In her last column of 2019 Suzanne Harrington dares to dream ...
IT’S the last column before 2020. Rather than reflect on the shitshow that was 2019, I invite you instead to imagine how you’d like the coming year to look. Think beyond, dream big, stretch wide. Do a John Lennon. It’s easy if you try. (Sorry John, though writing “imagine no possessions” when you had a separate apartment in the Dakota building just for your possessions would be regarded as a bit suspect these days.)
Anyway. Whether your dream is still a fantasy because people are too brainwashed to make it happen (the peaceful overthrow of the current free market bloodbath with something nicer) or something which may actually eventually happen (a large retailer finding it in their hearts to finish installing my kitchen, a mere eight months after receiving full payment), hope begins in the imagination. It’s where our optimism is seeded. Where progress sparks to life.
Look at Greta. A solitary kid sitting outside a government building with a homemade sign — except now she draws the jealous rage of Washington DC’s very own Jabba the Hutt, because she has gained so much power.
I wonder if I made a sign and sat outside the kitchen shop, would that work?
In 2020, I dream not only of actual tiles on the bare plaster of my kitchen walls, but Greta and her generation rising up to make life more awkward for the sociopaths ruling the world. Let 2020 be the year of Gen Z rage.
The year of action, of kickback against power-mad populists and their deadly greed. The year Extinction Rebellion expands its base outwards from the middle classes to everyone who would prefer their kids not to end up eating each other after the last rodent has been roasted over a sputtering fire up the last unflooded hillside.
Ideally, our survival instinct would have kicked in before actual cannibalism does, but then again I had equally hoped that the British electorate would have the basic wit to realise that the source of their woes was not the EU, but their own austerity-enforcing overlords. And look what happened there.
Oh dear, and this was meant to be about dreams, aspirations, hope and optimism. How easy it is to trip and tumble into the pit of doom. I hope then that 2020 is the year of the charity shop and the death of fast fashion, the year of vegan mainstreaming, the year of conscious consuming. The year we stop worrying about money and worry more about our habitat.
The year we find a way of cryogenically preserving David Attenborough so that he is with us always, like the hologram of Obi Wan in Star Wars. The year we realise — too damn late — that Jeremy Corbyn really was a Jedi.
And the year that my kitchen gets finished without me having to picket the company.
Happy 2020, you lovely people.