THERE WAS A TIME WHEN WE MADE THINGS. Big, important things like ships and cars. We stopped because it got us all dirty.
I don't blame us. We'd come home covered in oil and grime and have to spend the evening in the hip bath in front of the fire while the youngest of 11 scrubbed us with a wire brush.
So we got foreign people to come and do our dirty work. Then, one day, the foreigners woke up and thought: "Hang on, why am I going all the way to Middlesbrough to make this stuff, when I can do it right here in Garudjistan? I must be bloody mad!"
That was the end of manufacturing in Britain. In response, we have become a Service Economy. You wouldn't think it would work. Imagine a big house inhabited entirely by butlers:
"Good evening, sir. Shall I mix your usual cocktail?"
"Yes, thank you, sir. Meanwhile, you will find that I have taken the liberty of laying out your grey Cardin suit in the dressing room."
But it seems that if the money goes round fast enough, it doesn't need to come from anywhere. It's Pass-The-Parcel Economics - it's only if the music stops that you're buggered.
The diving industry has had to adapt. The equipment is mostly made in sunny countries by people of short stature and life expectancy.
Allowing for inflation (so to speak) the big items cost roughly what they did when I first bought them, 80 years ago. This would appear to make the whole business unviable. So it would be, were it not for a lucrative service infrastructure.
Three months ago, I bought a pair of wetsuit bootees. They were made by six-year-olds in Garudjistan and cost me £3.79. It may not sound like a lot, but in Garudjistan you can feed a family of 20 for that, and still have change left to go to the pictures.
The dive-shop proprietor was happy, too, because yesterday I had to take the bootees back for their first service. "How long will you need them?" I wanted to know.
"Ooh, depends on what we find. Depends if we have the parts in."
"Parts?"
"I mean, obviously, with the zips, we'll do the silicon greasin'. But if we find any track distortion..."
"What?"
"Sometimes you get a marginal misalignment of the zipper spicules, caused by excessive torsion in the lower heel architecture. Clearly we can't just leave it."
"Why not?"
"Health an' safety, mate. We could lose our licence."
"So what happens if there's, you know, track... thingy?"
"Which boot is it? The XP 650. Tch. You see, the thing is, they've discontinued the 650. We'd have to send off to Garudjistan."
"And how long's that likely to take?"
"Normally, about a minute and a half. At the moment, 11 weeks."
"What? Why?"
"Their e-mail's down, so we have to communicate by postcard. They tend to slip out of the cleft sticks and fall in the river."
"OK, OK. So how much are we talking?"
Much scribbling. "If there's no track distortion... fifty quid."
"And if there is?"
"Three hundred. Four, to be on the safe side."
"Fine. Let's go ahead, then."
"Certainly, sir. Glad to be of service."