In the seventies the height of luxury was the spa attached to the swimming pool. I never had one. I wasn’t that rich. However whilst building a house in the rural fringe of Sydney, Australia I befriended a women and her sons.
Janet was a wonderful person probably ten years older than me. Her husband was a doctor and fairly wealthy but he had died a few years earlier in a drunken car crash. He was an alcoholic. Anyway with the wealth came a swimming pool and the spa.
The pool was a welcome respite from house building in the hot Australian summer. Stephen, her eldest would help me with building. Peter, her other son was a bit young at the time.
And the parties were great.
Much quaffing of wine, playing of guitars, singing of songs, soaking in the spa and cooling off in the pool .
Stephen had a girl friend who was like ‘the girl from Ipanema’, any true man could not help but sigh as she walked past in her bikini.
Now, me, I was a hippy. I didn’t see the point of clothes, so I’m sitting in the spa enjoying my nakedness. I suppose the alcohol and weed helped! Linda didn’t share my enthusiasm for nudity, more is the pity, but she could cope with mine.
A group of us had been enjoying the warm bubbling water and glasses of bubbly when it occurred to me that we had run out of drinks so I thought it incumbent on me to go to the kitchen for another bottle or two.
Now I must explain at this point that this was a Sunday afternoon party to which Janet had invited not only her hippy friends but also the straight neighbours. The straight neighbours, actually all housewives, were already on the edge of their comfort zones in this gathering of bohemians and had retired to lounge room to drink tea and orange juice away from the wanton exposÃ© of raw life happening outside the sliding glass doors. See, Janet didn’t discriminate when it came to inviting party guests. She was a socialist. Or a hippy pathfinder.
I started to get out of the spa expressing my desire to return with more bubbly. Some members of the group, realising that the path to the kitchen was through the lounge of the uptight, suggested that this might not be the best idea I’ve ever had. Linda, however, with a malevolent gleam in her eye, said “If he wants to let him’.
So, with the imprimatur of the most beautiful creature in the vicinity, off I went resplendent in my water soaked nakedness on a knights quest to secure alcohol.
Now I have to say that apart from being aware of walking through a group of fully clothed mainly female people I didn’t give it a second thought. I returned to the warm and bubbly world of the spa, via the same route, with a fresh bottles of joyous elixer. It was only later that Janet gleefully told me of the consternation and squirming that had greeted my spartan journey.
She then told me of the comment that went into local urban mythology.
‘It was all pink and wrinkly’ one of the ladies offered.
About a week later Janet acquired two kittens.
She named them ‘Pink’ and ‘Wrinkly’.
My penis, in a somewhat imperfect manifestation, was now immortal. Well at least as long as the cats lived and they do have nine lives!
Small children are a gift. They’re just a few years away from having left God or source or everything that there is or whatever. And they haven’t had the cosmic connection taught out of them yet.
My granddaughter was only 4 years out of heaven when I had my heart attack. It was my own fault. I had consistently ignored my high blood pressure. Well this ostrich imitation resulted in a type A aortic dissection. Survival rate, not good. Thanks to brilliant paramedics I made it to hospital and was operated on by some of the best surgeons in the country.
Cassidy was concerned that her mother was so upset and wanted to know why. Vanessa explained that I was very sick in hospital and although everyone was doing their very best, I might die. It’s a lot to comprehend for a four year old. She had never experienced any one or any thing she knows dying. It was a new concept, so she went to her room to contemplate it. A little while later she came out and said “Mummy what can I do to help Michael?” Here it must be said that Vanessa is a most wonderful mother. Others might have dismissed the thought that anyone so young could have any part to play and given a dismissive answer. She felt totally helpless herself.
“Just send him lots of golden love and light” was her reply.
Cassidy retired to her room to consider this course of action.
A little while later she emerged carrying a cushion, which she placed in the centre of the lounge room. She sat cross-legged on the cushion in her very best lotus position and placed her Barbie tiara on her head. “Like this Mummy?” she asked. Her mother nodded. Then in a 4 year olds version of meditation, she closed her eyes and proceeded to send me golden light.
Meanwhile, back in hospital things were at crisis point. My body temperature had been reduced to 18 degrees C for the operation and I now had a piece of Dacron for an aorta and my aortic valve had been repaired. The problem was that although my temperature had been brought back up, my body was not retaining the huge amounts of blood that was being transfused into me. Everyone had done everything they could. It was up to me to start recovering.
One hundred kilometres away and on the second day, Cassidy sat down on her cushion in her very best lotus position wearing her tiara, closed her eyes and decided to send love and rainbows this time. After a while she said, “He’s alright now Mummy.” And then she added as she packed up her cushion and tiara, “He’s very big and golden is’t he?”
Back in the hospital I started the recovery process. I had decided to stay.
Interestingly as I became conscious I remember having a dream where I was a very big and golden Aztec. Coincidence?
The sixties and seventies produced a generation of young people with a firm belief in love, peace, joy and equality. Wealth and conformity were no longer important. We were free to express our true selves without fear of judgement. We were all God’s children.
We were the children of those who had experienced the full horror of yet another ‘war to end all wars’. The militarism, the lies, the deceit, the propaganda, the destruction, the austerity and suffering was over. Filled with hope and optimism for the future our uptight parents filled the post-apocalyptic world with little bundles of joy. It was a boom time for babies.
When the baby bubble became adults they burst onto the world in an explosion of joy, colour, music and fashion as a counterpoint to the austerity and greyness of the post war world. With it came a new attitude. We reveled in the joys of life. We were against war, bigotry, racism, inequality and sexism. We were for love, peace, festivals and very loud music. Oh, and drugs. This was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. We could all live in love, harmony and compassion. Flower power was the creed of the day. Sex was no longer taboo.
The festival at Woodstock was the pinnacle of the new feeling. The actual festival was an organisational disaster but it succeeded in gathering together half a million young people with same dreams, hopes and aspirations for a better, peaceful world.
I wasn’t there. Neither was Joni Mitchell who wrote the definitive song about the event. Woodstock.
We are stardust
We are golden
And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden
We had a feeling that our parent’s generation had lost the plot and we had to return to a simpler more honest, peaceful humanity. The sex, drugs and rock and roll weren’t bad either!
To my mind Joni Mitchell was the consciousness of our generation.
This from ‘California’ on the ‘Blue’ album.
Siting on a bench in Paris France
Reading the news and it sure looks bad
They won’t give peace a chance
That was just a dream some of us had
So my fellow hippies, what happened to the dream? Where are you all? Why haven’t we been able to change the world? Why do we continue to elect politicians who lead us into war? Why do we continue to live in fear?
The youthful enthusiasm, the love, the compassion and joy of life of the sixties and seventies seem to have vapourised.
But a lot of us aging hippies are still around. Some of us at least haven’t lost the feeling of those days. The feeling of being open and ‘real’ and vulnerable and accepting of all God’s children regardless of colour or ideological beliefs.
Now this leads to an interesting thought. I’ve noticed that the older I get the more I reflect on the hippie way of life of the sixties, so I wonder what a retirement village or nursing home will be like when us hippies get there. Sex, drugs and rock and roll! A cosmic retirement commune with lots of concerts and loud music. Outrageous colourful hippie clothes, big hair, Jefferson Airplane karaoke competitions, pot plants everywhere. Swimming naked in the pool and groovy fondue dinner parties. We’ll have our own rock and roll band and let it all hang out. Cool man!
It’ll be good to salvage something of hippiedom. I’m looking forward to it.
If we weren’t able to change the world at least we can take the dream with us in an outrageous blaze of glory and embarrass the children.
Have you ever stopped and looked around you, at the nightmare of commuting, struggling to find or keep a job, never enough money, pollution, war and thought to yourself, “how on earth did I end up like this?’. Well my friend, the journey started sometime ago.
Let me take you back a few centuries.
You’re a weaver living in England. You work from home with your family around you. You buy raw materials from the traveling merchant and sell him your finished product. A product renown throughout Europe for it’s superior quality. There is no free market economy so prices are predictable and consistent, which means so is your income. You have an idyllic life.
And what an enviable way of life it is. Picture this, (please go to iTunes download and play ‘Morning’ from the Peer Gynt Suite), a small cottage in the bucolic English countryside. Butterflies flit from colourful flower to colourful flower whilst the birds sing sweetly in the lush green trees by the babbling brook. Inside the cottage the weaver is contently finishing his latest creation destined for the markets of Europe and because the price of his goods never changes, he knows how much he will be paid. His wife and children are happily helping him in his tasks. Pausing to refresh himself from his labours, he wanders out into the garden to check on the progress of the spinach, pull a few weeds out of the potato patch and throws the chickens some food left over from the family lunch. He is is self sufficient and abundant.
At this time the idea emerged that it was possible to create machines that would produce goods much faster and with less manpower. Not only that, unskilled manpower. It also meant that you could sell the products at a much cheaper price. Of course the woven articles produced by machines were of a much inferior quality but hey, they were cheap.
And so the industrial revolution started powered by water and then the newly invented steam engine. Along with it came the free market economy, land enclosure and the idea that people were human resources to serve the machine. In those times people displaced from the land by the new factories or put out of business by the free market economy had no option but to work in appallingly dangerous conditions in factories for extraordinarily long hours and very little pay.
The weavers fought against this ‘progress’ and developed into a group of people who became known as the ‘Luddites’, after a mythical character who was, supposedly, their leader. They petitioned Parliament, protested, marched, waged guerrilla war and were eventually defeated soundly by the army, police force, and the Government. The Government, of course, had a lot of members who stood to gain from this new technology and they soon enacted laws to suppress any opposition to what became the industrial revolution.
History is written by the victors and that is why now we understand the term ‘Luddite’ to refer to some fool who cannot cope with new technology. The Luddites, in fact, were trying to hang on to the idea that technology should serve mankind and not the other way round. Count me as a Luddite.
What’s all this got to do with our modern world, I hear you ask. Well, everything. As a result of the change of thinking that occurred in the 18th century, we now accept as normal the idea that we leave our home and families to go to a place of work, could be a factory or a shop or an office, where we exchange large slabs of our time for cash. More importantly, we accept that the welfare of human beings is secondary to that of technological ‘progress’. Progress is when the machine becomes more efficient or produces more in less time with less human input. The focus of progress is never to improve what it is to be human except in the most superficial way in order to sell more products and keep the machine going.
Another knock on effect of industrialisation is that systems become more centralised and so people who lived on the land must congregate in cities in order to exchange their time for money. You can see this happening all round the world as nations become industrialised.
So here we are – leaving our homes and families everyday to go to a place where we exchange our time and skills for not enough money to live the life we’d really like. All because the Luddites lost and were steamrollered by the industrial revolution.
I’m coming out.
I admit it.
I’m a Luddite. A true Luddite. I believe that technology and progress should serve humanity not enslave it. I believe it is more important to enjoy being a human beingÂ than make the machine more efficient. I believe that the planet is a part of us and we are a part of the planet so technology and progress should serve it not wreck it.
Who will join me?
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I stamped on the brakes hard. Thanks to ABS my car stopped within inches of the car in front. Close! I wiped the offending tears from my eyes. The tears that had nearly brought me to grief. They had flowed naturally and spontaneously as I listened to a speaker on the radio describing how a family of five young children had watched their mother die slowly and horribly over a period of several months. She was all they had. Their father had gone, and now she was going. They did what they could to ease her suffering, to deal delicately with the indignities she had to endure. And when she finally drew her last agonising breath and left her wasted, skeletal, broken body, they were alone. Yet another sibling family.
The place is any number of countries in Africa. The disease is of course HIV/AIDS. The speaker was Stephen Lewis the UN Secretary Generalâ€™s Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa. A new orphan is created every 14 secs.
There is no welfare system to support them. Most of their adult relatives have already died or are struggling to cope with the symptoms. For these children, there is no one to give parental love and care, tell them a story or tuck them up in bed at night. No more mothering, no kissing better of a scrazed knee. Nothing but an empty space where mummy and daddy used to be.
Today, over 11 million children under the age of 15 living in sub-Saharan Africa have been robbed of one or both parents by HIV/AIDS. Seven years from now, the number is expected to have grown to 20 million. At that point, anywhere from 15 per cent to over 25 per cent of the children in a dozen sub-Saharan African countries will be orphans â€“ the vast majority of them will have been orphaned by HIV/AIDS.
Children as young as 10 or 11 take on the roles of mother or father. In some cases courageous grandparents can fill in the gap, but often they are no longer around.
If you are reading this then you live in a developed country. HIV/AIDS is a problem but not a pandemic. This is because your society has access to drugs, condoms and education. The Africans, still reeling from the disruption to their old orders by European colonization, have not.
These citizens of Africa are, at heart, no different to you and I. Like you and I they have known grief and pain, like you and I they have known joy and happiness, like you and I they have known love. And like you and I they need food, shelter and a chance to be the best they can be. Right now they are doing the best with what theyâ€™ve got.
We are all a part of the human race. Why then do we, through the governments we elect and the huge corporations whose products we buy, refuse to lend our fellow humans a helping hand?
They do their best to help themselves.
Stephen Lewis visited a remote farm run by a group of women who were brave enough to declare openly that they were living with HIV/AIDS. They had banded together and ran a market garden producing cabbages, which they sold at a nearby market. Stephen asked them what they did with the surplus money they generated. There was an awkward silence. They couldnâ€™t believe that the answer wasnâ€™t obvious. â€œWe buy coffins â€¦.. there are never enough coffins.
We, as a society, spend ever-increasing amounts of money on distractions and more efficient ways of killing each other, but pay no regard to the indescribable suffering of our fellow human beings. Not much money at all will go a long way to providing drugs to help reign in the HIV/AIDS pandemic. Not much money at all would pay school fees and provide food and although I don’t know how to do it, money must surely be applied to giving love, comfort and practical support to the millions of children who have been forced to take over the family responsibilities of their dead parents.
And what are we doing about it? Well WE, and that is all of us because WE voted in the current regime of western politicians, are doing nothing. Iâ€™m not sure how many billions are being spent on wars in the Middle East and the machinery of war in other parts of the world. But I do know that it massively exceeds what is being spent to aid our fellow human beings.
As Archbishop Desmond Tutu says, â€œWe are one world and these children are our children. Their fate is our fate, each of us can make a difference. Everyone can help to save lives.â€
You, the reader, have the power to do something. Visit the Stephen Lewis Foundation website at http://www.stephenlewisfoundation.org and decide how you can help. Our governments and our corporations have so far, not been forthcoming. We are all members of the human race. Letâ€™s act with humanity.
FOR MORE INFORMATION:
Global AIDS Alliance www.globalaidsalliance.org
Global Action for Children www.globalactionforchildren.org
I often wonder what life would be like if the Luddites hadn’t failed in their attempt to humanise progress. But unfortunately they couldn’t win. For starters they weren’t an actual organised entity, just a collection of individuals who stood to loose most from, what was later termed, the Industrial Revolution. They were up against those with the capital, the British government, (predominately the same people), the British Army and the Police Force. Even so it took hastily drafted draconian laws, quite a few hangings and a lot of violence to quell them.
We are living with their defeat today. It’s why we travel in peak hour droves to a place of work where we exchange large slabs of our lives for money.
Before the industrial revolution there was an organic economy based on land, labour and local exchange.
The weavers of the north of England were largely one-person home businesses. Apart from producing woven goods, often with the involvement of his family, the weaver also had a small self-sufficient family vegetable garden. Because of the quality and the demand for his manufactured goods, he was always assured that everything he produced would be sold at a constant price. He and his family had abundance, stability and unrestrained social interaction.
Technology allowed the manufacture of goods, although inferior in quality, independent of nature, of geography and season and weather, of sun or wind or water or human and animal power. It produced an economy based upon fuel, factory and foreign trade. Humans became a minor consideration in the manufacture of goods and were now serving the machine.
It was this uncontrolled empowerment of the machine in human society that the Luddites fought against.
The people who formed the Luddite movement were mainly weavers or similar craftsmen. They had the most to loose. They fought for and lost their idyllic cottage industry lifestyle of stability and self-reliance. The very lifestyle that a lot of us yearn for today.
The combined power of weaving machines, the steam engine, the laws of enclosure that enabled industrialists to fence off farming land and build factories, put an end to the weavers way of life. Whereas before the factories, agreed customary prices and therefore income were stable, the new technology brought with it a free market economy, which drove prices and wages down along with the quality of the product.
Life for the displaced farmers and weavers forced into the urban factories had become grim. Working for long hours in dangerous conditions with no days off for very low pay, men, women and children spent their lives either working or sleeping. Several families would have to share one house to save on rent. Humans had become a disposable adjunct to the machine. This is what the Luddites and those before them were against.
History is written by the victors, who were obviously not the Luddites, which is how the word has come to be used to mean a stupid person who doesn’t understand and is opposed to advances in technology. They were in fact very perceptive. They could see what was going to happen to humanity.
And they were right. Despite their valiant opposition we now have a collective mindset that says we must have a JOB and go to WORK for some one else. It is now taken for granted that production and technological progress is more important than being human.
There was a brief time, with the advent of computers, that we all entertained the idea that computers would handle the more mundane tasks of modern life such that the working week would be reduced to three or four days, maybe less. It’s what the Luddites would have supported. Didn’t happen. The increased capacity that computers gave us was simply used to produce more not improve humanity. The amount of time many office workers spend away from home at a JOB has actually increased.
Interestingly a totally unplanned result of computer technology has given some people a chance to recreate the weaver’s lifestyle. I’m referring to the internet. There are those that have replaced the loom with the computer and yarn with broadband. They have offices in their homes where they can interact with their families, live in a country environment and grow vegetables and keep chickens should they choose. As for products they range from selling information to buying and selling on e-bay, trading in stocks and shares to advertising.
Thanks to appropriate technology, we have the opportunity to conduct business whilst packing the kids off to school, planting the spinach, feeding the chickens and maybe an afternoon delight between Google-ads.
Used this way the computer can give us more free time and at last live up to it’s promise.
It’s not much but I’m sure that the mythical Nedd Ludd would approve.
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I had a South African girlfriend once. Not a girlfriend in the way that she was the total focus of my attention in the traditional courting sense. But, never the less, she’s etched ever gentle on my mind. Her name was Reg. Short for Regina. No! Really. Well if you had a name like that, wouldn’t you want to change it?. Stunning girl. She wasn’t really classically beautiful or pretty. She was more statuesque in the Greek sense and she had the most enormous breasts with inverted nipples. Never seen any thing like it since. The nipples became non inverted when she was aroused. How do I know? Come on! it was the sixties! Sex, drugs and rock and roll. Personally I never bothered with the drugs, unless you include alcohol, in which case I did quite a bit of bothering. As for sex, in those days the contraceptive pill was newly available and there was no such thing as HIV aids, so the worst that could happen was some form of STD that could be treated. Make love not war was the motto. Halcyon days! Or quite often daze. Rock and roll, well although of course I was definitely into music of the time, Hendrix, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Rolling Stones etc., my favourite music was New Orleans Jazz of the traditional variety from the 20s and 30s. On a Friday night my friends and I would journey to a pub called “The Fox & Hounds” in a village outside of my home town of Brighton. We’d drink cider and dance all night long. The dance was called a skip jive. It was like a rock and roll jive except that you skipped at the same time. It was very energetic and I could do it without pause. Mind you I was only nineteen.
Anyway back to Reg.
It was a most unusual and somewhat casual relationship, mainly because she was so incredibly intelligent, far beyond my comprehension. I think she must have regarded me as some sort of ‘toy boy’, although we were the same age.
At the time I had a sports car. It was a Triumph TR3A. It was magnificent. It was British racing green. It was the last of the true old fashioned sports cars with a big souped up tractor engine and a driver’s seat almost over the back wheels. At 70 mph the engine was only doing 3,000 rpm. You could drop the clutch at the traffic lights without touching the accelerator and it would pull away. It was ….. groovy.
I remember taking Reg driving on windy English country roads impressing her with my masculine driving expertise and knowledge. “See that line of telegraph poles” I said, “although I can’t see where the road is I know that it will follow the telegraph poles so I can drive accordingly”. The line of telegraph poles went straight ahead over the brow of the hill. The road, on the other hand, went sharp left and took a completely different route. She said “I’m suitably impressed”. I stated the absolutely flaming obvious. “You can see right through me, can’t you?” A reply was superfluous. Still, she loved going driving because back in South Africa she also had a Triumph TR3A. We talked of philosophy, of sports cars and esoteric concepts and her anger of the lop sided news from South Africa where no one ever heard of the brave white politicians who put themselves in the firing line everyday to oppose apartheid. She was learned, eloquent, an artist and like so many geniuses she was schizophrenic.
I didn’t realise it initially. Then, one night when I met her at a party, she was wild she was ebullient, she was electric and she invited to sleep with her. What was a young hippy to do? I was groovy with shoulder length hair, a beard, wearing platform shoes, flare trousers and a really cool leather jacket. I had just finished playing a set of Bob Dylan and Buddy Holly songs on my guitar. I was hot. So naturally I said “You and me babe”, and relaxed into the night.
She screamed out “Thank you God!” when she came and when we awoke in the morning said to me, “What are you doing here?” Very confusing for a simple young lad.
Anyway, for some reason, she latched onto me in a casual sort of a way, or at least I suppose one of her did. She would come and stay with me sometimes and likened herself to the protagonist in the Chris Christofersson song ‘Forever Gentle On My Mind’.
One day after she had stashed her sleeping bag behind my couch for the night she announced she was going back home to South Africa. Seems that a psychiatrist was trying to tell her she was schizophrenic. There was an awkward pause. Do I say “No of course not, they must have it all wrong”. Or do I tell the truth as I experienced it. It was difficult. I opted for the truth and related the story of the time I woke up in her bed and she didn’t remember inviting me. Well she wouldn’t, she wasn’t the same person I met the night before.
She left shortly after that, full of love and appreciation and I never heard from her again. I often wonder what happened to her. I think of her whenever South Africa is mentioned and whenever I hear “Forever Gentle On My Mind”.
I don’t think she was taking the pill. Maybe I’ve got family in South Africa.
It was a morning that heart attacks are made of.
Bitterly cold with rain that could be best described as a miserable heavy drizzle. The sun had not yet made it over the horizon to brighten up the top of the rain cloud blanket.
The figures at the bus stops were barely discernible. Grey shapes with umbrellas against grey houses and pavements, limply illuminated by sickly yellow sodium streetlights. And it was Monday. The first day of the working week.
The bus driver was a different story. Relentlessly eccentric, laughing at a world that takes itself far too seriously. He had decorated his bus with stuffed toys of all colourful varieties, a lioness, a gorilla in a RAP outfit, a clown fish, a puppy dog in a fireman’s hat.
In a plastic ice cream container taped to his change counter he offered free lollies for his passengers and wore on his head a hat in the shape of a pink pig. The dismally damp Monday morning commuters could not help but smile when confronted with this theatre of the absurd. Folding their soggy umbrellas they fumble with frozen fingers to find money or season tickets.
As I watched the shadowy grinding traffic and listened to the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac, it struck me. Why on earth am I doing this to myself? Why is anyone doing this to themselves?
The truth is that we have gotten used to this way of life over the centuries, ever since the Luddites failed to stop the inexorable march of the industrial revolution. The factory or office and technology became more important than human beings or quality of life. It was this that the Luddites were actually opposed to. Technology that enslaved humanity rather than adding to what it was to be human.
So here we are a couple of centuries down the tarmacadam and we now accept as normal the concept of going somewhere away from home and family to exchange time for money in order to survive. A total dependence on some one else’s business and self-interest for survival.
A plague on this 19th century poverty mindset. I needed to take control of my life. Live how I want to live, relying on my own talents and initiative. Stop traveling on buses on dark wet Monday mornings.
I’m not quite sure how it came about, but I found myself in the possession of Stone Evans’s E-book “Dotcomology”. And there was the answer. As plain as could be. Start Internet marketing.
The book taught me about making an attractive website, gave me some ideas about what business to run on the internet, showed me how to use search engines, taught me about email marketing, affiliate programs, joint ventures, viral marketing, adsense and even how to manage life when you work from home.
The Internet is, in effect, the next revolution. Most interestingly it enables those who are willing to embrace it, a chance to return to the idyllic days of a pre-industrial revolution lifestyle, but with broadband and enjoy a modern day version of self employed bliss.
And what an enviable way of life it was back then. Picture this, (please go to iTunes download and play”Morning” from the Peer Gynt Suite), a cottage in the bucolic English countryside. Butterflies flit from colourful flower to colourful flower whilst the birds sing sweetly in the lush green trees by the babbling brook.
Inside the cottage the weaver is contently finishing his latest creation destined for the markets of Europe and because the price of his goods never changes, he knows how much he will be paid. His wife and children are happily helping him in his tasks.
Pausing to refresh himself from his labours, he wanders out into the garden to check on the progress of the spinach, pulls a few weeds out of the potato patch and throws the chickens some food left over from the family lunch. At no time is he separated from home and family and he never gets on a Monday morning bus!
Today, thanks to appropriate technology, we have the opportunity to conduct business at home whilst packing the kids off to school, planting the spinach, feeding the chickens and maybe indulging in an afternoon delight between google-ads.
The computer has replaced the weaver’s loom, the Internet has replaced the traveling merchants, software has replaced the yarn, but I bet you we have the same aspirations for peace, joy and happiness as our ancestors. But probably not pink pig hats! They didn’t need them.
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