoteuse (one of a number of women who sat and knitted while attending public executions during the French Revolution). Defarge was obsessed with revenge against the French aristocracy. The Diva was obsessed with revenge against The Democratic Republic of Brexitania, which she held responsible for hundreds of misdeeds, many of which dated back more than forty years..

The third member was a luminary. His was the beatific smile, the gleaming teeth, the high brow and the fixed eyes. His was the glorious name of Bony Glare – the people’s politician. All things to all men (and all women too). He was bold and audacious and was discomposed by only two things:

The first was the utterance of three letters of the English alphabet … “W M D,” which completely discombobulated him.

The second was far more sinister. It concerned a certain style and fitness advisor, who had advised Bony and his wife way-back-when, and who went by the name of Carole Cupcake. Unbeknown to any of his family, friends or colleagues, Bony was absolutely terrified of the Cupcake. He was convinced that she was a participant in the dark arts and her mere presence in the room could easily cause him an attack of ‘the shakes.’ On the other hand, Bony’s wife (Sweet-Cherry Glare) positively rejoiced in Cupcake’s company. They were friends of long, long standing, and together indulged in all sorts of pleasurable girly activities – mostly to do with potpourri, Hatha yoga and all things pink.

Bony hated all things pink – they made him nauseous.

A Yukky Throat

Codex known as Dioscorides Neapolitano, containing work of Pedanius Diascorides, Greek physician of 1st Century AD

Dear Mr. Wood,

The purpose of this absence note

Is to describe a yukky throat:

"Red and blotchety,

Owner crotchety"

The cause, methinks, beyond all doubt,

Was too much shrieking and running about,

Or chatting, when lessons should have been learned,

Whilst the master's back was turned.

But, thanks to "Beechams" whilst not condemning.

The talents of Alexander Fleming,

A cure is currently being effected

And the patient himself subjected,

To a course of antibiotics,

To curb the result of his idiotics,

And since the tablets worked a treat,

The patient's now back on his feet.

So, in conclusion to this letter,

I'm pleased to say that Smart is better.

Kind regards,

Maggie Smart

---

Chapter One

This is the exciting, serialised version of 'Two Enclaves', which should, more accurately, be known as 'A Tale of Two Enclaves.' It should be clearly emphasised that this was not written by Charles Dickens.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times:

The year was 2059 and the once beautiful city of London had been wiped out and reduced to a squalid wasteland that consisted of two enclaves, one of which was situated to the north of the River Thames, the other to the south.

The Democratic Republic of Brexitania (motto: ‘We embrace truth and integrity’) was located on the North Bank and covered 52% of the area which formerly made up Greater London, whilst The People’s Republic of Remainia (motto: ‘Oh No you don’t’) occupied 48% on the South Bank.

These two quasi autonomous states co-existed in bickering mode, one

occasionally devising small unpleasantries to be carried out against the other. This state of affairs had prevailed since that momentous day, some forty or so years ago, when all six hundred and fifty members of The House had crossed the floor simultaneously and, shortly thereafter, parliament had been dissolved.

Dissolved that is, not in the sense of being declared void or coming to an end, but dissolved in the manner of an antacid tablet being reduced to an effervescent solution in water. The dissolution was caused by the then, Prime Minister, Joris Bonson, mean-spiritedly tipping Jacob Grease Bog’s bottle of aftershave down the toilet in the first floor cloakroom, which had formed part of the Leader’s chambers. Catastrophically, some kind of disastrous, chemical reaction had resulted and over the next four days an unstoppable decline had taken place in the Houses of Parliament, as huge sections of it disintegrated into the river. The last sighting of that noble institution had been when Big Ben, bonging dolefully, floated in funereal fashion, down the River Thames.

Much water had passed under many bridges since that fateful day. Bonson and Grease Bog had reinvented themselves and had forged a very unlikely alliance with Nigel Garage, who, having rendered himself absent from public life for the last 45 years, suddenly popped up again as his usual chummy self. These three wily politicians formed a formidable triumvirate.

Bonson had reinvented himself as Winston Churchill, adopting Churchill’s demeanour and mannerisms, quoting, where possible, from his speeches and smoking vast quantities of absolutely enormous cigars.

Grease Bog, the master of filibustering and acknowledged genius in the classics, had embraced the persona of Julius Caesar with whom he felt that he could identify. During his previous political career, he had frequently delivered long, rambling speeches entirely in Latin, lasting up to five hours. His fellow, honourable members appeared to have had no problems with that, mainly because they were either asleep, or engrossed in ‘candy crush saga’ on their smart phones.

Garage hadn’t needed to re-invent himself, because everyone automatically did it for him. Over the years, he somehow came to be known as ‘Igor,’ a name which clung to him still. Nobody quite knew why.

This astonishing trio, now unbelievably advanced in years, had their headquarters in the crumbling ruins of No 10 Clowning Street, wherein they ate, bathed, slept and conducted parliamentary business.

To be continued ...