A fragile past

The book of Daniel says that the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar was, for a while, driven away from his people. He ate grass, his hair grew like feathers and his nails like a bird’s claws. What it doesn’t mention is that, during his madness, he stumbled across a space-time wormhole and was transported to 21st century London.

I found him crawling along the Kilburn High Road one rain-drenched Saturday evening. I clothed, cleaned and fed him; even found someone from the university to teach him to read and write. But he never thanked me – not once. He just spent all his time in the local library pouring over books on modern warfare. And then when I woke this morning he had disappeared – I suppose he must have found his way home again. I have to say I’m relieved to see the back of him.

But I’m left with this feeling that everything has changed overnight. I’m sure that Babylon was just an archaeological site and not the huge metropolis that it is today. And I’m sure that Britain was once a nation – and not this collection of religious factions, still reeling from its recent invasion by the Iraqi and Palestinian superpowers.