Union Strikes: The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

Good to be home at last, and to enjoy the comforts of the Manor, not the least of which is the outdoor swimming pool. Irving had kindly brought me a serious Grey Goose martini, and all was well. The day was improved with the arrival of my youngest daughter, Victoria, who, incredibly, wanted my advice upon something. (This hadn't occurred since she was ten). Wonders never cease.

She had arrived in style, in a red Ferrari 599 GTB Fioreno.

Irving, in bringing her around to the pool, asked, "How the hell can she afford that?"

"You forget her little sideline," I replied.

As readers will remember, even if Irving didn't, Victoria supplements her income as a brilliant historian by appearing in ghastly Grade B horror films as a victim sine qua none. The rewards are significant, and I have wondered from time to time that it's probably the history income that is the minor player here. Not many historians tool around in Ferraris.

But I digress.

Apparently Victoria had been commissioned by the National Labour Relations Board (NLRB) to write a brief but accurate history of unions. This she had done, but had included a component that she was uneasy about. Hence the request for advice.

The day being sunny and hot, Victoria stripped and soon was splashing about in the pool while I gave her paper a read-through. As I drew to the end, I saw what the problem was.

First, The Good

Victoria had traced the first recorded instance of union activity to 1245, when a strike was organised by the weavers of Douai. (Wonder if they got dental?) From there she cited activities on the part of the medieval guilds right to modern times, with appropriate references to Upton Sinclair's The Jungle and George Orwell's Down The Mine. All good stuff, and of particular interest was Victoria's insight that the achievement of better wages, workplace safety and health benefits all contributed to the growth of a contented middle class, a true bulwark against revolution. It is no accident that Lenin wanted the Middle Class to disappear (and Stalin made sure that it did).

Then The Bad

Victoria then launched into an area that really had no business being in such an historical accounting. In short, and in terms of strikes, she makes the point that strikes are fine in the private sector, but should be banned for the public sector.

In the private sector, the firm is the target. In the public sector, it is the public that is the target. Her argument here was that the firm was at risk, and the firm's management could either negotiate or not. The striking union had to be aware as well that if the firm lacked the resources to meet the union's demands, the firm could fail, and the union's members would be out of a job entirely. This is mano e mano stuff, with only two parties involved.

In the case of the public sector, THREE parties are involved -- the union, the government, and the public at large. Victoria's point here is that the public is innocent and really not responsible for the situation that has led to the strike. Yet it is the public that bears the brunt of the strike, whether in terms of teachers unavailable to students, no mail delivery or garbage collection that suddenly isn't. She indicates that certain services deemed essential to the public welfare are not permitted a strike option -- police and firefighters fall into this category. They can Work To Rule, but the issue can only be resolved through binding arbitration. It is this policy that Victoria wanted adopted for all public and civil service unions.

And she is absolutely right.

But that is not what the NLRB asked her to write about, and I reluctantly advised her to drop the section, suggesting at the same time that the thesis be saved for a future paper. Victoria heaved a sigh, and agreed.

Now The Ugly

This next bit has nothing whatsoever to do with strikes or unions, but I include it because shortly after Victoria left, I came across a newspaper item that indicated that the next chair of the UN Human Rights Commission will be North Korea. Unbelievable, and I close with these words from Cervantes Don Quixote: "Too much sanity may be madness, and the maddest of all to see life as it is and not as it should be."

A Better World

So there I was, enjoying a breakfast of coffee and croissants with the Compte de Rienville on the balcony of his chateau. The enjoyment came to a sudden halt, however, when I came upon an item in Le Monde. Furious, I slapped the paper down, hitting a croissant at a certain angle, and sent it spinning in the air. The croissant was snapped up on the fly by the Compte's Irish setter Cardinal Richelieu, indicating that the dog was aptly named: that is, one who would take advantage of opportunities when they presented themselves.

The Compte looked up, breaking away from some arcane treatise he was reading on the Bayeux Tapestry. "What on earth was that all about?" he asked.

I retrieved the newspaper, and said, "Just listen." I then began to read the article, the gist of which follows.

According to the article, an eight-year-old girl was recently kidnapped in Islamabad by some crazed followers of Allah The Merciful, who then forced a suicide vest upon her, and sent her off to attack security forces.The girl, one Sohana Javaid, then proceeded to act in a far more sane manner than her Islamist captors.

"They put a suicide vest on me," she said, "but it did not fit. Then they put on a second one. I threw away the vest and started shouting for help as I came close to the checkpost and the security forces rescued me."

"Now I ask you," I said heatedly, "what sort of religion seeks to blow up young girls? It is disgusting, appalling, not to be borne. I just wish I had the power to round them all up and distribute them to the world's zoos as examples of evolution gone amok. They could be called, oh I don't know...."

"Homo idioticus," suggested the Compte.

"Perfect."

"But, mon petit chou, what sort of world would we then have?"

"One a damn sight better than it is now. And I am not a cabbage."

"A term of endearment, ma cherie." He put down his article. "So. The world would be a better place when...when what?"

"The world would be a better place when...." And I proceeded to tell him.

1) When religion and civic governance are well and truly separated;

2) When, in the United States, elected officials realize that regard for country supersedes regard for party;

3) When Canada abolishes the Senate (that's a no brainer) but also abolishes The Indian Act, thereby allowing First Nation Peoples to assume their own destiny as property owners and Canadian citizens without being under the thumb of Band Chiefs;

4) When Russia and China approach Canada and Australia with a view to adopting a similar Federal approach in their own countries;

5) When a Saudi woman, resplendent in a short, sequin-covered skating dress, wins the Ladies Competition at the Olympics, with a similarly-dressed win in Dance by an Iranian dance team who are not married nor brother and sister;

6)And finally, when an Afghan woman is elected President of Afghanistan, and immediately calls for a National Holiday in which the burning of all burkas will be mandatory."

"I have more," I said, "but that will do for now."

The Compte looked at me with those penetrating grey eyes of his. "I am impressed, cherie. Impressed. There is, however, a small problem."

"No doubt."

"As Margaret Thatcher once said --"

"You couldn't stand the woman."

"Not her per se. That infernal handbag. But she did make an excellent point when addressing her Cabinet when dealing with a particularly difficult situation. If I remember correctly, she stated,' Don't tell me what. I know what. Tell me HOW!'"

Inarguable.

Culinary and Historical Repartee

It had been too long since I had seen the Compte de Rienville, and when he requested my presence at a dinner party at Versailles, well, I just had to accept, and was soon aboard his private jet. Now while I usually avoid dinner parties like the plague (unless I threw them, and knew who precisely was coming) where the Compte was concerned -- well, the exception that proves the rule.

I must add that the Compte, aware of my propensity to not suffer fools gladly, did urge me to cut a more demure figure than was my wont. "These are," he said, "important people, and the request to host the dinner has come from Sarkozy himself."

"Oh, well then," I sniffed.

"Now Simone, it's not often that I ask you --"

"Relax, mon cher. I will be on my best behaviour. This time, anyway."

For the occasion I wore an Alexander McQueen strapless sheath that from the looks I got from the assemblage, was well appreciated. I mean, if McQueen is good enough for Kate Middeleton, it's good enough for me. And another plus: not present was Dominique Strauss-Kahn. I had had a rather nasty run-in with the man about a year ago in Vienna, but I gather that Dominique has other things on his mind just now, not the least of which is staying out of a New York prison. Sic transit gloriam munde.

The evening began with champagne (Veuve Clicquot biensur) and then on to dinner. This was magnificent, and all washed down with an incredible series of wines from the Compte's own cellar. And I was on my best behaviour, agreeing with whatever point of view was put forward, although an inner part of me was rebelling at my reluctance to correct what were some obvious falsehoods put forward by the 'important' guests.

Just after dessert (an excellent creme brulee drizzled in Remy Martin) I unfortunately lost it.

A noted French historian was expounding on his belief that historical research was now so advanced that accuracy was now a given. This was such a nonsense that I simply had to challenge him on the point.

"Monsieur," I began, "what of Louis XV?"

"Ah," he intoned, "an era that we know well. "Apres moi le deluge" as Louis put it."

"But that's not correct," I said, rather bluntly I must admit.

"Of course it's correct."

"In fact, my dear Professor, the actual statement is "Apres NOUS le deluge," and it was uttered by Jeanne de Poisson, better known as Madame de Pompadour. Male historians --"

"Utter claptrap," he interrupted. "You English have never really recovered from the French invasion of 1066. And just where did you evolve this Pompadour theory?"

"The English historian Norman Davies. You could profit from a read-through of his book Europe. Secondly, I am not English but Italian. And finally, the French never invaded England in 1066."

This brought all conversation to a halt, including a frantic glance from the Compte.

I carried on. "You see, when Alfred the Great kicked all the Norsemen out of a goodly part of England, they then all went to a certain area of France and took it over. That part is now known as Normandy: that is, the land of the Norsemen. It was they, under William, who returned. Not the French, or Franks as they were then called. You dispute this?"

There was silence, and I could feel the Compte's disapproving look piercing right through my shoulders. Better make things right, I thought.

"Although I must say, Professor, that my daughter Victoria is also an historian, and she admires you greatly."

The Professor relaxed a wee bit.

"Victoria particularly was intrigued by your work on the Thirty Years War, and your treatment of the campaigns of General Tilly."

The Professor actually allowed a small smile to appear.

"And yet..." I paused.

The Professor stiffened again.

"She has trouble getting her students to appreciate historical accuracy. Three of them thought General Tilly, upon retirement, went into the hat business."

Silence, then laughter, and all was well again.

The Compte approached. "Close one, that."

"Not really," I said. "And the good Professor may actually do some reading on the issues discussed. Or not. Still, a ray of hope. So Blake: "If the fool persists in his folly, he will become wise."

"Touche," said the Compte.

Getting And Receiving

I had been planning a dinner party for the new Mayor (one who believes in reason and accountability) and to this end spent the morning with Henri, my cook, reviewing menu options. Upon leaving the kitchen, I encountered my IT specialist, Rachel. She had obviously been waiting for me to emerge.

This was odd. Rachel never surfaces much before 1:00 AM, in that she was usually up to all hours with her computers. As she had explained once, Europe and Asia were easier to access during the middle of the night. I couldn't dispute her reasoning, especially when the stuff she gave me access to was often priceless. There is, for instance, information on those paragons of leadership, the Kims of North Korea, that has astounded both the U.S. and the U.K. Sir Harry was delighted, and Hillary even sent me a gracious thank you note. As to the nature of the information, well, perhaps on another day. Although the stuff about the Barbie dolls...but enough said.

In any event, I was curious to find out what had got Rachel out and about at what would have been to her an unearthly hour.

"I need a favour," she said. Rachel was not one for social niceties.

"And what would that be?" I asked.

"I want you to give a person this memory stick. You will receive a similar one in return."

"And just why, Rachel, wouldn't you --"

"Because it's still too dangerous. I know that I have been traced to Toronto, and certain feelers have been put out. The opposition after all is not stupid, just bureaucratic."

Readers of past entries will know that Rachel committed an act very close to treason in Israel, by fleeing with the WRAITH software. And while she had her supporters there, she also had her enemies.

"Well, Rachel, I will have to know a little bit about what this is all about. If for nothing else, my own safety."

"Your minder, Irving, can go with you."

"You haven't answered my question."

Rachel took her time before responding. Finally she said, "There is a very very secret negotiation going on between certain Israelis and certain Palestinians. If word should leak out...."

"I get the picture. Give me the thing."

"Oh, Rachel added, "You should wear this." she handed me a T-shirt, the front of which stated I REMEMBER THE INK SPOTS.

"But I don't remember the Ink Spots, although I do recall there was a quartet --"

"Doesn't matter. And here are the code words. Now all this is to take place at a musical rehearsal for a charity gala. Here is your observer pass. And Lady Simone, this is important."

"I will do my best."

And so it was that I found myself backstage, amid a slew of electrical wires, amplifiers, microphones, spotlights -- all the paraphernalia of a modern concert. And various singers were there. Avril looking forward to the weekend, Sarah McLachian remembering, Neil Young imagining, well, it went on.

I had been there for about an hour when a hand touched my elbow. I turned, about to launch Swallows In The Sunset (a maiming blow) but stopped when this extremely thin, even gaunt, man, said the right words: "Whispering grass will tell the trees."

I replied, "And the trees will tell the birds and bees."

He gave me a memory stick, I reciprocated, and that was that. Easy peasy.

I stayed for a bit after, much to Irving's chagrin, but was intrigued by one Lady Gaga and her portrayal of a bad romance. Goodness, but the girl did well. Her dancing might not recall Anna Pavlova, and her singing was some distance away from Renee Fleming, but the combination was impressive.

How does Lady Gaga do it? I didn't know. Perhaps she was born that way.

Comments On The Crown

I was at the computer, working out some arbitrage figures vis-a-vis sugar beet futures when Sir Harry called. The two week hiatus in which I had been left alone was apparently over.

"Who is Amir Khadir?" he asked.

"I haven't a clue," I replied. "Is he offering time-shares in Kabul? Running guns in Pakistan? Growing asparagus in Chechnya? How the hell --"

"He's from Canada," said Sir Harry tersely. "From Quebec. Going after the monarchy, he is. A royal visit is pending --"

"Hold on, hold on," I said. "It's coming back now. Khadir is a member of the Quebec National Assembly, in the Quebec Solidaire party. Fringe group. Only speaks for a minority."

"Nevertheless," said Sir Harry. The Prince and the Duchess of Cambridge could be at risk, and perhaps ...." His voice trailed off.Then a short silence.

"Perhaps what?" Then came the dawn. "No. Not on. An executive sanction would in this case be madness. I will research this a bit more, but I am certain there's no threat here. I doubt that the kid even owns a gun, let alone knows how to use one. The only Bad Thing here is M. Khadir's total misunderstanding of the beneficial role a constitutional monarchy can play, both in the UK and here."

"Elaborate."

"I'll send you a report," I replied. "But aside from the usual precautions, going after Khadir would be a total waste of time. And money, Sir Harry. And money." I threw the latter point in because all government budgets are tight now, including Sir Harry's.

After agreeing begrudgingly to drop the matter, Sir Harry rang off.

As to my report, I restricted myself to two points -- money and stability.

To my mind, it is inarguable that the English monarchy is a wealth creator. Yes, it draws extensively from the public purse, but these expenses pale in comparison to the money the monarchy draws in through tourism, memento sales, hotel bookings, and the like. Even in Quebec, I would venture that there are any number of hoteliers and merchants who are salivating at the fiscal rewards coming.

More importantly, however, is the stability the monarchy provides in terms of giving the Commonwealth a head of state that is above the sleaze and partisanship that are the bane of politics today. Yes, there is a risk that an absolute idiot could inherit the throne, but we are a long way from the era of the Divine Right Of Kings, in spite of the efforts made by the likes of Robert Mugabe or Hugo Chavez. Put against this lot, the House of Windsor doesn't do that badly. Not badly at all.

As for M. Amir Khadir, my advice would be to read some history.

We won.

You lost.

Then we gave it back, and Quebec has all the rights that other Canadian provinces have. Even more, given the language issue. Levesque and Bouchard (even old DeGaulle) couldn't bring independence about, and it has now become what those versed in politics call a "Dead Issue". Time to move on, Amir.

Je me souviens.

Business Attended To

Well that was a short visit. Once Svetlana learned that Bohdan was flying back to Kiev that night, she immediately made arrangements to accompany him. I couldn't really object. She was, after all, solving a sugar beet problem that could get nasty. (See previous entry).

However, I worry about a possible relationship between those two. Svetlana is the type that, if she knew the poetry of John Donne (she doesn't) would alter the line, "Come live with me, and be my love" to "Come live with me, and pay my rent." Nothing for it, though, and the two of them were out the door in a kind of peristaltic rush.

Now, a change of subject. As readers know, I have business from time to time with Sir Harry and MI 6. Lately, all had been blessedly quiet on that front, but now I had something that would interest him. I soon had him on his private and secure line.

"A bad time to call," he said. "I'm busy."

"You are not," I replied. "The Royal Wedding was a smashing success, the Queen returned safely from Ireland, and Obama has just left for the G8 thingy. In fact, I suspect a kind of lull --"

"Shut up. I have nothing for you at present."

"Ah, but I have something for you."

"Have you, now."

"Yes. Rather interesting, actually. Apparently there is some discontent in the land of Allah. From what I have intercepted --"

"You didn't intercept anything," Sir Harry interrupted. "It's that Israeli woman and that damnable software. You really should give --"

"Not going to happen. Given my word and all. Now do you want the information or not?"

"We probably know it anyway, but what have you got?

What we had, owing to Rachel's WRAITH software, were intercepts of communications between Afghan insurgents in Afghanistan, and their commanders in Pakistan. Seems that those who were fighting and dying on the ground were waking up to the fact that it was they at real risk,, not their superiors safe (sort of) in Pakistan. Recriminations were flying, along with what Rachel termed some of the finest cursing she had ever heard. Apparently Pushtun, Urdu and Arabic were languages that allowed a wondrous latitude for defamation.

"So you see, Sir Harry, that if true, such a rift could be exploited. And you are very good at exploiting such things, when you're not intent on exploiting me."

"We will take the information under consideration. Goodbye."

This I took from past experience to be high praise, and I was certain that the matter would be given full attention. The whole thing did bring to mind the anecdote about an American major rousing his troops before battle, and saying, "Now I know you will acquit yourselves well, even if the enemy is strong. Things no doubt will get bloody, and God, I wish I was going with you. I will, however, be watching with my binoculars."

No doubt the soldiers welcomed these remarks as much as those insurgents in Afghanistan.

Attending To Business

Irving and I were in the gym working out. The wound in my thigh had almost completely healed, enough that I could at least practice the martial art I most favoured, Tai Chi Chuan. This method employs the whole body to use as a way of transferring all the kinetic energy of the attacker on to the target. One blow can rapture organs and can maim or even kill, depending on just who the attacker is. If just an infantile mugger or thief, maiming will suffice. Not so, however, if killing you is the attacker's main objective.

Live by the sword, die by the sword. An epitaph for Bin Laden there.

Thinking of old Osama, I momentarily lost focus, and wound up flat on my back.

"You all right?" asked a concerned Irving. "You were supposed to --"

"I know what I was supposed to do!" I snapped, upset at my loss of concentration.

At this point, Svetlana Marinskaya entered, and felt a comment was necessary. "Losing it a bit, aren't we?"

"Shut up. Why are you down here?"

"There's someone at the gate. Ukrainian chap, name of Bohdan. Kind of cute. Says he has a meeting with you."

"He does," I replied, getting to my feet. "Sugar beet stuff. Sounds like a wheel may have come off. Tell Ahmad to let him in. I'll have a quick shower and change. Meet him in the study."

Svetalana left, and Irving and I headed for the showers.

"I don't trust that woman," muttered Irving. "She's too....competent."

"So are we, O king of Mossad," I replied. "So are we."

I showered and changed, and trundled down to the study, where I found Svetalana and Bohdan babbling away to each other in Russian. I noticed that Svetlana had changed clothes as well, from a nondecript housecoat to a short denim skirt and tight sweater. My God, I thought, the woman was hunting.

And from what I could see, succeeding. (I was not, sticking to jeans and a T-shirt displaying the words 'My England Includes Calais'. In any event, it never ceased to surprise me how vulnerable men were to a female body that emphasized its prime assets. Just ask Arnold or Domenic.

Bohdan looked up, went a bit red (so he should have) and said in Russian "I have just met Miss Marinskaya. We were talking."

I can see that," I replied in English. It was noteworthy that Bohdan and I always conversed in English, and it was a mark of just how rattled he was that he had addressed me in Russian. "You are also early. The Sugar Beet Board doesn't meet until this afternoon."

"Yes, I know. I wanted to discuss a problem with you."

"Oh," said Svetlana, "perhaps I go should." (Her English left something to be desired).

"No, stay," I said. "This might be instructive."

Bohdan, tearing his eyes away from Svetlana, got right to the point. Apparently the arrangement for the extensive sugar beet farm in Ukraine was coming under question. Now this arrangement involving land lease and use had been made with the fair Yuliya Tymoshenko, she of that awful braid. But Yuliya had lost the election and was now in opposition. Given that opposition leaders in fragile democracies are often thrown into prison, Yulya was not at this point in time worried so much about sugar beets as she was in staying out of jail.

"And," Bohdan continued, "the new guy, Viktor Yanukovych, wants to alter the arrangement. Indeed, wants to take the whole enterprise over. It being a money maker and all."

"I'll bet he does," I said, thinking that this could be really problematical. Legal stuff in Ukraine was subject not so much to the law as to who might be interpreting that law.

"I might of help be in this case," put in Svetalana.

"How so?" I asked, switching to Russian. If Svetlana was going to put a strategy on the table, I wanted to be able to understand it.

"Viktor has some nasty skeletons in his closet. There are rumours of a relationship with a thirteen year old girl."

"Rumours are just that," said Bohdan. "I have heard this as well."

"Well said, my Ukrainian friend," said Svetlana. "But these rumours are accompanied with a few photographs."

"No shit!" I exclaimed.

Svetlana continued. "Yes. And were I to whisper this into Viktor's tinted ear, I think your problem with the sugar beets would go away. It's one way to repay you for your hospitality. Of course, I would need some funds to arrange airfare to Kiev --"

Bohdan jumped in at this point, looking at me. "We can arrange that I think. She could perhaps accompany me back to Kiev after the board meeting."

I nodded agreement, amazed at how things turn out some times. Bohdan and Svetlana. Interesting. Recalls Malraux: "In literature as in love, we are often astonished at the choices of others."

Enough. Or too much.

Rushing From Russia

After breakfast coffee and croissants, I felt a bit gritty in my mind. To counter this, I went to the study and curled up with Balzac, a writer that really understands grit. About a quarter the way through Nana Irving interrupted.

"Phone for you", he said. "On the secure line."

So much for Balzac. I went to my desk, and picked up.

"Why?" I said.

"That's no way to answer the phone," came a response in Russian.

I recognized the voice immediately, and responded in the same language. "Lanni? Is that you? Where are you calling from?"

"The airport. We need to talk. And I need a place to stay for a bit."

"No problem. I can send Irving --"

"I'm already in a cab. See you in about fifteen."

Well, well, well I thought. Something rather dramatic must have happened to get Svetlana Marinskaya to ask such a favour. It was not that long ago that we were trying to kill each other. Nothing personal, mind you, just the normal ups and downs of The Trade. Since the end of the Cold War, however, things had simmered down between Russia and the West and we had become friends. Sort of.

A short time later, Svetlana burst in, followed closely by a worried Irving. He was well aware that as assassins go, Marinskaya was in the top echelon, and he was not about to just sit by and let havoc reign. He also knew that a piece of her left ear was missing, courtesy of a rather poor shot by yours truly. Well, I was in my twenties then, and just learning how to tame my ERMA SR 100.

I settled Irving down, and asked him to have Consuela bring up more croissants and coffee. Svetlana in the meantime had plunked herself down on the sofa. She wore her travelling clothes, baggy jeans, nondescript blouse, and a rather ratty cardigan. I understood this, and dress in similar fashion when travelling on commercial airplanes. You literally disappear, a very Good Thing in The Trade. In my tee and jeans, I looked like a marvel in contrast. This was no small accomplishment -- Svetlana Marinskaya is a very beautiful woman and can appear stunning when occasion demands it. But enough of feminine stuff.

"Well?" I asked. We conversed in Russian. Svetlana is fluent in English, but misses nuances, and I had a feeling that nuances were going to be important.

"There is an African saying," she began. "You may know it. When two elephants fight, the grass gets crushed."

"I recall something similar."

"The point, Simone, is that this particular blade of grass wants to avoid being crushed."

I began to see. "These particular elephants, Lanni, they wouldn't be named Dmitri and Vladimir, would they?"

"You always were sharp. Yes, things are getting tense. Putin is losing it I'm afraid. He more and more is beginning to resemble Vlad the Impaler, and it's the Russian legal system that he wishes to impale. Medvedev thinks that this is a big mistake -- it is -- and things look like there going to get....messy."

"And you'd rather watch things from afar."

"Absolutely. The more so since I had a rather nasty difference of opinion with Putin, and was perhaps more vocal in support of Medvedev than I should have been. I would stay just a few days, mind you."

"You realize that the computer room will be off-limits?"

"Yeah, I heard something about an IT whiz and a key software program. But no, I'm definitely not working."

"You realize I might play around a bit with this information?"

Svetlana smiled. "Sole purpose of visit."

"And I liked your beaten grass analogy. Reminds me of a short poem written by a colleague in university. Goes as follows:

"I am a blade of grass.
Father to thousands.
Grandfather to millions.
Damn fear of lawnmowers."

"Now that," said Svetlana, "says it all."

Winners And Losers

Well, that was quite a week, filled with those who succeeded, and those who did not. In this regard, I have always felt that when success and defeat vie, those with inside plumbing stand the best chance. So let us review.

First, Sir Harry, who was highly pleased that the Royal Wedding went off without a hitch. Aside from detaining a number of mentally defective anarchists and at least two well-armed Pakistanis (and keeping them well away from proceedings) security personnel did what they did best. That is to say, they remained totally out of sight, with everything else in their sights.

I sent Sir Harry "well done" message, commending the UK on a fine spectacle and wishing the bride and groom every happiness. An American friend with whom I was watching the nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge shed a few tears at all this. To me, not surprising. I have thought for some time that way deep down in every American's heart their lurks a suspicion that America might have been a bit hasty in 1776. Just a thought, mind you.

In Canada, almost lost in the Royal Wedding extravaganza, an election occurred. This was an election that the public saw no need for, and did not want. Someone would be punished, and it turned out to be the the Liberal Party. For my part, I was glad to see that Canadians were not subject to the charisma of any candidate, but stuck with Stephen Harper, who has as much charisma as an ice cube melting in a gin and tonic. So, no charisma, but Harper's sound fiscal policies carried the day and resulted in a Conservative majority.

A more charismatic candidate was Jack Layton of the left-leaning New Democratic Party. "Le bon Jack," as he is called in Quebec, did very well in that province, and now has to cope with some 50 first time members, including four university students and a single mother who was in Las Vegas during the campaign, lives some 300 miles from her riding, and whose French is, if not non-existent, at least highly suspect. All of these new members find themselves suddenly with $100,000 salaries, an amount of money most have not seen before (or will again). My message to Jack: "Good luck with that."

If there were winners here, there were also losers. Both Michael Ignatieff and Giles Duceppe, leaders of the Bloc Quebecois respectively, lost their seats. I have no idea what the future holds for Duceppe (or the Bloc, for that matter. It is now reduced to four seats). Ignatieff I understand has taken a teaching position at the University of Toronto, proving the adage those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

Sic transit gloriam munde.

Finally, Barack Obama, and something successful to relay to the American people. I first saw this success via a photograph of Obama, Hillary, Gates et al grouped around a television, grim faces in abundance. I thought at first they were watching the Washington Capitals screw up yet another NHL playoff game, but it wasn't Alex Ovechkin at issue, but the demise of Osama bin Laden. And that surprised me.

When I last saw old Osama, he was sprawled on a cave floor in the Tora Bora mountains, with at least two bullets (mine) in his gut. The next day American bunker bombs blew Tora Bora to bits. Somehow, Al Qaeda must have got him out, along with his dialysis machine (his kidneys were shot). Whatever, I believe Obama tells the truth (though hundreds won't) and that Osama is no longer with us.

This raises a point well stated by the Renaissance essayist Montaigne, and will serve as a conclusion. "It is wretched to be reduced to the point where the best touchstone of truth has become the multitude of believers, at a time when fools in the crowd are so much more numerous than the wise."

So then. So now.

The Skin Of Our Teeth

The title of this entry comes from a re-reading Thornton Wilder's play, something very much in my mind after my experience of the last two weeks. As you may recall, I was invited (more coerced, actually) to take part in an ultra secret meeting stemming from the American professor Matilda Hatt and I had hurried out of Libya, along with his research findings. The operation was not without costs -- for me, a bullet in the thigh -- but was ultimately successful.

The research was contained in computer memory sticks. I had one, Tilly another, and my employer, Sir Harry, the third. It had become apparent that each stick comprised one-third of the data, and would be useless without being combined. Hence the meeting, and for security purposes, took place on a Trident submarine, Ohio class, submerged -- well, I never did find out.*

It is not in my power to give exact details of what the research illustrated, not so much for security reasons as it is for the simple fact that I had only a glimmer of understanding of what was under discussion. I am not exactly stupid, but there are limits.

Three physicists were in attendance: the professor we had zipped out of Libya, a second from Cambridge, and a third from China. Discussions centered around such terms as 'event horizon' 'black holes' 'anti-matter' 'string theory' and a slew of other terms that escaped me. Tilly, who has a certain way with members of the opposite sex, managed to at least get the gist of what the research was all about. We bunked together (a Trident is not exactly a four star hotel) and this gave us an opportunity to talk.

"How did you manage to get any of the boffins to open up?" I asked her. We were perched on our bunks in shorts and Tee shirts, submarines being a bit warmish.

"Oh," she replied, "they said nothing. But I got to know the Captain."

"No doubt in the Biblical sense," I replied wryly.

"Anything for my country. Besides, he's rather cute. Anyway, what there all rabbiting on about is a new energy source, something about combining matter and anti-matter."

"Tilly, even I know that would explode all over the place."

"Precisely. But the professor has worked out a possible way to contain the energy, and control it. At little cost. Available to all. The Chinese guy was particularly interested in this -- all those idiotic coal mines.

"The oil companies will love such a new source of energy.," I said.

"Not the boffins' problem. And the oil barons can always be co-opted. But that's not all. What has them really excited came about as a by-product to the research. Something to do with anti-matter and magnetism. In short, it may just be possible to bend space, as if you could take a flexible wire and bring the two ends close together. A flight to Mars in about the same time as it takes to go from New York to Rio."

"No shit."

"Mind you," Tilly continued, "the Captain told me the problems are immense, and resolving all the issues will take some time."

"Like about 500 years."

"You may be surprised."

It was then that Wilder's play surfaced in my mind. His thesis, that the human race comes extremely close to catastrophe before avoiding it, seems entirely apropos. Our energy needs were surpassing our ability to meet them. Something, somewhere, would give. Let us hope that again we can escape by 'the skin of our teeth'.

At this point we were informed that the meeting had drawn to a close. Good. I had had enough of close quarters. After signing yet another oath of secrecy, we headed for port.

Before we disembarked, the American professor, who looked somewhat drawn and tired, approached me, and thanked me for my part in the Libyan adventure.

I acknowledged this, then asked him what was next. His reply startled.

"Younger people can take it from here," he said. "I'm too old to be always at someone else's beck and call. Need a new job."

"Any thoughts?"

"Yes. A greeter at Wal-Mart. Then I can say forcefully, "TAKE THE DAMN CART!"

Rimshot.

* Somewhere near Carbis Bay, off the Cornish coast and not near any sea-lanes. The Captain was most helpful. -- Matilda Hatt

Herewith An Hiatus

Tilly Hatt called, all excited.

"I hear your going! Should be more fun than a barrel of monkeys."

"Not really," I replied. "How can two weeks of mental gymnastics be fun? This will be more like a mathematical root canal."

"Spoil sport," Tilly sniffed. "Just think of all those young Brits, the opportunities, the fact that there will be no escape. Fun, Simone, fun!"

What the good Matilda Hatt was referring to was an ultra secret meeting between the CIA, MI6 and a number of scientific specialists. The purpose? To make sense of the material obtained from the Libyan desert. The location? On a Trident nuclear submarine somewhere in the North Atlantic.

When Sir Harry wanted security, he didn't cut corners.

My invitation only came begrudgingly. My engineering degree is more mechanical than anything to do with nuclear fission or fusion, but I did have possession of one of the memory sticks that had been retrieved. Apparently the Professor was not as absent-minded as I had first thought. He had split the data into three, and hence my memory stick was at issue. Which meant that I was at issue.

Tilly informed me that her immediate superior was dead set against my attending. Tilly suspected that was because her immediate superior wasn't allowing her to go. Also, Tilly further mentioned that this woman, a political appointee, was a bit batty in the head. She knew this because the woman always referred to her breasts as "Abercrombie" and "Fitch."

I thought this overly twee, and for a fleeting moment wondered what I might call my own. Given a rather handsome return I had recently engineered with respect to sugar beet derivatives, I thought "Goldman" and "Sachs" might be appropriate. Then the fleeting moment thankfully fled.

The various secrecy oaths I have sworn forbids me to state just what will be under discussion. What I can tell you is that a new energy source is at issue, involving matter coming together with anti-matter. Hence the desert location. Apparently there was a small chance of creating a medium-sized black hole. Acceptable perhaps in a desert location, but not near any large urban area.

This little get-together is expected to last two weeks, during which time I will be incommunicado. But never fear -- I, like General MacArthur, will return. And given that science is the main topic under examination, I leave you with this, from Jacob Bronowski's The Common Sense of Science:

"Science is the acceptance of what works and the rejection of what does not. That needs more courage than we might think."

Discuss among yourselves.

Writing On Rites And Rights

Yesterday, pace The Beatles, really does seem so far away. I had just settled down to write my usual weekly entry, comfortable in my fluffy robe and eager to share with my readers the nature of the material lifted from the Libyan desert, when my gardener and housemaid Consuela burst in and said that I really must see a visitor.

Now these days Consuela is totally absorbed in attending to the recent arrival of her baby, the little girl Maria Aisha. (This name came about owing to Consuela's marriage to my driver and handyman, Ahmed. Consuela was still a confirmed Catholic, and while Ahmed was getting less certain by the day where Islam is concerned -- he has, for instance, discovered Voltaire -- he nevertheless wanted his child to at least reflect his Middle East heritage.) But something had interrupted Consuela's fixation on her child, and I wondered what it could be.

"He's waiting for you in the Conservatory," Consuela said. "He really wants to meet you."

"Who really wants to meet me?"

"The new parish priest at Our Lady Of The Sorrowful Chains. Father Martin."

"Oh, Consuela, I really don't think --"

"You see, My Lady," Consuela continued, oblivious to my hesitation, "he's been to that convent. The one where the nuns don't really believe in the sacraments." She shuddered a bit when saying this.

"You mean, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain."

Consuela nodded. "He....has some questions. When he learned that you were the chief benefactor, and that I worked for you, he requested that perhaps a meeting could be arranged."

I threw in the towel. "Oh, all right. But just this once. Tell him I'll be down in a moment. I'm not really dressed for company."

Consuela left, and I headed for my rooms, where I opened my closet and reviewed things. For a fleeting moment I considered my Catholic schoolgirl outfit, but decided that would be a bridge too far. Besides, that outfit only came into play when the Compte de Rienville was in town, and enough said about that. I selected a white blouse, and slipped on a black hemp jumper my son Sebastian had designed for me. Looking in the mirror, I decided that would be quite Catholic enough.

In the Conservatory, I greeted the new parish priest, Father Martin. The man was tall, and very, very thin. I had to suppress a smile when the thought occurred that the man, as he made his way over the flagstones at the front of the Manor, might well have disappeared into one of the cracks.

"Well, Father, welcome. Perhaps some...ah, I see Consuela has already attended to tea."

"Yes, she is a very considerate woman." His voice surprised -- a deep bass with real power.

"That she is. How can I help you?"

He got up from his chair, and began to pace. Since I know from The Trade that silence is the most effective way to encourage talk, I found a chair, sat demurely, and waited.

The man was obviously shaken, and it was some time before he began to speak. "The nuns at the Convent. Not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I'm not sure. But not what I found. The Sisters are definitely atheists, but they are doing really fine work. They do not force their view on others, and indeed never let on to those who seek their help that they are not quite what they seem. Yet the Bishop would rather they would just go away."

"The nuns might hold the same thought with respect to the Bishop."

A slight smile briefly flitted across his face. Good, I thought. The man had at least the semblance of a sense of humour.

"Yet it somehow is monstrous," he continued. "A Convent is a Godly institution, nuns are, in a very real sense, brides of Christ, and yet they --"

"Minister."

"Yes, they Minister. And do it well. Very well."

I said, "So let's restate the issue. We have some atheistic nuns, who are doing God's work, and doing it very successfully, and thereby supporting the tenets of Catholicism. I fail to see that there's a problem here."

"That's the issue. The more I think about it, I don't see it as problematical as well, although I might wish that the nuns not pretend to be what they are not."

"Actually, Father," I said, "If asked, they will say exactly what they are. Or, put differently, they let others see them as they want to. I mean, you wouldn't want them to be untrue to themselves, would you?"

"I...I have to think about all this."

"Thinking is good."

He rose. "I appreciate your taking the time to see me. When I have thought a bit, I wonder if we might talk again?"

"Certainly, Father. And I pass on to you a little saying I find helpful: "Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than going to a garage makes you a car."

At this he laughed.

There is hope for us all.

Electing To Have An Election

It was good to be back at the Manor, and have a chance to recuperate after my Libyan adventure. I limp a bit -- a bullet in the thigh will do that -- and I am sore all over. The latter condition is due to a savage workout with Irving in the gym. He is still angry that I sailed off without his protection, and let me know it, both verbally and physically. Irving was also upset at a gift I had been given by the Compte de Rienville, who had presented me with a gold pendant, at the bottom of which was the very bullet extracted from my thigh, encrusted with six sparkling diamonds. Bless him; the thought of his generosity did much to alleviate the pain I was feeling.

However, a needle-hot shower, a fluffy robe, Schubert, and a serious Grey Goose over ice did much to make things right again, and I can now attend to writing this account.

Elections I gather are much in the news. Egypt, for instance, where they were voting on a referendum with respect to a new constitution. I understand the Egyptians are delighted, the election being the first one in living memory where the outcome was not known in advance. This event, of course, is sending all manner of ripples throughout the Arab world -- if there, why not here? But not all countries are Egypt, and many of the autocratic rulers will fight to the death to keep themselves and their cronies in power. Throw in Islam, currently in its medieval phase, and the situation is murky. Very murky.

Then I learn that Canada is about to be thrust into electoral mode, and one wonders why. The Tories are running the economy well, if somewhat too liberal for my taste, and have committed no egregious sins other than some dubious political ethics, ethics that pale into nothingness when one looks back at the horrific antics of one Jean Chretien and the sponsorship debacle. So why an election now?

Taking a healthy slug of Grey Goose, I gave this matter some thought. Then I had it.

First, I had to answer a question. Why would the Liberals force an election they would almost certainly lose? (In order to upset the Tories, they would have to take all kinds of seats in Quebec, and that's not going to happen. Giles Duceppe will make sure of that.) Therefore, there is another agenda. Put simply, the Liberal insiders WANT TO GET RID OF IGNATIEFF. An election loss makes this possible, and avoids the sturm und drang of the internecine warfare that would occur in a leadership convention.

I'm sure Stephen Harper has figured this out too, but his recently presented budget, while not perfect, nevertheless is basically sound. Could it be saved.?

Maybe.

I reached for my secure cell phone, and called Laureen Harper. (I have a few select women on speed dial, but do not abuse the privilege.) Laureen was furious; an election would put the kibosh on her and Stephen's planned attendance at THE ROYAL WEDDING, something she had really been looking forward to.

"There is one last thing that might be tried," I said. "It's a long shot, but you never know."

"What are you about, Simone?"

"Just this. The cost of an election is roughly $300.000.00. What Stephen could do is funnel that money to the NDP to meet some of their priorities. Jack Layton might, might I say, go for this. It will allow him to save face, and his base would be grateful. So, in a weird way, would the country."

Laureen replied, "It's a bit of a Hail Mary, but I'll have a talk with Stephen. Damn it, I had the dress all picked out. Talk to you soon."

So, as Sherlock would say, "The game's afoot." And this time, let's make sure the dog actually barks.

Dalliance in the Desert, Conclusion

I am happy to report that, although resting flat on my back, things can be said to be looking up. Well they would, wouldn't they?

Nothing like a few days of comfort at the Compte de Rienville's chateau to raise ones spirits. (Plenty of LaTour, the 1996 vintage, didn't hurt either). But now back to my narrative.

When Matilda Hatt, the Professor and myself reached the coastal Libyan town of Ajdabiya, we discovered that it was under attack, and that mass confusion reigned. The Professor was losing it, and kept babbling on about event horizons, black holes, anti-matter and a slew of other esoteric terms. We sandwiched the professor between us, told him to shut up, and made our way as best we could to the docks. This involved a running gun fight with some of Gadhafi's mercenaries, who quickly learned that Tilly and I were no slouches when it came to marksmanship, and after suffering a number of casualties, went off to pursue less dangerous prey.

The dhow was where it was supposed to be. We clambered in, and Tilly, after some effort, got the ancient Perkins engine to work. Looking at that engine reminded me of Bogart and Hepburn in The African Queen, and I could only hope that the engine would work here as it did there.

The Professor had shut up. Either that, or he had gone catatonic.

Slowly, very slowly, we made our way out of the harbour. Tilly knew where we were headed, but had not shared that information with me. This was standard practice in The Trade -- you couldn't be tortured and confess that which you did not know.

A number of things then occurred.

"Shit!" said Tilly. "Look!"

I peered over her shoulder, and saw a Libyan gunboat bearing down on us. Not that big, but a lot bigger than our craft. Tilly yanked the tiller, over-compensated, and fell in.

I reached for her, missed, then grabbed her ankle as she began to drift away on what must have been a severe current. I hauled her aboard, ass over teakettle as it were. She looked up, and calmly said, "I owe you one."

"Two, to be precise."

"Done. Now get down or --"

I yelled as a searing hot flame coursed through my thigh, and realized I had been shot. We were not, I realized, the only ones abroad that day that could shoot effectively.

"Hang on, Simone!" shouted Tilly. "Just hang on. It won't be long. Here, use this." Tilly tore off her blouse. "Use it to stop the bleeding."

The sight of Tilly Hatt in a brassiere seemed to snap the Professor out of whatever mental oasis he had fled to. He grabbed the blouse, and efficiently began to fashion a tourniquet and twist it above the wound. I screamed, partly because of the intense pain, but also because I saw that the gunboat was now levelling a large cannon at us, and I cursed that all this would end by the actions of a thuggish clown like Gadhafi.

Then the gunboat blew up.

"About bloody time!" screamed Tilly. "That's the Navy, always arriving at the last possible moment."

I wondered what she was talking about, when to my right, some 200 meters away, a submarine broached the surface. Nuclear, Los Angeles Class. At which point I passed out.

I learned later that the dhow had been towed to Naples, and my wound attended to by medical personnel on the submarine. I asked to be sent to the Annunziata hospital, and also managed to get in touch with certain people I knew who would assist me. Naples, after all, was my home town, and I have an odd relationship with certain folk best known as 'gentlemen of the South'. Tilly and the Professor had to stay with the submarine, but before she left she gave me her two debts, as promised. Two memory sticks, to be exact. One for Sir Harry, already picked up by his minion Cyril, and the other for me. What those memory sticks contained -- well, that's for another day.

So now back to the real world, and the stunning news about Japan. As I absorbed the magnitude of all that had occurred, I remembered that the most frightening words one can hear from Government are simply, "Stay calm. No need to panic."

Selah.

Dalliance In The Desert, Part II

Still in the hospital in Naples, the Ospedale della Santissima Annunziata, since you ask. I am now up and about, although the ache in my thigh still bothers. Having a bullet removed will do that. The schematic, now on a memory stick, was duly transferred to 'Cyril of the Naples Consulate' as per Sir Harry's instructions, as well as the bill for my hospital stay (Considerable. This is Italy, after all). But I'm getting out tomorrow, and immediately heading for Paris and the Compte de Rienville. I need comfort, and who better -- but enough of this. And not enough of what actually happened, which is as follows.

Tilly had made arrangements to meet in Tobruk, and had also managed to scrounge up a Land Rover at an outrageous price, courtesy the long-suffering American taxpayers. I had previously got in touch with Sheik Khalil al-Mukhtar (not his real name) and secured his clan's blessing for a safe conduct through his territory. Anything for 'Precious Daughter' he said, although five gold ingots from Tilly didn't hurt the negotiation. What had she done? Broken into Fort Knox?

From there, we went south, accompanied by two of the Sheik's men. Tilly and I wore army fatigues, but had condescended to wear hijabs. The Sheik, after all, was meeting us half-way; we could do the same. This didn't stop Tilly from remarking that "Once, just once, I'd like to walk across Arabia in boots, tight sweater and a mini-skirt." I told her she'd get about ten feet before being stoned to death.

At this point the astute reader may wonder about the whereabouts of my minder, Irving. Well, he had to remain out of this particular excursion. Sheik al-Mukhtar would tolerate some things, but not providing protection for an Israeli, and ex-Mossad to boot. This upset Irving no end, and at present he is not speaking to me.

He'll get over it.

The trip to the south was uneventful. Not surprising, there's nothing there except hardscrabble desert. Libya's population is really strung out along the coastal road and, towards the west, the oil fields around Zuara. The current revolt is all happening along that coastal road, so we were at present far from the action. The Sheik's men, however, were very worried. The clans saw any upheavals as bad for business, and Gadhafi was pitting them against each other. In their opinion, a disastrous civil war was all too likely.

This was also, according to Tilly, the opinion of the American State Department (no flies on Hillary) and hence this operation.

When we had gone some 200 kilometers, we reached a small camp sporting two tents housing three Libyans and a tall, rather decrepit-looking person whom Tilly addressed as 'Professor Smith'. The three Libyans were not of the Sheik's clan, but all was well, particularly when one of the gold ingots exchanged hands. The Professor was reluctant to leave his work, but Tilly can be persuasive. "As Al Capone once noted," she said, "a kind word can sometimes get things done. A kind word and a gun always gets things done."

After the Professor had gathered his things, along with some pieces of very strange equipment, we set off, making for the coastal town of Ajdabiya, where we were to leave Libya in a rented dhow. Then the wheels came off.

We had just entered the town when --"

Sorry to report that at this point the Compte de Rienville entered the hospital room, swept Simone up in his arms, and carried her off, much to her delight. She will finish the narrative when she has been, in her words, 'comforted'.

-- Matilda Hatt

Dalliance in the Desert, Part I

Bit late with this entry, but a trip to and from Libya, and a bit of bobbing around in the Mediterranean Sea, does result in some delay. I am also writing this on a laptop in a Naples hospital, having had a bullet removed from my thigh.

Then the phone at my bedside rang. It was Sir Harry.

He was furious.

"What on earth did you think you were doing?" he shouted over the secure line. "I told you to stay well away from Gadhafi. We have things in hand."

I replied, "This had nothing to do with old Moammar. It involved a rescue operation for the physicist working on the X algorithm. The country is in all likelihood heading for civil war among the clans, and the project was at risk."

"It's not one of our projects. It's an American thing. You had no business risking --"

"I got the schematic."

Sir Harry paused, then said, "Well, as the Americans would say, 'No shit.' Perhaps I could send our attache Cyril around --"

"Only if all is well between us."

"All is fine. I'll get on to the consulate right away."

So that was that. Now for some background.

The whole thing began with a plea from Matilda Hatt, my close CIA friend and confidante. She was requesting my help in retrieving a scientist from deep in the Libyan desert. Tilly knew that I had connections in this area, stemming from my late husband's grandfather, Lord Strunsky II.

He had done some great favour in the past to a major Libyan clan, something involving healthy payment for railway concessions. T.E. Lawrence was also a player here, but I never learned exactly what it was all about. Suffice it to say, the clan chiefs were grateful, and had made Lord Strunsky and his progeny honorary clan members.

This meant that yours truly was known to that particular clan as 'Precious Daughter', and was received with great courtesy whenever I visited, something I had done twice previously. I was also off-limits to any of the young men, a situation that eased my mind considerably, albeit not completely. Some of the sheiks were rather attractive in an Araby sort of way....

Tilly knew all this, and also knew that I had access to the area where the scientist was working on perfecting the algorithm.* Events, however, were moving fast. Gadhafi was in trouble, all the clans were on edge, and civil war was becoming a real possibility. In Tilly's words, "We have to get the bugger out. Fast."

But now at the hospital, it's lights out. In my next entry, I will narrate just what happened. And I certainly won't take so long.

* Readers will understand that what is being described as 'the algorithm' has nothing to do with what the physicist was actually working on. I am not Julian Assange, nor was meant to be.

In the Beginning was the Word....

To lunch with a civil servant who has my respect; that is, his policy recommendations to various and sundry Ministers of the Crown are always supported by sound research and imaginative insight, along with a healthy dollop of common sense. These qualities, of course, have been somewhat career-limiting. In his words, his government tenure has been a movement "from total oblivion to relative obscurity." I liked him a lot.

We lunched at my favourite pub, The Gerundial Infinitive, where the beer and ale are kept well, and the chicken pot pie is fantastic. A further plus is the complete absence ghastly piped-in music, or anything else that would distract one from having a conversation.

The civil servant will remain unnamed -- he is still very much at the heart of things, and I am well aware that anything electronic can be suddenly available to anyone. Why this fact continues to escape politicians baffles me. But there you are.

Once we were happily into Guinness and the aforesaid chicken pot pie, I mentioned my curiosity about a recent government document that had become available in this way, a Minister who had scribbled 'NOT' on a funding proposal, after the government agency had argued for just such funding.*

"Now" said my friend, "that is a subject worth examining. I mean, there was an entire novel, and a brilliant one, devoted to just such an issue. Think of --"

"Jose Saramago. The Siege of Lisbon."

"Oh, well bowled, Simone!" (I do have my moments).

"But as I recall," I continued, "Saramago was exploring the nature of language as it relates to reality. Not quite what is going on here."

"Well yes and well no," John replied, in true civil servant fashion. "The Minister's action, her 'NOT' if you will, considerably altered reality for the group requesting funds. But I do admit that The Siege of Lisbon pursues the matter at a much deeper level."

"Still," I said, "The whole thing created quite a stir."

"And as usual everyone missed the point. You see, the Minister had every right to make such a decision. She is publicly accountable, not the government group arguing for the funding. Yes, it was gauche to see the scribbled 'NOT', and very awkward that the document popped up in the public domain, but there was nothing inherently wrong with any of that. What was unforgivable was, to use our word again, not admitting to the insertion. This was a cover-up, and government history is littered with fallen officials who have tried such cover-ups. Watergate is probably the best example, but there are a myriad of others."

After a moment, I said, "It strikes me, John, that 'not' is a very dangerous word."

"It is that."

I continued. "Just look at Arthur Hugh Clough, and 'Say not the struggle naught availeth.' Moreover, one can get tied up in these knots --"

"Stop that."

So I did.

* The reference here is to one Bev Oda, Canadian Minister for International Development. She turned down a grant request from an evangelical outfit called KAIROS, doing aid work in Uganda.

Follow The Drinking Gourd

I received an invitation from the Mother Superior of the convent I support, The Little Sisters Of Poverty And Pain. It was, I was told, "a matter of some urgency", and an early meeting was requested.

Intrigued, I arranged to meet her at the nunnery. It had been some time since we had last met, and I had always found the woman to be fascinating. After all, she had started out as a pole dancer at Fillmore's in Toronto, and then through a variety of circumstances that would beggar belief, wound up running the convent. That all its nuns were avowed atheists only added to its charm.

We met in her office, and she was accompanied by Sister Athena, the person in charge of the convent's finances. (Sister Athena's former occupation had been as an Executive Vice-President at one of Canada's chartered banks.) Now my curiosity was really piqued.

"Are you aware," Mother Superior asked, of the symbol of the drinking gourd?"

"Of course," I replied. Harriet Tubman. The Big Dipper. The Underground Railway. And of course the song. And I trilled,

Follow the drinking gourd,
Follow the drinking gourd;
For the old man is waiting for to carry you to freedom,
Follow the drinking gourd."

"Well," said Mother Superior, "not exactly Renee Fleming, but passable."

"Passable," chipped in Sister Athena unnecessarily.

"And now that that's out of the way," I continued, "what on earth is this all about?"

"Funding," said Mother Superior. "More precisely, lots more funding."

"I already fund this enterprise. Handsomely. Not to mention keeping the Vatican away from closing you down. Why more?"

Mother Superior said, "I will let Sister Athena explain. She has the financial logistics all worked out."

"I'll bet she has." I leaned back in my chair, and learned the following.

Apparently, the convent was in dire need of expansion. Sister Athena had explored the possibility of obtaining three adjacent properties, albeit at a stiff price. This expansion was necessary owing to a program begun by the Sisters to establish an underground railway similar to Tubman's. The purpose was to give young girls and women a chance to escape from horrific family conditions; to wit, being raped by an uncle or cousin, then being accused of adultery, and then being tortured or killed for the "crime". The program was growing in success, and using the underground railway motif in several countries, complete with hidden directional signals, a slew of females were able to flee from their ghastly situations. In short, the convent was swamped with new arrivals.

I was told the directional signals, but you will not learn them here. I and others in The Trade long ago realized that the Internet was a very leaky thing, and wouldn't think of putting anything really confidential anywhere near it. (Take that, Julian Assange!) Why politicians still -- oh, never mind.

Sister Athena also stated that English teachers fluent in Dari, Pushtun, Arabic and Hindi were critical to the program's success. Since such people didn't actually grow on trees and were expensive, funding was needed in this area as well. Yet, as Sister Athena stressed, these teachers were absolutely necessary in order to effect a smooth transition into North American society.

I was a bit gobstruck. This really was a program both useful and imaginative. But just how much were the Sisters requesting?

"One point two million Canadian," said Mother Superior flatly. "I should hasten to add that the figure includes the purchase of two more Cessnas at the Can Do program. Learning to fly really does up the women's self-esteem no end."

"Now your Ladyship," began Mother Superior --

"Shhh. I'm thinking."

A long silence ensued, and then I thought of a way to make this all happen. In the hands of Irving's friend Rachel, The Wraith software could assume control of another computer. It would be neat if she could waltz into old Karzai's numbered account, transfer the requested amount to the Sisters, and make it appear that the funds had been deposited into his brother's account. That should stir things up a bit in Afghanistan, and a number of Afghan women would benefit.

"All right," I said. "It's a done deal. But no queries into the how of it."

Both nodded with alacrity, and then Mother Superior said, "Come. We'd like to show you something."

I was taken to the convent's inner courtyard, where a number of young girls and women were being instructed in martial arts.

"The instructor is Sister Hera," said Sister Athena. "She has two black belts. Karate and Tae Kwan Do."

I watched for a moment, then gasped. "She's teaching killing blows!"

"Of course she is. These women will have to survive on the outside, and a number of them will no doubt be tracked down. The 'family honour' nonsense. And their opponents will go to the wall. After all, if they don't succeed, and are killed themselves, they are still promised Paradise. The 72 virgins and all."

"Although," said Mother Superior wryly, "one would think that after four or five virgins, all the man would want is a pro."

Well, once a pole dancer, always a pole dancer.

Neela

My son Mark dropped in, a delightful surprise. He had been very hard to get in touch with since achieving employment at the CERN Large Hadron Collider near Geneva, and hence my pleasure at the unexpected visit.

There was, of course, more to it than filial love.

Mark had in tow a very attractive fellow physicist, a sweet young thing named Neela Karim, who was in a spot of trouble. Both were worried, and after settling them down with a good helping of Laphroaig, I asked just what was up.

It was a bit complex.

Neela had spent her childhood in Waziristan, and her beauty was noticeable even at a young age. Now in that area of the world, girls were commodities to be used for the benefit of the clan. (For clan read the male members). At the age of ten, she had been promised in marriage to a Pakistan trader operating in London. Neela, now sixteen, was duly sent off, but upon arrival discovered that her espoused had married another (and richer) woman. In Waziristan, the local mullah immediately issued a fatwa against the trader, calling for his death. At this point, however, clan warfare erupted -- something about goats -- and her parents and sundry tribal elders had simply forgotten about her.

Neela quickly made an alliance with another Pakistani family, who, to their credit treated her as a human being. She attended school, and her natural intelligence began to assert itself. In Mark's words, she was "bright as hell" and after her graduation, Neela had posted a paper she had written for her A level physics course. Mark had seen it, and suggested to his CERN colleagues that Neela would be an excellent candidate for one of the three internships that were currently available. Long story short, Neela was accepted, and the sun shone brightly on the land.

Well, not quite.

Back in Waziristan, after a number of people had been slaughtered and the goats returned, someone got around to remembering Neela. One of the clan elders, sixty years old and recently widowed (his oft-beaten wife had hurled herself off a cliff) indicated to Neela's parents that he would deign to marry her, thus bestowing great honour on Neela's parents. Her two brothers were sent to fetch her.

They traced her to Geneva, but by this time Neela had got wind of the enterprise. Mark had some leave time available, and he and Neela had fled, and then plunked themselves down at the Manor. In Mark's words, "Mum will know what to do."

Yeah, sure. Solve anything. Anytime. Anywhere.

Before taking any action, however, I wanted to know a bit more about Neela. I took her aside, and learned the following.

A. She really was extremely bright. (Well, so am I. Big deal)

B. She had come to the conclusion that Islam was a crock, and was beginning to think that all organized religion was a gigantic power and money grab. (I began to warm to this girl.)

C. She was aware of her beauty, but didn't trade on it. (If only some similar girls -- oh, never mind.)

D. She was hopelessly in love with Mark. (Uh, oh. This could be problematical. I will have to have a talk with Mark.)

I next had a conversation with my son, and learned that he was smitten, and was convinced that Neela was his entire universe. Well, these things happen. In any event, I decided to act. I realized that the pursuing brothers would not give up easily, "honour" being at stake and all, and therefore a strategy was necessary.

Now a number of people scattered around the global village owed me favours (and I them). I was thus able to learn that the Karim brothers were still in Geneva. I got in touch with a Swiss police officer with whom I had dealings. A few years ago, I had assisted in bringing down an arsonist who hated Swiss cheese and had burned down a number of stores selling the stuff. He was glad to help, located the Karim brothers through their hotel registrations (the Swiss register everything) and discussed the situation with them.

He informed them that their sister had fallen for a wealthy Mexican, and she had left Switzerland for that country. He gave a forwarding address (the Swiss are thorough) at a palatial villa on the outskirts of Ciudad Juarez, but warned them that it was probably a hangout for one of the drug gangs that currently infest Mexico. I doubted if the Karim brothers would follow that lead up, but if they did, the Mexican drug cartels were just as thorough as the Swiss. Good luck to them.

Still, it would be better if Neela had a new identity entirely. After some help from Sir Harry, who had been pleased at my assessment of the North African eruptions, Neela became a British citizen, with a passport in the name of Beena Patel. At which point we all went out to dinner, and an intense discussion of the where and what of the Higgs bosun.

Well why not?

A New Order In North Africa

Given the recent events in North Africa, I was expecting the call, and was not surprised when it came.

It was, of course, Sir Harry.

"Just what is going on over there?" he said bluntly, while assuming I knew where "there" was, and what specifically was occurring.

"Well," I said, drawing on my Yeats, "the centre cannot hold, the falcon cannot hear the falconer, and a very rough beast --"

"Stop that! I simply want a report, and not one that focuses on the obvious. I can get that from the media. I pay you to go after what is not obvious."

"Will do. And stay away from North Korea. It's a dangerous place."

"How did you -- oh, her, and that WRAITH thing. That we have to talk about some time. Now I would appreciate it if you could get right on it. Bye, now."

Goodness, he even said goodbye. Usually he just hangs up, something which leads me to believe that MI 6 is very, very worried.

Well they have reason to be.

I spent about two hours on the secure line, calling in a number of markers involving an halal butcher in Cairo, an olive farmer in Lebanon and a gold vendor in an Aden souk in Yemen, as well as having a fascinating conversation with a 'madam' I got to know in a Tunis brothel. Sources such as these, once they trust you, will always deliver useful information, and not the 'Will of Allah' drivel shouted out on the street. Or, for that matter, on CNN or Al-Jazeera. So here is my take on things.

The eruptions in Lebanon, Tunisia, Yemen and Egypt all appeared to occur at roughly the same time. This fact seems to have escaped the pundits and analysts reviewing the situation, and it was a fact to which that I gave some consideration. What had triggered all these uprisings? The only thing all had in common was the initial outrage at rising food prices. Hah! There it was, the Gini Coefficient at work. The top 5% of the earners wouldn't give a tinker's damn, but for the
impoverished 95%, it was a matter of life and death.

So the person responsible for all this is Al Gore.

Well, not really. He had just warned about global warming, when he would have been better off rabbiting on about climate change. Nevertheless, climate change has drastically curtailed food production in many places, and farmers take time to adapt to changing conditions. So prices rise, along with anger, and sooner or later there is spillage.

And that spillage that can be very bloody indeed.

[An aside: The Gini Coefficient in America is getting dangerously high. Both Republicans and Democrats should be worried about this; the lowly 95% are exceedingly well-armed. A topic for another day.]

Now to the players in the North African drama.

Lebanon: A thriving middle class and a slew of factions all wanting a piece of the action should be enough to see off Hizbollah. But Hizbollah has all the guns, so things remain dicey.

Tunisia: Tunisians are well-educated, and the middle class is an effective force. Ben Ali has fled to Saudi Arabia, his family elsewhere (including Canada, where they may be sent right back) so things should ease and a new government take shape. If Islamic fundamentalists take charge, however, watch out.

Yemen: A number of my sources saw Yemen as easy prey for Al Qaeda. I am not so sure. Yemen is a tribal society, and clan loyalty will trump lunatic jihadists every time.

Egypt: The biggie. Here two things are of paramount importance, a vibrant and growing middle class (although it needs to grow much larger) and a well-equipped and well-led army (it gave Israel its toughest fight). Those two factors should be able to cope with the Muslim Brotherhood and their call for a 'New Order". Mubarak has already agreed not to run in a future election, and is eying property on the Riviera. We shall see.

And as for the Muslim Brotherhood's call for a 'New Order', I refer them to the words engraved on Franklin Roosevelt's memorial monument:

They who seek to establish systems of government based on the regimentation of all human beings by a handful of individuals call this a new order. It is not new, and it is not order.

Bye, now.

A Productive Tea

To the Old Mill and tea with my good friend Fiona, with whom I had shared a room with at Oxford. I was reading English literature, she was studying tribolite fossils, so we got along just fine. From there I had gone to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, to pursue my interest in Ruhmkorff coils, while Fiona had come to Toronto, and obtained work at the Royal Ontario Museum (it has an excellent tribolite collection). I had stayed in England, and because I was fluent in Russian and Mandarin, was interviewed by Sir Harry (as he then wasn't) and the rest is mostly classified history.

Fiona's interest in tribolites waned, and she then was hired by the Canadian Government, where she now had a Directorate in Immigration, and was to my knowledge being squired about by Code Barry, my CSIS contact. How her expertise in fossils helps her work in immigration policies and programs escapes me.

We dressed up for this occasion. I wore an YSL paisley blouse and a knee-high brown corduroy skirt designed by Vera Wang. My Robert Clergerie boots helped things along. I was, however, particularly enamoured of the skirt -- I had it altered slightly to include a small inner pocket close to my left thigh, just right for a Derringer. I could retrieve and fire the weapon in a split second (practice is always a Good Thing).

Well, a girl in my line of work can't be too careful these days.

Fiona looked lovely in a blue woolen sheath that screamed Donna Karan, and her blue Jimmy Choo pumps were a perfect match. The government was obviously paying well. Recession? What recession?

As we daintily gobbled (possible oxymoron there) delicious cucumber sandwiches and scones laced with large dollops of black currant jam, all washed down with a good Oolong, I learned what is new in the immigration game. Fiona mentioned how important it was to master either English or French, and obtain at least a working knowledge of Canadian history. No news there. What was new was the following.

According to Fiona, Canadian gun control came as a revelation to many landed immigrants, including a fair smattering of Americans. A crime committed was, needless to say, not helpful in obtaining citizenship. A crime committed with a gun was fatal, and even possession was quite enough to incur deportation. And at this point in the conversation, Fiona gave me a hard stare, an action which led me to think that Code Barry had let something slip....

Another hurdle that immigrants had to master was, of all things, queuing. There was an etiquette at work here, and nothing enraged Canadians more than someone butting into the head of a line and displacing those patiently waiting. Not a few politicians have come to grief on this cross, and the practice should be avoided at all costs. Except perhaps where the Sherbourne bus is concerned, given that any number of mental health operations are strung out along its route. The exception, then, that proves the rule.

Finally, bribery in any form was forbidden. This, Fiona stated, was perhaps the most difficult thing for a landed immigrant to grasp. The societies from which they had come often bloody well ran on bribery, and to eschew the practice was very difficult indeed. In Fiona's words, "It had become a habit, and not one easily broken."

"I understand," I said. As the physicist Rupert Sheldrake once commented, 'The universe has habits, not laws.'"

Fiona just stared, then continued, indicating that the Immigration Ministry had reached a deal with the various police forces that when offered a bribe from a prospective immigrant, the cop was to indicate to the person that they had committed a criminal offence. The next time it occurred, a charge would be laid. For the most part, this approach seemed to be working, although Fiona mentioned that the policy was received with amazement by the immigrants.

"But what," I asked, "of refugees?"

"Now that," Fiona replied, "is a different ballgame entirely. Let's talk about that another time. Right now I'm enjoying this, and why ruin a perfectly good tea?"

Why indeed.

Fun With Ill-Gotten Finances

Back from Tucson, and with some time on my hands, I began to delve into Conrad Black's life of Franklin Roosevelt. Curled up on the sofa in my study, sipping a Grey Goose over ice, I began to read. Goodness, I thought, the man can write, and I thought it a pity that Lord Black of Crossharbour had not made a career of teaching and writing history, rather than grubbing around in finance, raiding pension funds, and sneaking financial records out of buildings facing dimly-lit alleys. Oh well, as my mentor once observed, this also applied to Hermann Goering, an acknowledged expert in the poetry of John Keats. Would that he had stuck to nightingales rather than Messerschmitts! Can't have everything, though.

I had barely started when my secure phone line rang. It was Sister Cecelia of a charity I support, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain, a gathering of atheistic nuns that have appeared in these pages before. The good Sister is in charge of the organization's finances, and wanted to thank me for the most recent, very large, donation.

"What donation?" I asked. I have a good head for where my money goes, and the Sisters had already received their 2011 allotment.

"Why the funds that you transferred to our account," said Cecilia. "About $300,000.00 dollars. In fact, we've gone ahead and purchased two Cessna Skylanes, and have contracted with a very good mechanic to help us out. The planes will do wonders for our Can Do Program. A woman who can control and fly an airplane... well, just think about it. [See entries for July 15 and 22, entitled Employing Empowerment]. And you didn't have to indicate that the donation was anonymous. After all, since Holy Mother Church withdrew their financial backing, you are our main supporter, although the women who have turned their lives around give us what they can."

What was she talking about? I had done nothing to -- and then realization struck. The funds had obviously been transferred electronically, and I had a very good idea how it had come about. I wished Cecilia well, rang off, and headed downstairs to the computer room.

There I encountered Rachel, hunched over one of her machines. (She has six of various capabilities).

She looked up, said "Hi" and continued to type God knows what on the keyboard.

"Rachel," I said firmly, "we must talk."

"OK," she replied. "I needed a break anyway". She shut her machine down, rose, and stretched her six foot frame, then settled back into her chair. She really was an imposing woman.

I sat down beside her. "Where is Irving?" Lately, they've been inseparable.

"He strained his back. Not serious, but he needs to rest. We were working out in the gym, and he tried to counter Arrow Over The Mountain with Cactus Frozen In Ice. Not a good move."

"No, he should have used Cactus In Coriander. But that's not what's at issue here. What's with the donation to the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain?"

"Oh, you found out."

"It wasn't rocket science. You do have a reputation."

"Well, this whole thing began with a suggestion from your friend, Matilda Hatt. She thought that if it were possible, it would be of benefit to many if funds obtained illegally could somehow be extracted from their 'secret' accounts, and then given to those who do good work. I thought about this a bit, worked on some code, inserted it into the WRAITH software, and went to work."

"What 'work?' Specifically."

"I took over accounts housed in places like Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Grand Cayman Islands -- places like that. I then transferred sizeable chunks of cash to Medicins Sans Frontieres, the Red Cross, UNICEF, and other organizations that do positive things. I mean, no point in the money just sitting there, doing no good for anyone."

I paled. "And just who had access to these accounts?"

"Ah," replied Rachel sweetly. "Here's the beauty. The owners of the accounts would be the last to raise an outcry, because they have all publicly denied having such accounts. People like Robert Mugabe, and a slew of other African so-called leaders. People like some hedge fund managers who did a nice skimming job during the recent financial mess. Oh, then there's Tunisia. I just finished taking a rather hefty debit from Ben Ali's account. He'll get a surprise when he taps into his holdings from wherever he has fled to."

"Saudi Arabia. But Rachel, I want you to stop. To be sure, the owners won't scream, but the bankers will be frantic, and banks have very deep pockets. Deep enough that over time they will crack your code, and then this place becomes vulnerable. I already have Al-Qaeda breathing down my neck. I don't want the gnomes of Zurich as well."

Rachel thought for a moment, sighed, and said, "I take your point. But it was fun while it lasted."

"It's always fun until someone loses an eye."

Reappraising Arizona

Sir Harry, my employer in The Trade, had been quiet for some time. This usually meant that either things were very quiet, or he, Cheney-like, had been whisked off to some undisclosed location because things were far from being quiet. As it turned out, he had simply taken some vacation time where he had enjoyed swanning around the Costa Del Sol. (I found this out via Rachel's WRAITH software, which, by means of taking over a computer, allows me to find people, anywhere, anytime. Wonderful stuff.)

"I need a report," stated Sir Harry, never one to waste time in pleasantries.

"Nice tan you've acquired," I replied.

"How did you --"

"Uh, uh. That would be telling."

A long pause, followed by, "Well, we'll put that aside for now. What I want to know is what is going on in Arizona."

I said, "The media is full of what is going on in Arizona. Some of the stories are even accurate. You don't need me on this one."

"Actually, you're right. But I would like to hear an assessment from your contact there."

This stymied me. "What contact?" I asked.

"There was this sheriff you got to know when you were reporting on illegal immigrants. Dupstick or Dipstick or something. He spoke sense then. Maybe he can speak sense now."

I thought for a moment, then it hit me. Clarence. Clarence Dupnik. The sane sheriff in Pima county in contrast to the out of control Joe Arpaio in Maricopa county. (Cf. Appraising Arizona, entry for May 1, 2010).

I told Sir Harry I could have a talk with Clarence Dupnik, but this would necessitate a trip to Tucson.

"Just do it quickly. Use Grimsby if you have to. The Home Secretary is interested in this one for some reason."

I got in touch with my pilot on retainer, Hank Grimsby, and shortly was in the Lear heading for Arizona. I booked in to an inexpensive but clean-looking motel near the centre of town, slipped into jeans, western boots and my 'Truckers For Christ' T-shirt, and sauntered off to meet Clarence, receiving some approving glances by the way. I mean when in Rome....

My outfit certainly impressed the deputies, and I had no trouble getting right in to Clarence's office.

He looked up, took in my appearance, and said "Really, Simone?'

"Helps to pass unnoticed. You OK?"

"I've been better. I enjoyed our first meeting. How is Ms Hatt? And the immigrant woman, Maria, wasn't it?"

"It was. Tilly is doing just fine. As for Maria, she stayed with us awhile, helping her cousin Consuela. Shortly after, she met a young Guatemalan man who was just entering a metal-bashing course somewhere. She decided to do the same thing, and now both are gainfully employed at a Guatemalan auto-body shop. Apparently she is somewhat of a genius at spot welding. Who knew?"

Then we got down to business. I was aware that Clarence had spoken of the need to use the tragic shooting of the Congresswoman, judge and the others -- a nine year old girl, for Heaven's sake! -- as an opportunity to dampen down the fierce rhetoric between the American right and left. He also stressed that President Obama had given perhaps his finest speech ever urging the same thing. Sadly, it doesn't look like pleas such as these will work, and the good Mr. Dupnik made the following points.

First, the National Rifle Association views this as a marketing opportunity, with the NRA urging everyone to acquire more weaponry in order to be more adept at self-defence. (Well, that crazed organization would, wouldn't they?) Secondly, while the Congress cooled down a bit, the radio talk shows didn't, and even Clarence found himself pilloried for trying to calm things down. And then there was Sarah Palin.

Clarence is always fair, and he stated that Palin had begun her remarks in a reasonable and even- handed way. All was fine, and if she had simply signed off at that point, she would have gained stature.

She didn't, and out came the reference to 'blood libel'. Clarence hastened to say that he doubted very much if Palin had the slightest idea of what the term meant, but rather had evolved it all on her own. I tended to agree. Sarah Palin would not be the first source I would go to for data on medieval Europe (although she does seem, from time to time, to hail from the 14th century). Therefore she would have been unaware that the term applied to Jews using children's blood to prepare Passover matzo. The term's usage by Palin ignited a firestorm, and saner Republicans lamented that the Jewish vote was now a lost cause. Not that it was any hell to begin with.

On hearing all this, I leaned forward and said, "Clarence, my good friend, I can state truly that I admire your courage in speaking out, and at least attempting to put forward a position with reason and integrity."

"Yeah," he said glumly. "But the next election for sheriff doesn't look good."

"Oh, you might be surprised. and I brought you a little Russian message."

I handed him a piece of paper. He read it, then said, "A Russian wrote this?"

"Yes. A poet. Yevgeny Yevtushenko."

"I will tape it to my desk. And thank you."

What I handed to him was this:

"How sharply our children will be ashamed taking at last their vengeance for these horrors, remembering in how strange a time, common integrity could look like courage."

Might want to tape that to your desk, too.

Oddities

Well, finally, peace has descended on the Manor. All progeny and guests have departed, save for daughter Victoria, who is involved in a movie and, even as I write this, is happily being stuffed into a culvert somewhere around Stoney Creek. I do wish she would drop this proclivity and stick with her historical writing and research, but she loves doing these cinematic stunts. Makes a good buck, too, but this is all too reminiscent of the fate of Conrad, Lord Black of Crossharbour, who would have been much better off writing history rather than raiding worker's pension funds and various other nefarious fiscal activities. But enough -- unwise career choices is a topic for another day.

The quiet and calm gave me an opportunity to catch up on what has been going on in the world. As I perused some sources, print and non-print, I was struck by the prominence of the weird and unusual.

First, their appears to be some force disturbing the hell out of the earth's fauna. Thousands of birds crash to the ground on Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, and, for some odd reason, Sweden. Forty thousand crabs wash up on the Thanet shoreline in the U.K., while one hundred thousand drum fish surface lifeless in the Arkansas river. My scientific friends assure me that these things happen from time to time, but still....And it is somewhat of a pity that such a suicidal affliction couldn't be visited upon the slew of religious zealots presently causing mayhem. The world would instantly become a kinder, gentler, and, most of all, saner place.

Then I read of the case of the Florida professor who was turfed from a U.S. Air flight after fellow passengers were worried about a suspicious package he had put in the overhead bin. Suspicious indeed -- the package contained a bagel with cream cheese. In America today, I guess you can't be careful enough.

Next came the revelation that Canada's junior hockey team was deficient in mathematics, a deficiency that cost them the gold medal at the recent competition. Didn't anyone teach these young lads that there are three periods in a hockey game, not two? Really and truly....

Finally, I note that Chinese firms have been drawn to Saudi Arabia, and have been investing in Saudi infrastructure and industry, including a large aluminium smelter in the southern province of Jizan and a railway construction project in Mecca. This involves hundreds of Chinese workers. This last project was of interest, for the Saudis insist that all non-Muslims are prohibited from even being in Mecca, let alone working there. China, however, has long experience in handling such issues, citing Confucious: "When on the horns of a dilemma, the wise man throws sand in the bull's face." Thus China simply converted all the workers to Islam.

If I had been able, I would have cornered the circumcision market. Been on the cutting edge.

So to speak.

Weird. Weider. Weirdest

Yes, a bit late with this note, but A LOT happened this Christmas at the Manor. Here are the highlights.

The Weird.

Daughter Isolde and son Mark were late arriving, and appeared in the company of Irving and his computer maven, Rachel. An odder foursome would be hard to imagine. Even odder was how it had all come about.

It all started at the airport security check at the Vienna Airport. (Isolde is First Violinist with the Vienna Philharmonic). It seems that someone attempted to steal Isolde's Stradivarius while going through the airport security check. As the Strad was being seized by a nasty individual with a straggly goatee (I hate goatees) another hand quickly covered the thief's hand, crushing it and causing the person to faint from the pain. The perpetrator was soon rushed away for medical, and hopefully penal, care. This was Irving in action, and I immediately recognized the hold, 'Tom Thumb On Anvil'. Works every time, although the hand involved would never completely recover. Nice Islamic touch, if you will.

Just how they all came together at the airport Irving put down to coincidence. I thought this was rubbish -- he and Rachel had obviously planned it, thus allowing Irving to look out for my kids. Once a minder, always a minder. Isolde was suitably grateful, but Irving did exact a price: a 2012 date with the Israeli Philharmonic and a performance of Bruch's Violin Concerto.

Weirder

Just as things were settling down a bit, a huge ruckus developed at the front gate. Irving reported the presence of a petitioner who would not go away. Normally Irving would have settled the matter himself -- 'Bone Marrow Over Cranberry' works well in these situations, and leaves no permanent harm -- but apparently the petitioner cited a reference of my immediate neighbour, urging me to see him. Intrigued now, I donned parka and scarf and trotted out to the front.

There I encountered a nice young man sporting a Toronto Maple Leaf cap. I warmed to him immediately, for I am drawn to those who support lost causes. He was garnering support for the Canadian Liberated Urban Chicken Klub, a group that faces certain charges for maintaining backyard chicken coops. He indicated that my neighbour had signed this petition, and had directed him here. Since my neighbour could buy and sell Toronto itself, I wondered about all this. The only connection with poultry he would have would be his collection of Faberge eggs. Then I got it, once I worked out the acronym: C.L.U.C.K.

Wonderful.

I signed the petition, and invited him in for a small seasonal libation. He and Mark, also a Leafs fan, bonded in no time, and happily bemoaned, and bemoaned, and...er...bemoaned.

Weirdest

In my last writing, I mentioned that my gardener and housekeeper Consuela had given birth to a girl. This, of course, while significant, couldn't be termed weird. What was weird was the little girl's father, Ahmad. Their marriage was one between Muslim and Catholic, and the birth of the baby had brought certain decisions to a head. In a quiet conversation with Ahmad, he informed me of the following.

For some time now, he said, he had been outraged what had been occurring in the name of Islam. He finally had determined that the religion had been hijacked, an opinion reinforced by some work in the greenhouse. (Ahmad had been taking over some of Consuela's chores while she was enceinte.) He had been wrapping some parsnip seedlings in discarded newspapers, when he spotted an article in the New York Times Magazine by novelist Hanif Kureishi. It caused him to think deeply, and finally to dispense with religion entirely. I was glad to see another spring from superstition, but what on earth had he read?

Some scurrying around occurred at this point, but the article was eventually produced, and Ahmad pointed to one paragraph in particular. Here it is:

"Fundamentalism is dictatorship of the mind, but a live culture is an exploration, and represents our endless curiosity about our own strangeness and impossible sexuality: wisdom is more important than doctrine, doubt more important than certainty. Fundamentalism implies the failure of our most significant attribute, our imagination."

Can't say it better than that. Happy New Year to all.