The Annual Transportation of Wood

Very late with this posting, but this sort of thing happens when you go off to the Emp's estate on a Haliburton lake. A fine group gathered to aid in the transportation of firewood from the mainland to the island, an annual and much looked forward annual event. All present contributed in various ways -- I commemorate the event in poetry -- and the job was done.

The group is an eclectic one. Bohdan, the manager of my sugar beet holdings, was there, and was looking well even if his job was a constant struggle against various and sundry bureaucratic attacks against my plantation launched by that fuckwit Viktor Yanukovych. (I refuse to talk to him until he releases Yuliya Tymoshenko from prison. Asshole). Also attending was Sir Peter Crapp, who indicated that his boss (and mine), Sir Harry of MI6, was trying to get in touch with me about a (very quiet) deal I had made with Bibi Netanyahu involving a number of Syrian farmers who had fled to Israel and, at my suggestion, assumed the identity of displaced American tourists. I will tell Sir Harry that when a thing is working well, it's best not to fix it.

Also attending was the Earl of Murphy, whose geographic knowledge of the world is considerable. Indeed, his nickname is 'World'. A later arrival was my Chief Financial Officer, WDM, who ensures that the financial gains from both the late Lord Strunsky's estate and the sugar beet enterprise do not go amiss. And they don't, although he does comment that my donations to the atheistic nuns, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain, are a bit of a drag on profits. I counter with the fact that the money is well spent, particularly in the number of women rescued from domestic abuse, and certainly those from Muslim or Hindu homes that are fundamentalist in nature. Which may account for the large number of fatwas against yours truly, but if you walk in the woods, you must feed mosquitoes.

So the logs all found a home on the island, and the mission was completed. The Emp was pleased, and all were glad. His hospitality was a wonderment, with superb food, fine wine, and sparkling conversation. Also, the Emp's ability to find chinks in one's psychological armour (he is very good at this) was much less evident, a kinder, gentler approach if you will. Not completely, mind you; one always had to be on guard for an unexpected verbal jab or poke. But this is part of the Emp's charm.

A culmination of sorts was an impressive bonfire in the fire pit, something dear to the heart of WDM. Yes, he is a brilliant financier, but underneath that exterior lurks a pyromaniac. (I hasten to add that the fire danger in the area was low). I acted as supervisor, an acknowledgement of my delicate and fragile condition,* and scanned the skies seeking out any water bombers from the Ministry of Natural Resources that might suddenly appear.

The only lacuna in the whole thing was a somewhat unaccountable lack of reference to the fair sex. I mean, all are getting on, but still.....As Marvell put it in his poem, 'To His Coy Mistress', "The grave's a fine and private place / But none I think do there embrace."

Too true, and it is a very good thing the Compte de Rienvelle is shortly expected at the Manor. Can't happen soon enough.

All for now.

*This is rubbish. It was not that long ago when Simone had a wee tussle with an Al Qaeda operative on the north face of the Eiger. Later, the body was found in a deep crevasse. This was initially thought to be a mountain climbing accident until the bullet hole in the forehead came into view, setting off an Interpol investigation in three Alpine countries, and gave Sir Harry a severe headache.. Delicate and fragile? As I said, rubbish. --Ed.