The Honourable Prime Minister Dr Keith Rowley was heard yet again talking down at the rest of the population particularly “…the most comfortable of public servants…” who “could find nothing to do...
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Is my city dying?
My eyes were red and swollen so that I viewed the world through a painful watery glaze. Imps wearing sandpaper shoes tap danced at the back of my throat. And I could not stop sneezing—violent, head-throbbing explosions that caused my brain to rattle around inside my head.
As the traffic crawled into the city of despair, I searched for the outline of the once-proud towers under the heavy grey blanket. From the distance, only fragments of buildings stuck out, so that the streetscape looked like it belonged in one of those sci-fi doomsday movies, after the bad thing happened.
Was this my city? The jaunty, quirky, madcap place where you could buy designer clothing off the pavement right next to the doubles vendor and the chubby lady with the crates of oranges and portugals?
What was once the prettiest town in the Caribbean, the mademoiselle of the 19th century, is now place to swear at, under one’s breath, because you have to trudge to work there every morning.
“Get me out of here!’’ my brain screams.