A Tale Of Two Trees

Consider the Norway maple (Acer platanoides). This is a tree that deserves to be in a special education program big time. The shallow and fibrous roots go everywhere, strangle everything, and eventually girdle the tree itself, effectively choking itself to death. The Mayor, naturally, urges planting them all over Toronto.

All this surged into my consciousness when Ahmed, who likes to fix things around the Manor when he spots trouble, noticed yesterday that no water was reaching the main house. He quickly switched to our Artesian well , then went to explore just what was going on. Two hours later, he had the answer.

"It's that tree down by the road, My Lady," he said. "The one you don't like. The roots have pierced the water pipe that leads to the house."

"Well, Ahmed, just arrange for someone to cut it down. It's an eyesore anyway."

"Er, ...it may not be that simple."

"Nonsense," I replied. "The estate three lots down the road just cut one down, in almost the same location near to the road. I remember mentally applauding -- it is a very silly tree."

"Well, said Ahmed, "they got permission to bring it down."

"So get the necessary permission."

And there was the rub. Apparently there are in this tax-ridden city a group of tree police, (a.k.a. Urban Forestry staff) who refused permission, indicating that the tree was healthy and a significant and valuable part of the urban forest. An arborist whom I consulted said this was rubbish, the tree was actually dangerous, and should come down immediately. But she was a knowledgeable arborist, and hence unlikely to be part of the mayor's Urban Forestry staff. At that point I turned to my Councillor for help.

This man, whom I will call Peter X, was a decent, hard-working individual, who made it a point to respond quickly to concerns of constituents. There was, however, one big, black mark against him -- he was not part of the Mayor's inner circle of Council cronies, and he stated to me that while he would do his best, my chances were slim.

"But Peter," I argued, "The property three lots away just took down a tree in similar position."

"Simone, that property is in a different Ward, and that particular Councillor is part of the Executive Council"

"You mean the Mayor's Star Chamber."

"Oh, that's good. Henry VII would approve." (I told you he was decent and hard working. I should have mentioned that he was educated as well). "There is one Councillor, Joe X, that has, if you'll pardon the phrase, 'tree power'. Indeed, around Council he is known as The Italian Tree Emperor. Now if you could get him to agree --"

"He's Italian?" An idea was beginning to form. "Peter, say no more. I'll take it from there."

My next call was to an old enemy, but an enemy who owed me one. It was time to call in the marker. After some back and fill with various associates, I got him on the line.

"Pronto."

"Don Guido. Lady Simone Strunsky here."

There was a moment's silence, then came recognition. "Ah, Simone, how goes the saying? Ah, yes, 'Our eyes have met, our thighs not yet.'" Oh, c'mon, give him credit -- the guy was pushing eighty.

"My thighs are just fine, grazie. But I do need a small favour."

"And why should I do you a favour? After wrecking that nice little earner I was involved with in Bosnia. Really, bella."

"That was because you were supporting the trafficking of women. Which, I'm glad to say, I note that you've quit. Now, I ask you to remember a certain warehouse in Palermo."

There was a longer silence this time. What I hoped he was remembering was a very nasty bomb that had been planted by the Italian Red Brigade in said warehouse, a warehouse right next to a factory wherein most of the money extorted by the Sicilian Mafia was kept for later and careful disbursement. I, along with some British colleagues, had been instrumental in defusing that bomb, not, to be sure, to save the factory next door, but to save the city. Half of Palermo would have been blown to bits.

I was also hoping that he recalled the dozen roses he had sent to my London flat, along with a profuse thank you and the terse phrase, 'I owe you one.'

Finally, Don Guido spoke. "Si, I am a bit in your debt. What is the situation?

I explained, and was informed that 'he would make a few calls', to see what could be done. He also stressed that all debts were now repaid, to which I agreed. Too much dancing with the devil is dangerous. The devil won't change, but you will.

Two days later, a permit to cut down the tree arrived by Fed Ex, and shortly after that a city crew took down the tree, while at the same time a second city crew made short work of repairing my water pipe. Such service!

It was Irving (he can find out about most anything) who peeled the onion on this one, and I learned the following. Apparently, Joe X had initially resisted Don Guido's suggestion that I be awarded a permit. This attitude changed rapidly when he woke the next morning to find he was sleeping next to the bloody head of a chipmunk.

Satisfied that the whole barking mad incident was over, but feeling a twinge of guilt about the chipmunk, I wrote a hefty cheque to the S.P.C.A.

Free Speech and Film: The Repast

So. Daughter and Irving had gone off to this crazy film shoot. I had decided not to attend, for three good reasons:

1) I had no wish to see Victoria suspended by the ankles. Not the sort of things mothers' delight in.

2) A film shoot is boring, and takes forever, what with gaffers and gofers all over the place, and all afflicted with importance.

3) I had some homework to do. Apparently I am being sued by the City Council for what I did to a tree on my property, and I wanted to get my ducks in order before contacting my lawyers, the prestigious firm of Lambaste, Lambaste and McScroo. More about that in my next report.

From my terrace at the Manor, morning croissants and coffee finished, I saw that my driver Ahmed had brought the limo back. I went to greet the passengers, Irving and my daughter, who, I was glad to note, was still in one piece.

"How did it all go?" I asked Irving.

"It was great," said Victoria.

"Very well indeed," said Irving. "I arranged the ropes in a certain way -- "

"I don't want to know."

"But Mum," said Victoria excitedly, "the crew even gave me a little award. See?"

She handed me a little golden statuette of a girl suspended upside-down, with an inscription that read 'Best damsel in distress. Ever.' "Isn't that cute?" she crowed.

"Oh, just wonderful." I had much rather she had shown similar excitement when she had been awarded a Certificate of Merit for her work at Stanford that shed new light on the 1631 Siege of Magdeburg during the Thirty Years War. Come to think of it, that event was remarked at the time as one of staggering brutality in an age where brutality was all too commonplace. I am going to have to watch my youngest daughter a bit more carefully.

"Now, Vicky, lunch. And then off to your panel discussion." This I would attend, and, indeed, was looking forward to it. Victoria would be flanked by a biologist, a bishop and a physicist. Should be an interesting discussion.

Alas, it was not to be.

Ahmed dropped us off near the Convocation Hall at the University, and as we made our way towards the building, we were confronted with all manner of people shouting and waving big signs about. What the hell?

"Vicky," I said, "just what topic is this panel discussion addressing?"

Victoria was also a bit puzzled at the noisy throng. "Nothing dramatic, really. It's a statement by H.L. Mencken, you know, the writer --"

"I know who H.L. Mencken is."

"Yeah, well it's his statement. It's now in my memory: "Every time the scientists take another fort from the theologians and the politicians, there is genuine human progress."

Ah, I thought. I looked more closely at the screaming protesters. Sure enough, representatives of almost every major religion were present: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and one really tough looking group called 'Truckers for Christ'. Only Buddhists seemed to have stayed away, exhibiting their usual good sense. Then Victoria's cell phone went off. She listened for a moment, then said "But it's a university. This is where free speech is everything...really...oh, that's too bad...no, I don't really understand." With that she clamped her phone shut, and turned to me, fury in her eyes.

"The panel discussion has been cancelled, she snapped. "Apparently some Human Rights Tribunal sees this as a hate crime or something, and threatened the University that they would be charged. Really and truly, Mum. This is ridiculous. This would never happen at Stanford."

This, of course, was nonsense.

"Vicky, just imagine that by some freak of circumstance Rush Limbaugh, Dick Cheney and, oh, Ann Coulter were scheduled to address the Stanford student body on the topic, 'Democrats are Dense and Dumb.' You think the students would give them a fair hearing?"

Victoria was silent for a moment, then said in a small voice, "Well, one could hope."

"One could, which is why Hope came last out of Pandora's Box. So let us hope. In the meantime, I have a question. Does your cell phone take pictures?

"Yes. It films a bit too."

"Excellent. Then document a bit of this demonstration, then post it on You Tube. Use a suitable heading such as, 'University Defends Free Speech. NOT!' Or something like that."

This she did, and a suitable amount of hell was raised. Doing our bit, if you will, in what really is a fallen universe.

Free Speech and Film: Setting The Table

This may take a bit longer than usual, and hence the two part approach, but a lot has happened since I last wrote. It all began with the arrival in Toronto of my youngest daughter, Victoria, the history major who supplements her income by portraying dead bodies for TV shows. Apparently she had written a paper stemming from her studies on the Thirty Years War. The paper stressed that scientific advance surged during that period, and this fact did a great deal to undercut the religious basis of that little dust up. (This theme was partly explored in Brecht's Mother Courage, but I digress.) In any event, Victoria had been invited to serve on a panel at the University of Toronto exploring the issue.

This suited Victoria, for she had also been approached to appear briefly in a Canadian TV show entitled Flashpoint, and thereby could fly from Los Angeles on the sponsoring network's dime. This made sense. Universities, I have found, are very free with invitations to give papers and presentations, but much much less free with providing expenses to make that happen. (Unless the speaker is Bill Clinton, but that's another matter entirely.)

Learning of her imminent arrival, I watched an episode of the show, and came away impressed. The theme focusses on the work of a police tactical squad, and, amazingly, sticks to its knitting; that is, no long sidebars into personal relationships, thereby avoiding the crippling slide into soap opera that so often afflicts many other TV offerings.

She stayed at the Manor, of course, and there I learned how the two things had come about. The history thing was fairly straightforward. Her paper had been accepted in an academic journal whose title escapes me, and had come to the attention of the professor at the University who was organizing the panel discussion. At the same time Victoria had received an invitation to act as a stunt person in a rather delicate segment of the show. Further questioning on such an unlikely request coming out of the blue unearthed the information that my son Sebastian had been involved, he of the New York dress shop.

"You see," said Victoria, "after that crazy arrest on the hemp charge, his business went through the roof. A whole slew of actors and producers, or at least their wives or partners, flocked to the shop, and, well, way led on to way. as someone once put it."

"Robert Frost."

"Yeah, that's the sort of thing you would know."

"More than just know, Vicky. Your grandfather, the third Lord Strunsky, got drunk with Frost in Oxford one night, but that's neither here nor there. Now what's the connection between Sebastian's dresses and your appearing in a Canadian TV show?"

Long story short, Victoria explained that Sebastian had mentioned to one of the wives, whose husband produced a variety of action TV shows, that his sister was becoming quite adept at playing victims. Sebastian was proud of her, had saved some clips, and after some complicated back and fill, the request was made. She then went on to hint that she had extended her repertoire somewhat.

"What do you mean, 'extended your repertoire somewhat'?"

"Well, I'm quite good at writhing and screaming. It's sort of fun, really, but sometimes the ropes can be a bit painful. Which is why a number of professional actresses ask for a stand-in."

"Good God, just what are you being asked to do?"

"I've seen the script. I'm bound and gagged, and suspended by the ankles for about a half-hour. Then I'm rescued by the tactical squad. Bit of a change, really. Normally I'm not rescued at all."

"It's a Canadian show -- we're kinder up here. But a half-hour is about twenty minutes too long. Your circulation would go haywire, and you would lose consciousness. And maybe not get it back." I knew this because I had been in a similar position when I was younger and not really adept in The Trade. Fortunately, it being a joint operation with Mossad, Irving, Uzi blazing, had shot himself into the Syrian warehouse where I was being held and got to me just as I was blacking out. Then Irving became my butler, but that's a story for another day.

I regarded my daughter. "Vicky, this is dangerous stuff. How to breathe is critical."

"Oh, Mum, it will be a snap."

I was baffled, and wondered why three of my children were drawn to danger. Mark, the skier, Isolde, who is sniffing around The Trade, and now this. Thank God for Sebastian, who is quite content with A-lines, and whose greatest worry was the next showing of Dolce and Gabbana. Well, needs must, and I rang for Irving, explained the situation, and, after some protestation, Victoria agreed to head for the gym and some training exercises that would serve her well.

Before they left, I said I hoped that the TV suits were paying her well.

Oh, yes," she said. "I'm getting $10,000 dollars. I'm covering expenses for the University thingy, and then donating the rest to charity."

"What charity?"

"Victoria replied, "The Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain. You would approve."

"And why would that be?"

"They are atheistic nuns, who run a woman's shelter. The Matron, Sister Cecilia, explained that while all the nuns well knew organized religion was hogwash, it did give great comfort to many of the women they cared for. That, Sister Cecilia said, was what was important. Her thinking also influenced my Thirty Years War paper, so you see, this trip sort of ties itself together."

Then Victoria trotted off with Irving, and I was left to ponder. I will, however, report as soon as time permits on what happened, or, in one instance, what didn't. One thing for sure, though. I must meet this Sister Cecilia. Sounds like my kind of woman.

A Bump in the Road

Yes, this missive is a wee bit late, but bear with me.

I am now back in the Manor in Toronto, after putting my daughter Isolde back on the straight and narrow. Or so one hopes. I had stopped off in Ottawa briefly, to give the good Stephen Harper a pat on the back for not attending that insane human rights conference in Switzerland, led by those paragons of personal liberty, Iran, Libya, Saudi Arabia and a host of African countries where any notion of liberty was really licence -- in this case, licence to loot the country and give the proceeds to selected cronies and backers. I had a good word for Ignatieff as well, commending him for similar action. I think he used the phrase "an assemblage of clowns", although there really is nothing funny about the robbery, rape and murder sanctioned by these staunch defenders of human rights. It really is a fallen universe.

Now for something completely different. I had constructed a shooting range in the basement of the Manor, in order to keep my skill up to speed, given my occasional assignments where that skill is required.

An aside: Apparently word of this activity had somehow reached the Mayor, who was appalled, and he and select members of his Star Chamber began to proceed to enforce a gun ban. Now I hasten to mention that all my weapons are registered, and registered to a far greater authority than Canada's silly gun registry, aimed primarily at farmers and gun club members. The guns that should be banned, of course, are revolvers and assault rifles. These are the weapons of choice favoured by criminals, but amazingly these stalwarts do not exactly flock to the registration bureau. In any event, a colleague in CSIS, code name Barry, and last seen on a rooftop in Washington, had a word in the Mayor's tinted ear, and his desire to continue with the exercise came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

But back to the shooting range. I had aimed my Erma rifle at a target some distance away, the target being the profile of that illiterate leader of the Taliban, the awful Mullah Omar. (On some glorious day, In'shallah, I will have the bugger actually in my sights). I fired several times, then checked for accuracy. Uh oh. In each case my shot was a quarter inch from where it should have been, smack in Omar's forehead.

I rang for my ex-Mossad butler, Irving, and repeated the exercise, having with Irving carefully checked rifle bore, scope optics and calibration. Same result.

"Could be your eyes, Simone," said Irving.

"Nonsense. I can see you perfectly. And the target."

"Wouldn't hurt to check."

Now one of the perks of being in The Trade (God knows there are not many) is access to first rate health care. This is not done out of compassion or a keen sense of social obligation, but rather has to do with keeping your assets in fighting trim. So a medical appointment was made, and shortly after that, the results were in. Incipient cataracts.

Cataracts! Things that happen in your seventies, not your mid-forties. Still, could have been worse, and the road stretches a good distance yet, although the novelist Phillip Roth's words suddenly came to mind: "Old age isn't a battle, it's a massacre."

A day and an operation later both eyes were dealt with, and for the next little while, things were somewhat blurry. Hence is was simply not possible to write. Things are, however, back to normal now, and the bullets went exactly where I wanted them to. Now I must fly. The Compte de Rienville is in town, and coming for dinner. And it has been way, way too long since we -- well, never mind about that.

Isolde -- Part II

Having learned of Isolde's involvement in things that she shouldn't be involved in (why couldn't she just stick to the violin?) I decided to have it out with her. I had to cross the ocean anyway, to expand the Strunsky sugar beet enterprise. BP wanted to double the beet intake for its eco-fuel enterprise -- stimulus money from one G. Brown -- and this necessitated a trip to Lviv in Ukraine. There the proposal to expand was well received (Ukraine always has fiscal problems) and I was also happy to make a not insignificant contribution to that rather funky opera house located in Lviv's central square. One must always support the arts.

Then from there it was on to London, to solidify the sugar beet thingy. I had arranged for the wayward Isolde to meet me there as well. All this meant using the Strunsky Lear jet, and fortunately the pilot I use on such occasions, Hank Grimsby, was available. Hank was a former member of the US Air Force, and used to fly F 16's hither and yon in Iraq. At least he did until he realized he was in the wrong war, and when the time came to re-up, he didn't. After that, it was simply a matter of making him an offer he couldn't refuse. (Hank is not only a crack pilot, but has other qualities as well. But I digress.)

Irving accompanied me, since these trips are always a bit dicey -- those fatwas again -- but not being on an assignment, I wasn't expecting trouble. However, I was glad to reach my flat in Knightsbridge, where I got together with a serious martini. A shower, a good sleep, and I was ready the next morning to face Isolde.

We met at The Grill, Dorchester, where they do wonderful things to Cornish scallops. Then, both sated, certain cards were put on the table.

"Who approached you," I began, "with this courier thing?"

"That's classified," she said.

"Isolde, honey, my own classification level is that of the Home Secretary's. One phone call will reveal all, but I would rather hear it from you. And I'll make a wild guess. Smidge was involved."
Isolde was silent for a minute as she absorbed this, and then the story came out. "Smidge" was my nephew, Stephen, and was very much involved in The Trade. Lord Stunsky had recruited him early on, when his talent for foreign language mastery had emerged, along with a love of secrets and, more importantly, the ability to keep them. He was not, unfortunately, that effective at the sharp end of things (my particular forte) but it takes all kinds. Smidge had indeed approached Isolde, saying the courier thing just a "one-off", and would not recur again. The enterprise had gone so well that Isolde, all excited and agog, said she was willing to do it again, depending on her concert schedule. Smidge, perhaps fearing my wrath, (as well he might)said Isolde's little courier adventure was truly a one-off, and would not recur. Good for Smidge.

Isolde, however, had been bitten by something she saw as exotic and exciting, and at a reception for the orchestra in the Mozart Conzerthall had somehow overheard the information about the Stinger missiles -- she thought it was a planned attack of killer bees -- and passed the information on to Smidge. This, of course, had led me and colleagues to retrieve the missiles from Africa, as earlier described.

"Well, all this stops now," I firmly stated.

"But I helped," she said plaintively.

I took her hand. "Note, Isolde, you still have your fingers. You need them to play. Keep this activity up with Smidge and you will lose your fingers. and other parts of your body. Very painfully. You are not trained for this type of work. It's not your talent, and it will detract from the marvellous talent you do have. You see my point?"

She nodded glumly.

"Still got the Strad?" I enquired, wishing to change the subject.

"Under lock and key in the Staatoper," she replied. "Don't worry. It's safe."

"It better be," I replied. The obtaining of the Stradivarius had taken some ingenuity. An Italian businessman with whom I had done business had called me in a panic. Apparently his daughter, a fanatic birdwatcher, had wandered too close to the North Korean border and had been snatched. He wanted her back, and I obliged. This was not overly difficult. I knew that The Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, had a certain passion, and from an earlier foray into that benighted country had procured a videotape of that passion. It showed Kim happily playing with his Barbie dolls, When I mentioned to his handlers via a Chinese colleague that this would look great on the Internet, given Barbie's 50th anniversary, well, things moved rather quickly. The daughter was returned post haste, and her Italian father, in gratitude, parted with one of three Strads he had acquired.

Occasionally things work out rather well.

Isolde -- Part 1

Yes, a bit late with this missive, but I have been rather busy. It all started, as it usually does, with a phone call on my secure line. Only one word, "Ernestine". That was enough to get in touch with my employers, and to know that somewhere a wheel had come off. Turns out that fifty Stinger missiles had somehow fallen into the hands of the Lord's Resistance Army, based in one of Uganda, Sudan or the Democratic (Hah!) Republic of Congo. You never knew for certain -- national boundaries in that area leave a lot to be desired. The leader of this ghastly outfit was that paragon of Christian charity, Joseph Kony, he who delights in kidnapping young boys, arming them with AK 47's, and then telling them to kill their parents. (Don't even ask what happens to the young girls.)

I and colleagues had tangled with this outfit before, but this time was a bit different. Apparently, Kony was in the process of transporting the Stingers to Somalia, where they would be sold to the Islamic pirate enterprise they have going there. Isn't ecumenism wonderful! But the difference was the source of the intelligence.

My eldest daughter, Isolde.

This came as a total surprise. The last time I had talked to her, she was safely ensconced in a small pension in Vienna, along with her current girlfriend, an oboist named Magda something or other. Isolde, you see, is on the other side of the street (so to speak). No Tristan for her. She is also a first rate violinist, and had landed in the first violin section of the Vienna Philharmonic. She was excited about this, and was eager to inform me that Riccardo Muti had agreed to take both Isolde and Magda on as his pupils. "Just think, Mum," she blurted, "I'll be working under Muti!"

With Isolde and Muti, the "under" would be metaphorical rather than literal. Yet I was happy for her. She is in my opinion some distance from becoming a Perlman or a Bell or a Midori, but she is on her way. And now, my employers tell me, she is also in what I refer to as The Trade.

Isolde, you see, travels a lot, whether with the Philharmonic itself, or participating in concert performances, international competitions, or what have you. My employers (bastards) saw this as an opportunity, and I have since learned that she has become an expert in drop-offs, as well as becoming an ace courier. Who would question a striking blonde carting a (rather special) violin case, in company with a host of other musicians?

I didn't have time to raise the matter with her, given the exigency of the mission, but I certainly did when I arrived back. And yes, the Stingers were recovered, Kony's "army" was somewhat depleted, and we also managed to grab a cool $100,000 American in the process. My colleagues and I quickly decided to make a donation to Medicins Sans Frontieres, who were working in the area. The harassed young doctor was grateful, and the money would be used for a greater purpose than anything dreamed up by government.

As for my conversation with my daughter, that will have to wait for next time. Right now a rather tricky debriefing is scheduled. I love Isolde dearly, but occasionally I am grateful that there is an ocean between us. As Quentin Crisp once put it:"The continued propinquity of another human being cramps the style after a time unless that person is someone you think you love. Then the burden becomes intolerable at once."

Bonus Bashing

Before she flew off to London for the G20 bun fest, Michelle Obama, recently added to my secure cell phone, gave me a call. Michelle was worried about the anger surfacing in America about the number of obscene bonuses being paid to all those who had got their enterprises into trouble in the first place. Most worrisome of all was the fact that some of this anger was being directed towards her husband.

"Of course," I replied.

"Of course?" she yelped. "But he had nothing to do with it!"

"Well, he was in the Senate, and could have urged greater oversight, but that's neither here nor there. The whole thing is Oedipal, you see."

"No, I don't see."

"Well, think of Sophocles Oedipus Rex. The King, Oedipus, is doing what?"

Now Michelle, unlike several million of her countrymen, has had an education, and she began to parse it out. She recalled the plague hammering Oedipus' city of Thebes, Oedipus' frantic attempts to find the cause, and then coming to the realization that he himself was the cause. (Inadvertently married his mother, you see, but that's an issue for another day). The point that she grasped was the assumption of responsibility for actions taken, something only a person who is all grown up can do. For non-grown ups, all thought becomes focussed on who to blame. Hence the howls of outrage directed at bankers, financiers and insurance company executives, (who admittedly are greedy bastards) but not at themselves (for letting the lure of a sub-prime mortgage or a totally unrealistic return on a dubious investment outweigh good sense. Step forward Bernie Madoff).

"But, Simone, what can Barack do, then?"

"In the short term, wait it out. In the long term, the answer lies in education, and I think he realizes that."

"Lord, it isn't easy, is it?" and I caught a quaver in her voice.

"No it isn't. But as Piet Hein put it in a well-thought out Grook, 'Problems worthy of attack / Prove their worth by hitting back.' Now enough of this. Your wardrobe all ready?"

There followed a longish discussion on pencil skirts, colours (yellow and green suit her) and proper behaviour when meeting The Queen. I also advised her to stay away from the Dolce and Gabbana, Dior, Givenchy and the like when trooping around Strasbourg with the love of Sarkozy's life, Carla Bruni. "After all, Michelle, the woman is a professional clothes horse -- sometimes the best way to win the game is not to play at all. But stay away from pant suits; don't want to be mistaken for Hillary."

"In other words, Simone, 'Be humble, Uriah, and you'll get on.'"

"Right. And have a Dickens of a time."

Plumping For Paranoia

I did not escape entirely unscathed from my fine dinner with Warren Buffett. I, along with my chauffeur Ahmed, had returned him to his hotel. At the entrance, the paparazzi thronged; apparently Britney was giving a concert at a hockey arena, a not entirely inappropriate venue for La Spears, and they were awaiting her return. Ahmed and I managed a quick escape, but Warren was recognized, and immediately besieged with questions. Not on finance, mind you, but on just who was the lady he had been with. (They had glimpsed me briefly in the back of the limousine). He replied as he made his way through the crush, "Oh, that was the Sibyl of Cumae."

Oh, good on you, I thought, as he let me know in a later telephone call, and both of us wondered just how the tabloid media would handle that little bit of classical information. We were not long in finding out.

A week later, my butler Irving brought one of the tabloids to my attention. The headline screamed "Daring Buffett Dines with Reclusive Soap Heiress!" What on earth?

I read further. Apparently the reporter, lacking a sound education, thought Sibyl of Cumae was someone with the surname Camay, "the soap of beautiful women" (if memory serves). A long, long way from a Greek oracle at Cumae, near Naples. I could only recall Cicero: "O tempora! O mores!"

But yes, I am frightened by the paparazzi, or indeed any unwanted publicity, something I share with the English Royals. It's too bad all this happens in the current age. In an earlier time, paparazzi would have found themselves in the Tower, where the perpetrators could have been properly re-educated. One way or the other.

But why this fear? Well, if you were the subject of four fatwas, all asking for a beheading, you might be a little antsy too. Not that I couldn't cope with these louts on an even playing field (such as a dark alley) but there really is no defence other than obscurity against the long gun. A trained sniper on a rooftop presents problems with which I'd rather not contend. So the less publicity, the better.

Yet one must continue to act, to take chances, if you will, and I keep in my mind the following. There is a mountain located on the Trans-Canada Highway between Calgary and Banff, called The Three Sisters. Legend has it that a Blackfoot chief placed each of his daughters on a separate peak to keep them away from unworthy suitors. The strategy succeeded so well that the three daughters died up there.

Hell, even old Wotan gave Brunnhilde a better chance than that.

Risky Business

Said goodbye to Tilly Hatt, having arranged a flight for her from Toronto to Denver, from where she could return to Washington. The broken arm could then be from a skiing accident at Vail, rather than an unwanted outcome from that craziness in Saudi Arabia. The escapade did not escape entirely unnoticed -- Al Jazeera featured a photograph of the head of a woman that looked remarkably like Andrea Dworkin, along with furious comments by the Saudi Religious Police. Such is life in the Ninth Century.

At this point Warren Buffett called. He was in Toronto on business, and wanted a meeting. He suggested one or two places, but too often celebrities dined there, and this meant the paparazzi as well, something not conducive to my health. I suggested dinner at a somewhat out of the way place, known by those who appreciate good food, but not known otherwise -- Noce at Queen and Walnut.

I had chosen to wear one of my son's hemp outfits -- a beige sheath. The only bow to current fashion was a cool leather belt by Versace, which complemented things nicely.

"You look smashing" he said, as he ushered me into my seat. "Dolce and Gabbana?"

"No, Sebastian's of New York." and over Manhattans I related the nonsense of the hemp charge, and the subsequent outcome.

Buffett laughed. "I must have a word with Bloomberg about this."

"You will do no such thing," I replied. "Michael wants that episode kept very quiet. But you might have your researchers do some due diligence on hemp's market potential. My son is doing very well, and the thing is politically correct as hell. Ah, here's the minestrone."

We attended to our soup, but shortly after, Buffett asked, "How did you escape?"

For a minute I thought he was referring to the Sudan and old Al Bashir, but he couldn't possibly have known about that little adventure. "Escape from what?" I asked.

"This financial fiasco. Sub-primes. Madoff. Collateralized debt options. The whole shooting match. Dropped a significant amount myself. You, my sources tell me , did not lose a penny."

"First things first. Take Bernie Madoff and his Ponzi scheme. I avoided that like the plague. Why on earth would you invest in a fund run by a man with the surname Madoff? As to the other issues, I simply read the VaR correctly."

"You know about VaR?"

"Value at Risk. Really, Warren." I shot him a withering glance.

"Sorry. Of course you do. Ah, but here's our wine. I must say, I didn't expect a cellar this good. Lafitte Rothschild indeed."

"You'd be surprised what you can find in this town." I tried a sip. Magnificent. "Now as to VaR--"

"I'm all ears," he said. "Hell, Nobel prizes were awarded for that algorithm. But it didn't alert the risk factors soon enough."

"It was soon enough for Goldman Sachs, after the Long Term Capital Management screw-up. That's when they began to draw in their horns. So did I. But they didn't go far enough, nor did anyone else. Because --"

"Because?" He was giving me total attention now.

"Because the time frame it measured was too short. VaR generally relied on a two year data history. This worked for a while, and everyone made a lot of money. It was 98% accurate -- AIG thought 99% -- and that was considered adequate risk. And it is, under those terms. But the time span was roughly 1997 to the present. If, on the other hand, you begin in 1900, then the risk factor doesn't begin to whimper at a 1% or 5% level, it begins to shriek at about a 25% level. In other words, time to jump ship, realizing that you've hit those dreaded initials, T.B.D."

"To be determined?"

"No. THERE BE DRAGONS. Now let's talk about sugar beets."

A Bit Over The Top

Back from the Big Apple and the hemp wars, along with two nice skirt and blouse ensembles and leaving one relieved son. Some relaxation was in order, and I was happily ensconced in a bubble bath, re-reading Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, when Irving poked his head in.

"There's been a spot of trouble."

"Well, deal with it." I was at an interesting part of the novel.

"It's Miss Hatt," Irving continued, ignoring me completely. "She needs a place to stay for a few days. To recover from Saudi Arabia."

Now my curiosity was piqued. "She told me she was going to the West Indies for a vacation. What the hell was she doing in The Kingdom?"

"That Miss Hatt can tell you herself. She's downstairs in the kitchen. She,... er... needed some patching up. And a shower. But I did get the bullet out."

"Oh bloody hell," I said, rising, I hoped, like some Venus from the foam. Irving handed me a large towel, oblivious to any of my charms, such as they were. We have known each other for a long time. "Right. let's see just what kind of mess Tilly Hatt has gotten herself into this time."

A few minutes later, in jeans and T shirt, (the one that reads "My England Includes Calais") I headed for the kitchen. There I beheld a rather bedraggled Matilda Hatt, pride of the CIA, clutching a formidable Laphroaig in one hand. The other was bandaged up to the arm. Irving had also taken some liberties with my wardrobe, to wit, a pair of shorts and my German T shirt, the one that reads "Der Tage ende; Johhny Walker Kommt."

I seized the bottle, and poured myself a good dollop. Nothing like drinking an peat-ridden anchor to bring perspective on things.

"Well?" I said, seating myself opposite her. "This was your vacation? In Saudi Arabia?"

"It was something I wanted to do," she replied, a tinge of defiance in her voice. "I thought it would be a great idea to do a little information dissemination."

"Information dissemination."

"Yes," she replied, pushing a strand of blond hair away from her eye. "I brought some samples back. Look in that knapsack in the corner.

I did so, and withdrew several texts, all the same. In Arabic.

"Simone, you read and speak Arabic, don't you?"

"Well, I'm not Ibn Khuldun, but let me see -- Good God! You were swanning around The Kingdom distributing these? You're bloody lucky you've still got your head on."

The text I held was entitled Life and Death. By Andrea Dworkin. Andrea Dworkin! The ultimate, no holds barred feminist. Irving once told me that any man reading this would feel he was eating barbed wire. A Saudi male would go ballistic.

"Why on earth --"

"Actually," Tilly said, "there's no place better on earth to do this. And I got a lot of the texts out. It's amazing what you can do in a full body naqib. Bloody invisible, you are."

"But then it all went south."

"Yeah. And so did I. In a hurry. To Yemen. Hooked up with one of the clans that we've done some business with in the past. But then we ran across another clan that we didn't do business with, and there was a wee tussle. That's where I picked up this." She pointed to her bandaged arm. "Couldn't really attend to it there, and things moved very fast after that. Long story short, I need to hang out for a few days.

"And Langley?"

"As far as they're concerned, I'm still in the West Indies."

Well, Tilly, mi casa su casa. But you really have to stop all this Don Quixote stuff, even if you're doing it on your own time. Let's keep things sane. I mean it."

"I know you do, but Simone, since you brought up Quixote, there's something else that's worth remembering."

"What's that?"

"It was, as I recall, Cervantes who wrote, "Too much sanity may be madness, and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be."

And I found myself schooled.

A Bite of the Big Apple

So there I was, off to New York to settle this ridiculous hemp charge. Headed right for Fifth Avenue and 59th, and my suite at the Plaza. I had earlier called Sebastian, and told him on no account was he to discuss the marijuana charge with the press. At least not yet -- this was fruit that had yet to be picked.

My next move was to get in touch with the Mayor, Michael Bloomberg. Michael had been an earlier investor in my sugar beet enterprise, and his firm had done well. It was, therefore, not that difficult to get through the various officials, terribly afflicted with office, by simply stating, "Just tell him, 'sugar beets'".

I outlined what had occurred, the confusion between clothing made from hemp, and its relationship to marijuana (non-existent to all intents and purposes). I could literally hear him blanch, for he immediately saw the problem: the media would have a field day with the story, with New York becoming a global laughing stock.

"Now not to worry, Michael," I said. "I will make it all go away. But I do need to know the name of the Assistant District Attorney who would be prosecuting the case, and your assistance in arranging a meeting as soon as possible. And forget notifying the District Attorney, whoever that might be. He or she wouldn't know a damn thing about the matter, and would get all hot and bothered trying to figure out how this would play in terms of electoral prospects."

Michael agreed wholeheartedly, and an hour later I had a name and an appointment for 10:00 am the next day. I then caught a cab and spent some time at Sebastian's store, where I made a few purchases; he really does have a sense of style. After that, a fine dinner at the Plaza Room, and then, as old Sam Pepys liked to write, "and so to bed."

Next morning Sebastian and I were ushered in to the office of one Hedy Catskill, the A.D.A. in charge of the case. Pleasant looking face, but the glasses didn't help, nor did her hair, tightly back in a bun. Her pant suit was all wrong -- she didn't have the height -- and she really should stay away from that outfit. Probably an undue influence from Hillary. The woman looked harassed, and had to fumble through a series of files before retrieving the hemp issue.

"Yes," she began. "A serious charge. Trafficking. Serious that."

"Trafficking what?" I asked.

"A restricted drug. Marijuana, to be exact."

"Rubbish." I stood up, approached her desk. I was wearing a black pencil skirt and magenta blouse. "Here, Hedy," I said, holding the hem of the skirt. "Feel."

For a moment I thought the woman, wide-eyed, was going to flee, but a tentative hand stretched out.

"That's hemp," I said. "My blouse is made of the same material. That's what is being sold. Clothing, not a narcotic. Now can you imagine what the media might do with this story? Just visualize the headline -- A.D.A. HOT FOR HEMP! Or how about this -- NUMB SKULL NARCS! Or --"

"All right! All right! Just give me a minute to find out how this whole thing started."

Hedy flipped through the file, and then looked up, a peculiar expression on her face. "Well, the N.Y.P.D. were following up on a complaint. It seems that a group had a strong disliking for drugs being used as clothing."

Sebastian spoke up at this point. "What group could possibly object? I mean really, my dear."

Hedy replied, "Er...it says here, 'Clothing For Christ.'

A short silence ensued after this, the usual reaction when the bizarre occurs.

"So perhaps," I suggested, "this whole thing could be dismissed. You might consider writing to this group explaining the difference between a drug and a dress. Sebastian and I of course will say nothing. Particularly to the media. No point in embarrassing you, or the D.A. Or, for that matter, Mayor Bloomberg. You agree?"

She nodded silently. Then she looked up and said, "What you're wearing. Must have cost a fortune."

Sebastian said, "Skirt, $45.00. Blouse, $33.00." He looked at her closely. "You know, we have some really cool A-lines and jumpers in now. Would suit you perfectly. $40.00, two for $60.00. Here's my card. You're welcome anytime."

"I...I might just take you up on that. And yes, this will be dismissed. Nonsense, all of it."

"Hedy," I said, you will go far."

So that was that. Occasionally, government gets it right, and gives the lie to that frightening saying, "Hi. I'm from the government, and I'm here to help you." But as my good friend Bill Maher once stated, that frightening saying has now been replaced with a far more fearsome one: "Hi. I'm Sarah Palin, and by golly, I have access to the launch codes."

See you soon.

Designer Drugs

After my last note, admittedly a bit out of control, I was glad to see The Economist is reading my stuff, and referenced the news item that so enraged me. (cf. The Economist, February 21, 2009, p. 6). That ghastly decapitation certainly deserved wider exposure, although I was a bit disappointed that the magazine didn't zero in on the ludicrous second degree murder charge. Still, the focus of The Economist is,...er....economics, and given the current gloom and despair in the financial world, I can understand where its priority lies. Hell, even Warren Buffet is being buffeted these days. (Thought I'd get that in before it appears in The Wall Street Journal.)

But right now I have another worry.

My eldest son (not my younger one, Mark, who careens down snow hills on two sticks) has found himself in a spot of trouble. He is called Sebastian --Lord Strunsky was much enamoured of Waugh's novel Brideshead Revisited -- and is a very successful designer of women's clothes. His emporium in New York is always a hub of activity, mainly because he rather upsets the designer apple cart, and makes clothes that women actually will wear. He also exclusively uses natural fibres -- cotton, wool, linen -- and this apparently makes him a mini-hero to the ecological sensitive. Apparently, however, he went too far, and began putting out dresses, pants and skirts made of hemp.

These outfits were enormously successful, but then the whole thing went south. A frantic phone call from Sebastian brought me into the picture.

A woman had purchased several hemp jumpers. Then, and this is where things went off the rails, the silly thing proceeded to cut them to pieces, roll up the fibres, and sell them as marijuana. She was arrested about a week later, something that doesn't surprise. Hemp fibre is not the psychoactive drug cannabis, something she could have learned in Grade Ten biology if she had actually gone to Grade Ten. (Do they even teach biology these days in America?) So we are dealing with a person here who is not particularly swift, but canny enough to say that she purchased her supplies at Aloysius' store, Real Clothing For Women. Bitch.

Aly had been arrested and charged in turn, with drug trafficking. He had no trouble posting bail, but was clueless when it came to how he was going to answer the charge, and was worried about the possible sentence -- ten years at Rikers.

I made a phone call to a first rate criminal lawyer in New York that I had once saved in a white water rapids incident, and who owed me one. He leapt at the case -- this was drug enforcement gone mad -- and assured me that all would be OK. I was not so sure. Americans have this insane War On Drugs, and strange things can happen. So I am off to New York, and will let you know how all this turns out.

A Matter of Degree

I was at my desk in the conservatory, absorbed in an article on nematodes, when my handyman Ahmed came in, his face a mask of sadness. This was odd -- his coming nuptials with the fair Consuela should have argued for a different mien -- and I wondered what had occurred.

He handed me a newspaper clipping, an AP snippet from some place called Orchard Park in New York state, and said simply, "I am ashamed of my religion. This is behaviour not sanctioned by the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, nor can it be found in the Holy Qu'ran. Perhaps, my Lady, you could give it a wider audience." Without explaining more, he left.

What was this all about?

I read the article, and had two reactions.

Shock, and rage.

First, the shock. Apparently a TV show managed by Aasiya Hassan and her husband Muzzammil, termed "Bridges", had as its purpose the showing of a more moderate Islam. It dealt with the more lunatic aspects of Shariah law -- amputating hands for theft, stoning women (never men) to death for adultery, the non-education of girls, and the practice of "honour killings." Well good on them, I thought.

But I speak too soon. Apparently what the Hassans dealt with in the abstract level became something quite different at the personal level. From what I could gather the marriage was in trouble, and Aasiya was seeking a divorce. This was a bridge too far for Muzzammil, and seizing a ceremonial sword, he hacked her head off. Can't be "dishonoured" you see. Reading this part, I fondly wished that I could have faced this guy with some good Damascus steel in my own hand.

Now the rage.

A few phone calls to certain people in New York state jurisprudence resulted in the following information. Hassan, having done the deed, phoned the police with some pride, and was shortly thereafter arrested. The Erie County District Attorney, one Frank Sedita, called the crime "the worst form of domestic violence", and charged Muzzammil with second degree murder.

SECOND DEGREE MURDER?

What on earth would it have taken to lay a charge of first degree murder? Subjecting the woman to hanging, drawing, and quartering? I mean really. The act fulfilled both aspects of the mens rea, actus reus standards (planning plus intent) and was hardly done in the passion of the moment, the criteria for murder in the second degree. Dickens' Mr. Bumble surely had it right: "The law is a ass!"

What further enrages is the extremely sparse coverage given to the act. Maybe he should have thrown a shoe at her -- that behaviour appears to get tons of coverage. Good on The Toronto Sun for allowing columnist Peter Worthington to address the whole sordid tale in his column of February 20th, and good on Bill Maher for also leaping into the fray on his HBO show, also on February 2oth. But so little for so much.

A final comment. It is sad when lunatics take over a system of thought -- all right, a religion -- that is embedded in compassion and redemption, and turns that system into something so perverse that even the Marquis de Sade would raise his dandruffy head. I was raised an Catholic, but now I am very far from being a paragon of Christian womanhood. Made the mistake of being pro choice, you see, and Holy Mother Church has cast me out, and in an earlier age would have done much worse. Of course, if men gave birth, abortion would be a sacrament.

But I am in danger of digressing from the major thrust of this note -- the lack of media attention to a truly heinous act, and an idiotic criminal charge. To lean on Dickens again, "Bah. Humbug!"

Intriguing Nuptials

Back from Los Angeles, and it was good to be back at the Manor and to get at some correspondence that had been left hanging. I needed to check something, so headed for the Manor library. There I discovered some missing texts. I was in the process of writing a brief epistle to an author who had, in my opinion, completely misconstrued a point William James had made in his work, Varieties of Religious Experience. I wanted to be certain of my facts, but where the book should have been, well, it wasn't. I wondered who among my staff was suddenly interested in James, and his rather unique world-view.

Turned out it was Ahmed, my handyman. This was odd, for I had him pegged as an fairly strict Muslim. I discovered the missing text while searching in Ahmed's workroom for some industrial Vaseline (don't ask -- you really don't want to know). While there, I also spotted my copy of John Locke's Essay on Human Understanding. What was going on? These are not books that are high in the Muslim canon; indeed, I doubt that they appear at all. A little conversation with Ahmed was in order.

I found Ahmed doing something obscure to the John Deere tractor snow/plow that my gardener, Consuela, so loved to drive. Indeed, Consuela was hovering near his elbow, anxiety in her face.

"There," said Ahmed. "Just a loose clamp."

"Nothing more serious?" inquired Consuela. "It really felt -- oh, my Lady."

"Just wanted a word with Ahmed, Connie."

Ahmed put down a small wrench he was holding, and said "Well, my Lady, we sort of wanted a word with you." He reached for Consuela's hand, grasped it tightly. "I have proposed, and this beautiful one has accepted."

Hah! I thought. Ahmed's reading material was beginning to make sense. And indeed this was so, for I was informed of the following.

The two were in love -- not being deaf and blind, I had noticed this before -- but their religious backgrounds were severely at odds with each other. Ahmed took his Islam seriously, as did Consuela her Catholicism. How had they surmounted these barriers?

It had been Ahmed who had thought long and hard about this (as well as Consuela's undoubted charms) and had done some research. He had reached the conclusion, aided and abetted by James and Locke, among others, that yes, there was one God, and that the major theme behind that God was compassion and redemption, and that God should have no business in the grubby and all too human running of the state, or dress codes, or dietary edicts, or violence masquerading as religious fervour. Consuela had no problem with this interpretation, artfully quoting the Bible: "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God, the things that are God's".

Well, well well.

They asked, and received, my blessing, and I offered them the small guest house adjacent to the tennis court. It needed some fixing up, but those two were more than capable of undertaking the task. As for the actual ceremony, they had asked several imams or priests to preside, and had been turned down flat. I stressed that they were asking a lot of these gentlemen (no women, note) and that if I have learned one thing thoroughly, it is that emotions and ideas follow beliefs, not the other way round. Purveyors of religion work hard to keep their beliefs tightly boxed, lest these beliefs get corrupted by the pervasive nature of human experience.

It was my butler, Irving, who suggested that a friend of his (from his Mossad days) could perform the ritual. This friend had studied to be a rabbi, but got caught in a nasty situation in the Gaza Strip, after which he had quit his studies, come to Canada, and was now a Justice of the Peace.

Perfect. I wished them both happiness, and turned my mind to arranging a small reception at the Manor.

Later, I pondered all this, particularly religious thought that appears to separate rather than bring together. And there is Nietzsche: "Two thousand years! And no new God!"

Selah.

Feminine Wins and Losses

A rather busy little week. I had just returned from Davos, Switzerland, where I had been invited to give an address to the great and the good of the financial world, when I got a call from a reporter friend in Los Angeles. Apparently my youngest daughter, Victoria, was involved in some very odd extra-curricular activities that had nothing to do with her studies in history at Stanford University. It had been some time since I had been in my beach house overlooking the sea, and given the insane weather that is Canada in winter, decided to fly down unannounced and find out what all the fuss was all about.

On the flight down, I reflected on my talk in Davos (grungy little town) and how it had been received. I had entitled my address "The Feminine and Finance". The major thrust zeroed in on the fact -- and it is a fact -- that few women are to be found among the great "Masters of the Financial Universe", the very clowns that had, through greed and the creation of financial instruments that no one understood had caused the global fiscal mess we are currently in. Women, I stressed, are inherently more cautious, and would never have succumbed to the toxic stew of collateralized debt options, dodgy derivatives and stupid swaps that have almost destroyed the world's banks. Women may have been more susceptible to the sub-prime mortgage debacle, for their focus is fixed on the home, but even there, I don't think it would have reached the extremes of obtaining land with no down payment and no credit check whatsoever. Would things have been different if it wasn't Lehman Brothers, but Lehman Brothers and Sisters? I rather think so.

My little speech actually received a smattering of applause when I finished. A minuscule ray of hope piercing the clouds of testosterone gathered at the event? Perhaps.

I had called Victoria earlier, and she said she would meet me at her small apartment near the university. I arrived early, and let myself by employing a very useful tool that doubles as a nail file. The apartment was a mess, with books and papers scattered throughout, most of which dealt with the area of history she was studying -- the Thirty Years War. I was aware of this interest through earlier conversations. Victoria had been quite taken with the originating cause of the war, the defenestration at Prague in 1618. I think she thought the term "defenestration" had sexual overtones, and may have been disappointed to learn that it meant throwing someone out of a window, in this case, two Catholic governors and their scribe. All three landed in a dung heap, great insult was taken, and the war began. What made her continue her study of a highly complex and byzantine event I am at a loss to say -- it's a mystery.

But not the only mystery.

Out of curiosity, I opened one of her closets, and beheld a vast array of skirts, blouses, and dresses that paid homage to the likes of Donna Karan, Dior, Ralph Lauren and God knows who else. I too have such a closet, but I know where the money comes from -- good little sugar beets. Where does Victoria's come from? True, she receives a stipend from me, but no way could it account for this type of expenditure. What was going on? Surely my youngest daughter, who hides her beauty by parading around campus in baggy pants, sweatshirt, and her Sarah Palin-like glasses, couldn't take ownership of such an exotic wardrobe? Was she covering for someone?
As it turned out, she was covering no one but herself. Once she had gotten over the fact that I had broken into her apartment, a situation eased by an excellent dinner at a small establishment near Rodeo Drive, the truth came out. Apparently she was supplementing her income by being dead. Now it is true that Victoria was a great swimmer, and could hold her breath for a goodly three minutes. Well this facility, along with her good looks, made her a very attractive proposition for such shows as CSI, Medium, Bones and others of that ilk, where bodies pop up with regularity, and it doesn't hurt if that body is good-looking. And remembering the items in her closet, I determined that the pay was very good. Very good indeed.

Later, back at her apartment, she proudly showed me pictures of some of her best roles. I was shocked. There was my daughter, mangled, beaten, tortured, suspended -- I had had enough.

"Vicky, what on earth are you doing? What message are you sending to viewers.? That women are objects to be savaged, then cast aside? Good God, there is enough violence against women already, without this sort of encouragement."

"Well," she replied, "the money is so generous that aside from buying the clothes that you saw, clothes that I need when dying or whatever, the rest goes to four rape crisis shelters in Los Angeles. I think of the whole thing as relaying money from one dubious source to others that do very good work, and desperately need the funds."

I have to think about that, although I still have strong doubts about the way she is supplementing her income. Perhaps The Talmud is right (it usually is): "Do not attempt to understand your children. They were born in a different time."

Funding Priorities

Word has apparently seeped out that my finances are in remarkable condition. This is true -- it was not rocket science to see that keeping large dollops of cash on hand as the banks went to rat shit would be a Good Thing. Really and truly. I mean, I always thought it was the bank's job to lend us money, not the reverse. And this financial hell will, I think, last for some time. Indeed, reading The Economist these days like reading The Tibetan Book of the Dead.


So I was not entirely surprised when Mark, my firstborn son, called asking for some help. Not for himself, mind you (Mark and the rest of my children have been well schooled in the principles of Emersonian self-reliance) but for his Olympic ski team. Mark is not the best of the group, and only finished 23rd at Kitzbuhl, but even getting down that particular precipice in one piece is a bit of a feat. At least he's not attempting the north face of the Eiger.


Anyway, I was glad to help out, and fired off $100, 000. Trouble was, word of this leaked out, and the next thing you know Jaques Rogge was on the phone, stating that a significant donation would greatly assist upcoming Olympic Games in Vancouver and London. I said I was not averse to helping out, but would insist that any Strunskian donations be directed towards specific sports.


You see, I have taken to heart the Olympic motto: Citius. Altius. Fortius. (For those not versed in the Imperial Tongue, this means fastest, highest and strongest). Hence, supporting the likes of skiing, hockey, swimming, racing and the like is fine. Way more dubious is putting money towards such "sports" as synchronized swimming, a goodly portion of gymnastics and that paragon of objectivity, figure skating. Thus fastest, highest and strongest work. No Olympic personage has stepped forward to state that "prettiest" is also in the mix. Allowing this type of sport -- if that term actually applies -- demeans the original triumvirate and opens the door to all manner of unfairness and corruption.


Mr. Rogge argued strongly that judges were there to promote fairness, and I concurred, but it is one thing to start a race on even terms, or to ensure timing devices are used properly; it is quite another to state that this athlete's aesthetics were better than that athlete's.


I'll say this for old Jaques, he stood his ground, rabbiting on about the moral stance of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) and the outstanding probity of its members. This was patently untrue. Too many of grasping freeloaders in my opinion, and I remained adamant that any funds I might forward be directed to actual sports where the motto actually meant something.


Nope, he wanted a blanket donation, and I indicated that while I might be willing to direct funds on a private basis to certain sports, there would be no joy for the IOC itself until that body concentrated solely on athletic sports and stopped fooling around with aesthetic sports. At this point the conversation ended, the dispute unresolved. And I was left with the thought of poor old Pheidippides in 490 BC, running from the Battle of Marathon to Athens with the news that the Greeks had beaten the Persians, and dying on the spot.

At which point several Olympic judges step forward and state, "Oh no. He didn't fall correctly. Next runner!"

Enough, or too much.

Oh, Say Can You See

I thought I would be writing this a bit sooner, but things intervened, not the least of which was the weather. The Russians may be right -- another Ice Age is dawning. Certainly this is occuring in the Northern Hemisphere, and not only is this inconvenient for Al Gore, more importantly, it is inconvenient for me. A power outage brought things to a sudden halt at the Manor, and my generator also chose this moment to break down. Fortunately, I have an engineering degree, and an hour's work and some spot welding put things right. My driver and handyman, Ahmed, was impressed -- his Islamic university obviously had skipped this type of skill. Wonder what the Imams and Mullahs have against spot welding? Must ask, when the moment is right.

Anyway, when I left you, I was winging my way from Khartoum, and unlike one G. Bush, I could truly say "mission accomplished." I arrived in Washington in time for The Event; that is, the Inauguration of Barack Obama. I had a good vantage point for the parade, on top of the Canadian Embassy, where I had agreed to help out with security.

I was greeted by a colleague from former years, code name Barry, who I think is with the Canadian special forces, or JTF2. I say "I think" -- in the security field, one is never absolutely sure. Barry greeted me warmly.

"Simone! I heard you would be joining us. Been some time since Bogota."

"It has, " I replied. "Be nice to be there now. There's a hell of a wind chill up here." I was snuggled into a thick parka, but going from the Sudan into Arctic weather can be a bit of a shock.

"Got my thingy?"

"Here," he said, tossing me a rifle. "You requested an Erma SR 100, with the Burris Fullfield scope. Good choice, that."

"Right about that. What's the quadrant?"

Yours is forty-five degrees H, one eighty-three V. Those five windows."

"Got it. No discernible activity."

"Let us hope it stays that way." I nestled into a crouching position, trying to get as comfortable as possible. "How long before the limousine shows?"

"About five minutes -- holy shit!"

"What?"

"Look!" said Barry, excitement in his voice, his eyes glued to his own scope. "Zero in on the large window in the quadrant adjacent to yours. Isn't that Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter? "

I swivelled a tad, and aligned my own scope. "By God, Barry, your right."

"You know, Simone, with a couple of fairly easy shots, the radical right would definitely take a turn for the worse. Things would become, well, more peaceful."

"Now Barry," I replied, "that's the whole point. The lunatic fringe, unless they are horsing around with explosives, missiles or whatever, are actually a Good Thing. Wingnuts help keep sanity in focus, and hence makes it easier for sanity to prevail. Besides, I rather like Ann. We only met once, at a reception for Bill Maher, and she can be very witty. Does a good job of making the untenable almost tenable. Carries herself well, too."

"She does that. Now concentrate, there's the limousine."

Everything after that went smoothly, and later at a small reception in the Embassy, I reflected a bit on the coming new era. (Attending public balls was out of the question -- in my trade, any publicity was simply courting disaster. I have it on good authority that I am Number One on the Taliban's hit list, Al Qaeda doesn't love me either, and at least two Mafia dons have very expensive contracts out. Such is life.) So I reflected, and while I certainly wished Barack Obama well (and was gratified to have a number for Michelle's Blackberry) I felt a twinge of regret at the departure of George Bush. I certainly won't miss his overweening confidence, his total lack of self-awareness, or his succumbing to advice given by those creeps Rumsfeld, Rove and Cheney. What a litany of useless deaths of young American men and women, to say nothing of the thousands of Iraqis that died. No, that aspect of the Bush Presidency I won't miss at all. What I will miss are those wonderful, Zen-like phrases he trotted out from time to time. Here are three of my favourites:

"The vast majority of imports come from outside the country."

"I have made good judgements in the past. I have made good judgements in the future."

"We are ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur."

As the Mastercard commercial goes, "Priceless."

A Dalliance in Darfur

It is good to be back home after a rather hectic week. Readers of my last piece will know that I had received an assignment, one that involved extracting some over-eager missionaries who had been abducted by the Janjaweed while in Darfur. I was not keen on this endeavour -- missionaries of any ilk are bothersome, the "my stone is mightier and prettier than your stone" syndrome, and I wish they'd just grow up and leave us to our own devices. Or in my case, vices.

In that one of the abducted was a niece of an American Senator (Republican, goes without saying) I was pressured by my colleague in these matters, Matilda "Tilly" Hatt of the CIA. The fee was also substantial, so off we went.

Now in any operation of this kind, one depends on certain assets, both technological and human. Thus there are certain things blocked out in this particular missive; to do otherwise puts a number of people at severe risk, most importantly of all, me. Apologies.

Now to begin. Tilly, with the help of an overhead AWAC and a ******* had located the place where the captives were being held. The place, a large tent, was heavily guarded, and while Tilly knew that it would be child's play to blast the entire area into smithereens using the new ******* missile, this would not be really beneficial to the health of the missionaries. The Janjaweed had to be encouraged to leave. This is where I came into it.

I had gone to Khartoum, and with the assistance of ****** and ******* had been vetted as a "sexual relief person" (my Arabic is no hell) to the ruler of Sudan, Omer Al-Bashir. Thus it was that I was admitted, clad in a chador, to the great man himself. I removed the chador, and saw his eyes light up. Good, I thought. I had thought long and hard about just what to wear to entice, and had selected my best alligator boots (up yours, PETA) my suede miniskirt and the tightest cashmere sweater I owned.

"Come here, " Al-Bashir ordered, and I complied. Once face to face, I swiftly reached under my skirt, withdrew a small plastic syringe containing ******* that had been overlooked in the pre-visitation search, and jabbed it into his neck. He fell back onto his desk, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

"Now then, Omer," I stated in English, with which I knew he was familiar, "this is what will happen if you do not do exactly what I say. You will notice, for instance , that you have lost all feeling in your toes and feet. In five minutes your entire body will be in the same condition, completely paralyzed. And that will last for the rest of your life."

"What do you want?" he whispered.

"One phone call. To those Janjaweed idiots holding the missionaries at ******. And you better make that call soon, or you will have no vocal chords left to do it.

"I don't --"

"Oh stop it. You pay them. Now get with it. Should you be successful, I have an antidote that will bring you back to whatever normalcy you enjoy. And don't even think of calling your guards. By my reckoning, you now have only four minutes left, and if you were going to torture the antidote out of me, well, I've withstood a lot longer than four minutes. Good Lord, man I once had to watch an entire episode of Larry King Live, the one where he was interviewing Paris Hilton. Now do it!"

I guess the drug had begun to enter his upper legs, and I could see the fear in his face. He reached for his phone, and in harsh Arabic issued orders. "There", he said, "they've been released. Now --"

Now we wait," I said. "And you hope."

Another minute passed, and then a voice rang in the receiver planted in my ear.

"It's OK, Simone," said Tilly. "The ungodly have cleared out, and there the captives were, all neatly bound and gagged in a row. We're now off the ground, and headed out. We owe you."

"Yes you do, but we'll settle up later. See you soon."

I broke the connection, and turned to Al-Bashir.

"Right. And Omer, think twice before you encourage the Janjaweed again. Dealing with the deranged always presents problems. Now hold still."

I reached into my mouth, uncapped a tooth, and withdrew a small pill. It was comprised of ****** and I was told its effect would be surprising. I popped it into the man's mouth, and within twenty seconds watched as beatific smile emerged on his face, and he began to gasp with pleasure. Interesting, that.

I put the chador on again, and rapped on the door. A guard opened it, and I said "I think satisfaction has been given."

The guard looked at Al-Bashir, who was in some kind of ecstasy. As he escorted me out, I could see a real look of respect in his eyes. "You'll have to come again," he said.

"Looking forward to it," I replied.

Not on your life brother.

Again assisted by our Khartoum assets, I was soon on a plane out of Sudan, and this quick departure suited me just fine.

I had an inauguration to attend.

Reviewing Accounts

Every time I receive an "assignment", I find it worthwhile to review my financial holdings, and ensure their proper dispersal should things go awry. Well, apparently some missionaries have gone and got themselves kidnapped in Darfur. One of them is a niece of an American senator, and a colleague of mine, Matilda Hatt, called and offered a very lucrative retrieval contract. Tilly knows I have some ability in this area, and yes, she does get comments on her name, Tilly Hatt. Nobody, however, believes this is her real name, something which can be considered a Good Thing, since Tilly is a senior operative in the CIA.

I will report on the mission (to the extent possible under the Official Secrets Act) in a later note, but for now my attention was focussed, not on what the Janjaweed might be up to, but on my accountant and financial advisor, Billy-Joe Barrett. Billy-Joe hails from the Deep South, and has made a fortune in day-trading on the market. He has an instinct for buying low and selling high, and has turned down a host of offers from investment banks. Some years ago Billy-Joe got into some trouble in Tijuana -- one of the drug cartels wanted the specs for certain device that is now safe in the NORAD vaults -- and I assisted in retrieving both the device and Billy-Joe. It was, as I recall, a fairly clean operation. Only six cartel members were killed, something remarkable in its frugality given how some of these Mexican things go. Billy-Joe spurned the offers from the banks, for he is far more interested in his hobby -- robotics. He was also grateful to me, and agreed to supervise my somewhat eclectic holdings.

His robotics enterprise is going well, but it was not always so. There was, for instance, the Quark debacle.

Quark was an invention of Billy-Joe, a humanoid robot that was designed to clean house. When Billy-Joe was satisfied that Quark was ready to be shown to the world, he invited a number of venture capitalists and their wives or "companions" to his house for a demonstration and a party. He indicated to the assemblage that Quark could only work on a pre-arranged room set-up, but once that set-up was encoded in his memory, well, Bob's your uncle. Only two commands were necessary: "Come out," and "Return". Billy-Joe then asked for silence, and in a piercing voice said, "Come out!'

The hall closet opened, and Quark emerged. The robot quickly set to work, and various appendages emerged from his body that enabled dusting, vacuuming, and polishing various surfaces. The guests had all retreated to one side, and watched with admiration as Quark completed his tasks. Billy-Joe then said "Return!" and Quark dutifully returned to the closet.

All were mightily impressed, the party took on a distinctly celebratory tone, and the liquor flowed. Perhaps too much, for one of the guests, in a moment of alcohol-fuelled courage, felt impelled to tell the group that it was time to reveal his true sexuality. "I have," he said in a loud voice, "come out!"

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then all were dashing around trying to avoid Quark, who had heard the command to emerge and was busily cleaning. But the room was now no longer "pre-set" and tables were upset, glasses crashed to the floor, and guests ran about trying to stay out of Quark's way. Billy-Joe was momentarily fascinated, but then came back to reality and shouted "Return!"

This Quark did, but as he entered his closet there was a shriek. Apparently the girlfriend of one of the guests had taken refuge in the closet, and Quark was pushing against her, pinning her to the back. She was attempting to writhe away, but maybe not, for when Billy-Joe said, "Hang on, I'll turn him off," she gasped, Augustine-like, "OK, but not just yet. Ye gods, but this is a wonderful robot!" Her face was flushed, and she appeared extraordinarily happy.

Billy-Joe waited for a minute, then cut Quark's power.

The girl's boyfriend stormed out of the house, muttering something about being shown up by a damn robot.

As for Quark's future, one of the venture capitalist had spotted an opportunity. Quark is now marketed to women, and is proving a huge success. He has been renamed BFF.

Thus a little background on Billy-Joe. He reviewed my accounts, and deemed them all satisfactory save for one thing. "What's this option to buy all about?" he asked.

"That's an option to buy Iceland," I replied, a bit uneasily. "A friend of mine, Hana Andersdottir, is in Iceland's Ministry of Finance, and apparently they really need liquidity. And with global warming, sugar beets might be possible..."my voice trailed off.

"Hmm" said Billy-Joe, and studied the option carefully. Then he looked up. "You see this codicil?"

He showed it to me, and I instantly saw the difficulty. Not only would I have to look after the country, I would also have to look after Bjork.

Deal breaker.

Dialogues In Eastern Europe

This is how it all came about.

Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, had expressed a Worry to her Master of the Horse. The Worry eventually made its way to Whitehall, where it began to percolate down through the various layers of British bureaucracy until it reached a certain individual in MI 6, who recalled that I had a relationship (of a kind) with the cause of the Worry. So could I help?

After a rather generous sweetening of the Strunsky pot, I agreed to do what I could. I was going to take action in any event, because of a threat to my sugar beets. And not only to the beets, but also to the workers who were involved in tending them. Now I like to think I look after my workers, and in my Ukrainian holding, they were, to put it bluntly, freezing their asses off.

Vladimir Putin had turned off the gas.

Now Britain has a not insignificant investment in sugar beets as a possible fuel substitute. As for me, I have a considerably more significant investment. So meet it was that I have a little discussion with Mr. P. on the matter. This was not overly difficult to arrange, the result of a rather wild evening in St. Petersburg where a number of things were exchanged, not the least of which were confidential cell phone numbers. Russian is one of the six languages I am comfortable in, and the following dialogue then ensued.

"Vlad, it's Simone. Turn the gas back on. My sugar beets are suffering."

"I've told you to only use this line in an emergency."

"This is an emergency. You once said that you would do anything --"

"That was in the heat of a moment."

"And there was Vladivostok. Awkward situation for you, given that the bitch --"

"All right, all right. But it's not my fault. It's the fault of Yuliya Tymoshenko."

"What on earth has she got to do with it?"

"She wants a lower price for the gas."

"No she doesn't," I replied. "She wants a bigger cut, into her personal account. Really, Vladimir, the woman is venal, and if I remember correctly, she used to run a gas company herself. She knows you can afford it. So what's really going on?"

There was a short silence before he answered.

"I asked her to my dacha last month, and she turned me down flat."

"Of course she did. You picked the wrong venue, and no media attention. Ask her to, oh I don't know, hell, ask her to the Bolshoi. Make sure there's lots of press, including the internationals. Invite Paris Hilton. Then throw a big party. Lots of vodka. Yuliya will like that. A lot."

"Medvedev might have some concerns --"

"Well, Vlad, you'll just have to deal with that. I mean, power is like a present, and you gave Dmitri a really big one.The person receiving it will shake it, toss it about, weigh it and after all that will open it. I think Dmitri is in the "opening" phase. But you know this."

"Perhaps you're right. Ah, er, do you think that you might have a word --"

"With Yuliya, you mean."

"Yes. And I will give the gas question serious consideration."

"You do that. And for goodness sake, do something about the infrastructure of Gazprom. The lines are in terrible condition. One or two breaks, and Russia itself will have a gas shortage. Now I will see what I can arrange with Yuliya."

That conversation was much shorter. I had negotiated the Ukrainian sugar beet concession with her, and had little difficulty. Particularly when I threw in the silver Hummer. Yuliya was a bit hesitant at first about agreeing to anything that Putin had on offer, but the Bolshoi and the concomitant media attention proved too hard to resist. I also urged her to lose that ridiculous braid she parades around in, pretending she is of the Ukrainian peasantry. Yuliya Tymoshenko is about as far from peasantry as you can get.

So there, problem solved. Maybe. But the real answer lies in a non-Russian pipeline, like the one being proposed that would link the EU directly to Central Asian energy suppliers. I am all for it.
The name of this pipeline is Nabucco, and any pipeline named after a Verdi opera has got to be a winner.

Even if the opera is an early one.

An Intimate New Year's Eve Soiree

Carriages long after midnight. That would have been the case at the first Lord Strunsky's Estate in Surrey in the Eighteenth Century, when that august personage held an event on New Year's Eve. Plentiful food, even more plentiful wine, dancing, excellent music, and liveried servants everywhere. Today, "liveried" is usually a comment upon age spots.

But not to despair. A good party can still be held, and to this end I decided to throw a New Year's Eve get-together, in order to dispel (somewhat) the mess of 2008. Not a large one, mind you. Only about 100 were in attendance, and there were several notable absences. Bill and Hilary, for instance, had to send regrets. Indeed, they had to cancel their own Ball, in order to lower another type of ball in Times Square in New York. The Sarkozy's were at Klosters, going down various Alps on two sticks, which was a pity -- La Bruni does have a good fashion sense, and on this topic can make intelligent comments. The Obama's were still in Hawaii, and wanted to stay there. This I can understand. I had been involved in a salvage operation in Hilo involving a nuclear missile that had gone a little astray. After recovering it, along with some assistance from two very attractive Navy Seals, I noticed a car parked on the pier with a bumper sticker that stays in my mind: "Not a native, but I got here as quickly as I could." So enjoy, Barack -- things are not going to be as enjoyable after January 20th.

For those that could attend, I feel I must let my readers down a bit. Several of the invitees belong to the Western Intelligence Services, and would not take kindly to their names popping up in a missive such as this. To say nothing of breaching Official Secrets Act. Others have privacy concerns, and while the paparazzi are not a problem -- too busy being iron filings around such sad magnets as Lindsay, Paris and Britney -- nevertheless I see their point. Fame attracts, and not always happily.

My main criterion for selecting my guests was to ensure that no one espousing "A Cause" ever darkened my doorway. Ideologues are the most boring people on earth, and, when cloaked in religion, some of the most dangerous. Not that members of Al Qaeda or The Taliban would seek an invitation, unless it was to be a "party" where I could be stoned to death. Yet others, not as insane, did seek to come. David Suzuki expressed such a desire, but was turned down. I mean, here was a scientist doing superb work on the genetics of fruit flies, and then for some obscure reason turned his back on this work to become that most useless of things, a "personality". I simply sent him a note, drawing on Marlowe, "Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight."

Then one of the Mayor's aides put out a feeler, indicating that he and some of the members of his Star Chamber (read, Executive Committee) might enhance the festivities. This request I nipped in the bud. I want no truck or trade with the Mayor or his minions, who seem intent on taxing Torontonians to the extent that the entire city becomes homeless. Two Councillors were present, however, in that they had exhibited a knowledge of such terms as 'fiscal restrain', 'value for money' and 'tax relief'. I will not divulge their names -- ideologues, as well as having no sense of humour, are extremely vindictive.

As for the festivities themselves, a fine afternoon was spent with some of my colleagues doing Tae Kwan Do in the gym, along with some energetic fencing sessions. (The Compte de Rienville, who had been a member of the French Olympic team, taught us some interesting and rather deadly moves with the rapier). Then all went outside and engaged in an epic snowball fight. It was, everyone agreed, good to be a kid again. That done, showers were had, and everyone dressed for dinner.

This gave me an opportunity to wear "the little black dress", an original obtained by my grandmother from Coco herself, and the Compte was duly impressed, as he bloody well should be. Music was provided by a somewhat eclectic trio of groups. Taking turns were Coldplay, Feist, and the Julliard String Quartet, and somehow it all worked. More guests arrived, including two Royals and, Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen. After which, things got a little fuzzy.

And where were my four brats? Well, this being the first time they had all been together in ages, I managed to rent a club in the city, and arranged to get a band that all four agreed on -- something to do with a condiment and jewellery. Pearl Jam, maybe. They invited God knows whom, and trooped off. My only worry was that word would spread, and that unwanted guests could cause problems. A few words in the tinted ear of the Police Chief, however, along with a hefty contribution to the Police Benevolent Society, and presto! -- first rate security. This would do wonders to ensure that the kids had a good and safe time. As Al Capone tells us, "A kind word sometimes gets things done. A kind word and a gun always gets things done."

Happy New Year to all.