Ian McMillan: Waiting for God only knows what is to come

Two tramps hang around waiting for a bloke called Godot who never turns up. A couple of other people called Pozzo and Lucky arrive and then go again, and at the end of each of the two acts, a young lad walks on stage to tell the tramps that Godot won't be coming today but he'll surely come tomorrow.

I like the play because waiting is a big part of everyone's life and the joy of Waiting for Godot is that the tramps amuse themselves as they wait, which is what all of us do before the bus comes or the hot date turns up.

And it seems to me that we're all, particularly in the North, in a bleak little play at the moment, and the play is called "Waiting for Cuts".

Several people have pointed out that we're in a kind of phoney war at the moment as we wait for the public spending cuts to happen; life is going on more or less as normal and we think that maybe things won't be that bad and that maybe it'll all be over by Christmas.

We're like those people who are sitting having a picnic on a sunny beach as a black cloud approaches over the horizon. It might throw it down later but at the moment the sky is blue and the sandwiches taste fine. It's a bit like my "Not Late Yet!" philosophy when I'm stuck on a train or a bus or in a traffic jam.

I glance at the time and it's 10 to 10. I'm due at the meeting at half past 10 and there's no way I'm going to get there until at least 11 o'clock but it's only 10 to 10 so I'm (all together now!) Not Late Yet! So, although the cuts are approaching we can all sing from the same sheet: No Cuts Yet!

My personal view on The Cuts is that we don't need 'em. A fairer tax system would mean that the poor wouldn't have to pay for the problems caused by the rich, but I realise that's an unusual view, putting me on a par with people who think that the earth is flat and that if only we could harness the power of moths' wings we could solve the world's energy problems at a stroke.

People keep telling me not to be so daft and that the argument for the cuts has been made, so they're going to come, I guess, whether I agree with them or not; just like that black cloud will eventually drop precipitation on my vol-au-vents.

So, as I travel around the region, I wonder how things will change over the next few years. Like lots of my readers, I remember the 1980s when parts of Yorkshire were left to rot, when the wholesale closure of heavy industry led to despair, depression, and the endless walking of skinny dogs past the closed down pit on the way to the closed down factory; I remember libraries and leisure centres closing their doors and my children having to share textbooks at school.

I remember the sense that I lived in a forgotten place, a place that felt far from the centre of things, far from the places where decisions were made.

Yorkshire survived, of course, because we're resilient, because this area was one of the crucibles of the industrial revolution and because of that it's full of brains and strength and ingenuity. For a while we may have been fooled into thinking that a brand-new apartment and a smart caf selling cappuccino meant that somehow our economic health

was good, but of course, as we now know, that wasn't true.

So now we wait. And as I wait, I try to imagine the social and

cultural landscape a few years hence, but it's difficult because although some things will change profoundly a lot of things will stay

the same.

The sun will still rise and set. The sea at Cleethorpes will still seem a long way away. The view from Ilkley Moor will still be just as spectacular. One of my ears will still be slightly higher up than the other, causing my Fabio Capello-style glasses to slope across the face in a comedy style.

As for the rest, who knows? What kind of Yorkshire will my grandson Thomas grow up in? Will he still be able to go to the library? Or the leisure centre? Will there still be a late-night train for him to come home on? Will he have to share textbooks and computers? Will he, above all, have a job that pays a living wage?

Nobody knows. Waiting For Cuts, in a theatre near you now. Until the theatre closes, of course.