I slipped through London last week. Smiles, handshakes, and more coffee than tea. The muted roar of a jetliner, stale cabin air, surly customs agent, and a New York cab. I’m now back at my desk, 19 floors up and with New York Harbor in front of me.
I’m concerned. England is as old as dirt and yet its infrastructure looks good. It’s newer, sharper, and shinier than what we’ve got ‘round here. Admittedly, I didn’t see the whole village, but I saw airports, roads and lots of offices. For the first time, I sense that we’re sort of like that great aunt living in a house where the front door sags, the porch flexes, the yard is overgrown, the car has a flat and there’s a tree limb pulling at a gutter. To my mind, there’s no stretch of highway in this grand country that ought to be overgrown or cluttered with trash. No overpass should suffer from crumbling cement.
Our waterways should also be maintained to the highest standard. We have the people to paint, mow and fix up our old house and we should be getting at it. I look around and scratch my head in worried wonderment. Time’s a wasting and we need to get going. It’s our damn house. Tell your elected officials to stop worrying about steroid usage among professional athletes and to start tackling the important stuff.
Eh, whatever. At least we’ve got better steaks than the Brits.
Underway and making way.