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So after nine months of dynamic socialism, Mr.Micawber is
left stranded on the sands of Scilly, waiting for
something to turn up. The Prime Minister has had his
chances. An election in March certainly or even in Juni,
fought against Sir Alec Douglas-Home, could have put him
hack with a majority hy enough to sweat through a score
of Warbeys or Pagets for four or five years. Now Labour
ministers are trying to sound realistic as they talk of
no election before the spring of 1967» All Mr Wilson can
do is hopes that he still has friend in Washington, if
precious few on the Continent^ that the City will stop
talking sterling down^ that the foreigners will stop
reading minsters' speeches that declare the squeeze is
really no squeeze;; that the British electors will grow to
like the hairshirt (which will be pretty uncomfortable by
mid-February)5 and that Mrs Micawber will not get the
death wish.
Either way, the Tories now look in much better shape to
take over. They at least, must be hoping that in a month
or two's time, as the beaches thin out, Mr.Wilson will
remember some other words of Mrs Micawbers
My family are of opinion that Mr Micawber should quit
London, and exert his talents in the country.
Verduiveld, mevrouw, vraagt u de oude Joe niet om te
komen?" „Wie is die schelm?" lispelde Cleopatra. Maar een
tik van Flowers op haar hoedje scheen haar geheugen op te
frissen en zij voegde erbijs 0, u bedoelt uzelfondeugende
man!
