Oh Why, Oh Why, Do We Occupy?

At the urging of Sir Harry, my employer, I had been asked to examine the rationale behind the "occupation" presently occurring in various cities. This request struck me as a bit odd. The world's press saw it as a protest between the 'haves' and the 'have nots', as did I, but perhaps there was more to it. Sir Harry as a rule does not make witless requests.

There were various 'occupations' in Canadian cities, but these I avoided. Canada has nowhere near the gap between rich and poor relative to the other jurisdictions at issue, its banking system is sound, a sub-par mortgage would not be possible to obtain, and its unemployment rate, an estimated 6.5 to 7%, is not bad in the current economic climate. It also helps that the Prime Minister is a shrewd economist. There would be little point in conducting interviews with the occupiers; all you would get is a vague unease or the pushing of one sort of 'cause' or another.

Instead, I headed for New York, to Wall Street, the epicentre of the whole thing.

Irving, my Israeli minder, insisted upon accompanying me. He thought New Yorkers were slightly unhinged, and, in certain situations, could be dangerous. I acquiesced, recalling that New York was the chosen site for the film Men In Black with its thesis of New York as a kind of way station for extra-terrestials -- a not improbable proposition.

I travel armed, of course, keeping my customized 380 ACP in my purse, an attractive Fendi, since you ask. Why the gun is customized will become apparent in a moment.

At American customs, one comes face to face with officials of the American Transportation Agency (TSA) and all that that entails. A search of my handbag by an over sized woman with steely eyes produced the gun.

"What," she growled, "is this?"

"It's a vibrator." (When I said I had a custom-made gun, I meant it.)

"Doesn't look like a vibrator."

This somewhat odd exchange had drawn the interest of other TSA officials, both male.

"Well," I said, trying to be demure, "We can go into one of your little booths and I can show --"

The woman's face coloured. She quickly put the item back into the bag, and nodded curtly that I could go through. The two TSA guys looked disappointed, and Irving's face was contorted as he attempted to stifle a laugh.

In New York, we rented an Altima, and Irving drove first to Second Avenue, to the Israeli Consulate, saying that he was going to pick up his vibrator.

A bit later, I was mingling with the crowd in Wall Street. Irving was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he was nearby, watching.

The assemblage at Wall Street was unusual. It appeared that all walks of life were represented, not just the youth that so characterized the Canadian 'occupations'. The young ones were furious that their job hunts were proving so fruitless; the older ones just as furious that their pensions had been savaged (if they had any pensions at all). Both groups lamented the abysmal state of health care, and the even more abysmal state of the current U.S. Congress. As for the President, Obama was seen to be in the clutches of the very corporations that were at the bottom of the mess. This was summed up neatly by a professor of English at NYU who, on the subject of the President, drew on Hamlet: "O, what a noble mind is here o'er thrown".

This coming together of young and old I thought worthy to bring to Sir Harry's attention. Yes, the occupiers lacked a single purpose, yes, they were in some disarray, but one would be naive indeed to ignore just how many felt tremendous frustration at the growing gap between those that were exceedingly well off, and those that were tumbling down to penury. And if you're presently on the top, be careful. The situation is not going to go away.

Upon my return, I noted another factor had been added, perhaps to be expected. The various tribes of First Nations people had taken note of all this commotion, and, at least in Toronto, had begun to set up an occupation of their own, stating that this was "sacred ground" belonging only to them. (Why it was sacred remains unclear. Perhaps this was the burial mound of some elder long ago who had been gored to death by a gigantic elk. Or not -- reason tends to be rather unhelpful in this type of context.) In any event, money usually resolves this type of occupation.

Finally, what the occupiers are going to have to cope with in the future has been outlined by one deep thinker and philosopher. I speak, of course, of Doris Day, with one small addition to her famous lyrics:

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty, will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me.

No.

Unhappy Girls

Finally, some quiet time at the Manor, and a chance to catch up on what has been happening in the world. The following items caught my eye.

1.Unhappy Girls In China

I note that the People's Republic has been experimenting with television reality shows, and was achieving great success with a talent enterprise entitled "Happy Girl". The show was broadcast by a state-owned satellite television company in the southern province of Hunan, and was avidly followed by millions of fans. At the end of this years run, the Chinese government announced that the airing of the show next year would be cancelled.

This should surprise? The shows followers could, by using text messages from their mobile phones, VOTE, thereby expressing a choice for the most believable "Happy Girl". This expressing of democratic choice no doubt spread horror among members of the Politburo, hence the cancellation. The replacement? A show entitled "Practical Information About Housework". Unhappy girls indeed.

2. An Unhappy Girl In Ukraine

A part of me, and not the best part, believes that the winner of any election would dearly love to put the leader of the opposition in prison as quickly as possible. Makes things secure, as it were. This is precisely the fate of Yulia Tymoshenko.

And this brings us to Viktor Yanukovich, who managed to scrape up a win in Ukraine's last election (part of Ukraine is still in a gloomy Russian fog.) One of his first acts was to initiate very dubious legal proceedings against Ms Tymoshenko, who suddenly found herself jailed for seven years. One could almost hear Viktor saying, "There. Problem solved. No more fuss."

Well, a fuss there would be.

As readers would know, Yulia had been of great help to me in setting up my largest sugar beet plantation. In that one favour deserves another, I decided enough was enough, and made a few phone calls on very secure lines.

Shortly after, Viktor received two letters excoriating him for his actions against Yulia, one from the American Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton (no slouch at dealing with wayward men) and another from Catherine Ashton, head of foreign policy for the E,U. Suddenly, American support and possible E.U. membership were at grave risk. I even managed to whisper into Vladimir Putin's tinted ear that Yulia had given him a more than fair gas contract, and urged him to "have a word" with Viktor. These actions also had the effect of causing the formidable magazine, The Economist, to raise a cudgel on her behalf.

Will such pressure work? We will see, but word has it that Viktor is rapidly considering his options. Perhaps a presently unhappy girl will become happy again.

3. Lindsay Lohan

A very paragon of unhappiness, with way too much already written on the subject. All I have to say is that the American legal system appears relentless in its pursuit of Ms Lohan. It is a great pity that the same legal verve isn't being brought against a slew of Wall Street bankers and traders, who continue to cavort merrily in The Hamptons or the Costa del Sol. So Anatole France: "Laws are like spider's webs; small creatures get caught. Larger ones break free and get away."

Indeed.

A Night At The Opera

I must confess to a fondness for opera. This stems from an experience I underwent when I was very young, and still learning The Trade. In short, while undertaking an assignment in Paris, I had screwed up rather badly, thus proving that Hesse was right when he stated "Experience is a good school, but the fees are high."

Very high indeed, and for three hours I would be at extreme risk. To go into more detail of what, where and why would fill a book; suffice it to say that I had to stay well hidden for those three hours.

At this point in time, a young French nobleman came to my rescue, pulled a string, and I found myself a cast member of the Paris Opera and its production of Bizet's Carmen. So there I was, in peasant blouse and flashy red skirt, part of Carmen's entourage, and obvious to all. Except those who were trying to hunt me down. Poe got it right in The Purloined Letter: if you want to hide something, make it visible.

The nobleman, of course, was the Compte de Rienville, and we have been together (more or less) since then. After the performance, and now safe, I even got complimented by the opera's Director, saying that I had a nice little contralto voice. I brightened at this, causing him to repeat the word "little".

Oh well, I had never dreamed of a career in opera anyway.

All of which leads to attending a recent performance of Giuseppe Verdi's Rigoletto. I had done a small favour for the lead cellist, who was being stalked by an extremely annoying man. After some things were said and done, I could report to her that the creep had left the country entirely. On crutches. The cellist had thanked me profusely, and also sent two seats in the Grand Ring of Toronto's new Opera House.

Matilda Hatt being in town, I persuaded her to attend. This took some doing. Tilly had never been to an opera, and was not that keen on the enterprise. "It will be boring," she stated, "and I don't have a dress anyway."

"I have a slew of Armani's, Donna Karan's" and Lord knows what else" I replied. "Moreover, my son Sebastian has created some stunners. So that will solve the outfit problem. As for being bored, I doubt that very much."

So off we went. I was comfortable in my Chanel little black dress, while Tilly looked smashing in an off-the-shoulder number, one of Sebastian's best. She really should put more effort into appearance.

When we entered the house, Tilly gasped. "My goodness, all this wood. So warm. So inviting. It's like IKEA on amphetamines!"

"Acoustics are first rate too."

The performance started, and I was interested to note that Tilly was transfixed. Verdi's music is powerful, the story gripping, and Tilly could follow every nuance through the overhead surtitles. At the end of the opera, with Rigoletto, remembering an earlier curse, screaming "Ah!-- la maledizione!" over the body of his dead daughter, I saw tears streaming down Tilly's face. Bored she was not.

Later, at a suitable bar, Tilly made an interesting point about Rigoletto. "You know," she said, "there's not one likable or noble character in the thing. Rigoletto is vicious in his taunts to others, and while he loves his daughter, hiding her away from the world does her no favours. The Duke is a rogue and a liar, Maddalena is a whore, the courtiers are toadies and lack anything near compassion, and the only one with any integrity at all is Sparafucile. And he is an assassin!"

"And your point?"

"The thing works! I enjoyed every minute."

I said, "I suspect Verdi has something to do with that. The music, after all, is dominant."

"You may be right," Tilly said. "You know, when I consider the 'Rigoletto' nature of the United States Congress, my thought is, Giuseppe, where are you now when we need you?"

Where indeed.

The Lost Spike

Bit late with this one, but even people in The Trade need some down time, time I enjoyed in cottage country. I am, however, now back at The Manor, and begin with the following dialogue:

"Don't look over there! No one went there."

"Bit improbable, but you never know."

"Well go ahead, but it's a waste of time."

First, to get at what all this is about, some positioning is in order. I had been invited by my good friend of many years, The Emp, to rest and relax at his fine island cottage on beautiful Lake Piranha in the Haliburton Highlands. Bodhan, my Ukrainian sugar beet manager, was also present, as was Sir Peter Crapp, a colleague in The Trade. The Emp had made a request, but Sir Peter, having previously worked hard in shifting firewood from the mainland to the island, was more keen on taking a quiet row around the island than participating.

Now a word about my friend The Emp. The term comes from a genealogical exploration he once did, where he traced his family tree back through United Empire Loyalists to England, and then to Germany, where he was delighted to learn that one of his ancestors hailed from some minor German principality, but had succeeded in becoming, briefly, an Emperor in the Holy Roman Empire. Briefly, because he died shortly thereafter from a surfeit of capers. Exploring further, he ran across another ancestor named Miles The Slasher, and at that point his interest in genealogy withered.

The Emp, I might add, is a kind of emperor on the island, ruling benignly over a number of suitably cowed cottagers. All is usually well, but every now and then The Emp commits the error best illustrated by The Charge of the Light Brigade and thunders the wrong order. This causes confusion on the island. It also caused confusion in what is now known as The Lost Spike Incident.

The root cause lies in the shifting of firewood from the mainland to the island.

A truck drops the wood on the shore, in an flat area that doubles as a badminton court.The court, now covered lightly in leaves, is demarked by strips held down by four spikes. The Emp had taken pains to lift this mobile boundary, keeping the spikes in a little pile for later insertion after the wood had been shifted.

He had not taken pains enough. One of the spikes was missing. A first attempt by himself to find it came up lacking.

On the following day, our mission was to locate the thing.

The Emp's theory, not an unsound one, was that he or the trucker had inadvertently stepped on the spike, driving it under the sandy ground. Thus The Emp busily began raking up the likely spots where this might have occurred. All this fell into the area of the probable.

Bohdan and I, however,felt the need to explore the improbable. The Emp gave grudging agreement, propounding a theory that somehow the spike had become embedded in one of the truck's tires. Hence I was sent to retrace the area where the truck had been, while Bohdan raked leaves away in places where a spike was unlikely to have fallen.

I proceeded on my task, finding, in no particular order, a brass button, a busted badminton racket, a ticket stub for a Foo Fighters concert,and faded piece of paper that might have been the inside flap of a book on erotica. All of which indicated that the nearby cottage was the residence of interesting people.

The bickering between The Emp and Bohdan was growing louder (see opening dialogue) with The Emp making the point that in no way shape or form could the spike possible be where Bohdan was looking.

Following the trail of the truck, suddenly I heard a roar from Bohdan.

"I found it! Here!" Satisfaction glowed on his face.

I hurried back, curious to know by what means the spike had extended so far out of the probable search area. The Emp was also doing some hard thinking, and then admitted that on the previous day had raked rather hard, and could have turfed the spike to where Bohdan had found it. [Note: This admission, made earlier, might have saved a great deal of effort. On the other hand, perhaps the Emp had told us, and we had not heard.] In any event, we returned all smiles -- that which was lost was found, and all was well with the world. And if there is a moral, it would be that when the probable has been exhausted, the improbable takes centre stage.

Thus the tale of The Lost Spike, not to be confused with the tale of The Last Spike. For that we would need Sir William Cornelius Van Horne and his triumphant completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway.

Enough. Or too much.

To Work Or Not To Work

It was, I believe, Buckminster Fuller who once stated that the proper job of mankind was to get back to what it was doing before some clown came along and said you had to work for a living. In a nutshell, that thought acted as a thesis in my recent 'undisclosed location' meeting.

While I cannot give specific details -- oath of secrecy and all that -- there was no doubt that the terms 'work' and 'job' came under close scrutiny. Not surprising, considering that both seem to be fading away rather quickly. Or so many thought, praising technological advances that would allow everyone to feed, clothe and house themselves without anyone doing a stitch of work. This position was buttressed by a slew of Venn diagrams, stochastic bends, pie charts ,scattergrams et cetera ad nauseam.

All this, of course was rubbish, and I quickly became a voice in the wilderness by stressing that jobs and work were essential. People need something TO DO, and always have. Way back when, that something was hunting and gathering. Then came agriculture, along with the concept of deferred gratification -- it is to that first farmer's everlasting credit that he (or more likely she) threw some seeds onto the ground and had the patience to await results. Then came industry, followed by our current technological revolution.

Throughout all this time, people worked. Serfs and peasants actually had little choice in the matter, but even their bosses, sundry lords knights and barons, worked. Warfare was mano e mano in those days, and to be successful, you had to work hard at it. At present, work and jobs has become so central to one's self esteem that when a person's job is lost, so is the person.

The reason is, at least to me, crystal clear: the link between person and job has become fixed, as in concrete. It is this aspect that cries out for more discussion, imaginative thinking, and the development of an action plan to move beyond this pairing.

The group, sad to say, was not overly interested, preferring to concentrate on bail outs, economic stimulus, debt reduction and the like, without really exploring the root cause, the need to be doing something that the person and the society values. Robert Frost summed up this position well in his poem "Two Tramps in Mudtime":

"Only when love and need are one
And the work is play for mortal stakes
Is the job ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sake."

Now if only the Great and the Good can start from the position outlined by Frost, there just might, might, be a way out of the employment mess we are in.

Just a thought, folks. Just a thought.

Proposed Meeting of Minds

Yes, I am a bit early with this writing, but needs must. I have been 'seconded', or rather ordered, to attend a meeting,, and unfortunately not at liberty to disclose the location. Hah! An undisclosed location! Maybe Dick Cheney will be there, and if so, we will have Words.

This all came about shortly after the Compte De Rienville left, after a too short in and out visit. And no comments on that last phrase. It started, as these things usually do, with a call from Sir Harry, my sometime employer. He requested my presence at said meeting, and the tone of voice he used brooked no refusal. I did glean, however, that things fiscal would be at the heart of things.

"But why me?" I asked.

"Because," Sir Harry replied grumpily, "you apparently are noted for providing a needed food source, your enterprise is expanding, you make money, and your workers think you're some kind of goddess. But don't let any of that go to your head."

"Wouldn't think of it," I replied sweetly.

Now I am not one to indulge overmuch in fugitive speculation, but I suspect that what will be discussed, after the obligatory weeping and flossing of teeth, will be the current financial mess afflicting Europe and the U,S.A. And yes, here I would have something to offer. Yet regardless of any solutions put on the table, it will come down to people demonstrating leadership, something sadly lacking at the present time.

To illustrate this last point, the very fact that the U.S. group known as the 'Tea Party' can wield the influence it does is disturbing, indeed frightening. (I personally would dump the lot of them into Boston Harbour. After all, there is historical precedent).

What is need then is the identification of such a leader, with the political nous and the sheer guts to bang opposing heads together. Sadly, John A. Macdonald or Franklin Delano Roosevelt are no longer with us. Barack Obama is simply too conciliatory, and, with one exception, no one else measures up. The exception, the person who might just be capable of accomplishing such a difficult task, is --and you read it here first --

Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Stay tuned.

Australia Fair

Curled up in my study, I was absorbing some interesting news received from a colleague in Australia, code name Barbie Q. I hadn't seen BQ for some time, not since we participated in a shootout with a Nepalese drug gang near Ayer's Rock. Rather messy affair, really, but I digress.

What BQ was on about was that Australia's new passport designation. Apparently, sexual orientation, like Caesar's Gaul, would now be divided into three: male, female and a simple X. What this means (I think) is that those who do not identify themselves as male or female will no longer be required to check off the 'M' or 'F' under gender, will have the option of checking 'X'

Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Generation X'.

BQ also included a statement by Australian Foreign Minister Kevin Rudd, to wit: "This [passport] amendment makes life easier and significantly reduces the administrative burden for sex and gender diverse people who want a passport that reflects their gender and physical appearance." In the past, Australian citizens had to choose either male or female, and were able to make changes to their gender on the documents only if they had sex reassignment surgery.

Well, well well.

All this prompted interest in the stance of some other countries when facing gender alteration. A little research discovered the following. The U.S. and Canada maintain Australia's first position -- proof of gender surgery - and the UK allows people to check a gender other than their gender at birth. In New Zealand a gender decision is made by a family court ruling.

The 'X' factor, then, belongs solely to Australia.

What was not in BQ's information was where all this might lead.

Now for those who feel the authority of compassion, and respond to it, the X's will have no problem. It has, however, been my experience that passport control officers are a breed apart, and compassion is not their strong suit. Particularly American officers.(I still rankle at that bitch at Chicago's O'Hare that tried to steal my Milano Blahniks.) So expect some trouble, and it would not be beyond the realm of possibility that some X's will find themselves instantly put in the 'no fly' category, and if they get vociferous, wind up in Guantanamo Bay. Though this latter action is probably a step too far -- Dick Cheney no longer holds the reins of power in his sweaty hands.

And X's should not even think of showing such a document in places such as Iran or Saudi Arabia. The powers that be in those countries are still deeply embedded in the 9th century, and the 'X' could all too quickly morph into an axe, headed for the traveller's neck.

All in all, though, an advance.

A soft knock on my door, and lo and behold, who should appear but the Compte de Rienville! I leapt to my feet, overjoyed to see him and that he was free (temporarily) from the European fiscal mess. The words he spoke to me at our first meeting flashed into my mind: "Our eyes have met; our thighs not yet."

Sorry about that. Got carried away.

And I really did get carried away.

Aiding, Not Abetting

I was in the study at the Manor, doing some research for a commissioned article, when Irving advised me that my visitor had arrived.

"Father Martin?"

"The very person."

"Good. Show him in. Oh, and Henri has some tea and scones ready. If you could be so kind...."

"T'is said. T'is done."

Irving left. The scones were a bonus, but a previous visit had made clear the good Father thought them marvellous. He was right. And while I am not who is usually kind to Divines, I make an exception with Father Martin. After all, he has come to see the value of my little group of atheistic nuns, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain, and wards off the Bishop, who would disband the group in a heartbeat.

Irving reappeared with Father Martin in tow.

I rose and greeted him.

"Father. Always a pleasure."

"Likewise, My Lady. I trust all goes well?"

"As well as can be expected." At that point my thigh began to throb where a Libyan bullet had been extracted, but there was no need to bring this to Father Martin's attention. "Now, what brings you to the Manor? Have the Little Sisters done something untoward?"

"Not at all. No this is something quite different. The Church is very concerned about the famine in the Horn of Africa, and is mounting an aid campaign to help. The situation is desperate, and in need of --"

"Stop right there, Father," I interrupted.

"But --"

"Just listen for a minute. You should know that I have been in Ethiopia and Somalia. Right now, the area comprises one-third lunatic thugs who have no understanding of the Qu'ran, one-third devout Muslims who do, and the remainder are women and children who are starving to death. Too often, aid does not reach those for whom it is intended, but rather goes to purchase AK 47's, RPG's and other like weaponry. Is that how you want to see any funds you might raise used?"

"Well, no. Of course not. But the famine does not have a religious cause, but a natural one, a drought --"

"To be sure. But, Father, I should like to draw something to your attention." I rummaged on my desk for a moment, then said, "Ah, here it is. Father, are you familiar at all with the work of Dr. Amartya Sen?"

"Er...no"

Dr. Sen is an economist currently at Harvard, and a Nobel Prize winner. In his text, Development As Freedom, we read the following statement: 'No famine has ever taken place in the history of the world in a functioning democracy.' That, Father, outlines the goal to aim for."

Father Martin fell silent as he thought over Dr. Sen's words.

At that point Irving entered bearing tea and the scones. Father Martin visibly brightened, and after several sips of tea -- and four scones -- hesitantly asked, "Then just how should we be helping?"

"Well, what I have done is to fund the purchase of three steel-plated armoured vehicles and donated them to Oxfam. These vehicles laugh a Islamist-run road block to scorn. Thus aid is picked up in Mogadishu, barrels through these road blocks and then reaches the UN camps with their goods intact."

"But they could be shot at --"

"I have also supplied some colleagues -- well, never mind about that. The point is to make aid arrival as certain as possible. In this regard, I would suggest that you continue your campaign, but ensure that funds are sent to outfits like Oxfam or Medicins Sans Frontieres. Keep Holy Mother Church out of it. Islam is in a stage where it has trouble recognizing that there are many paths to salvation."

"You mean, many paths to God."

"No, I am not talking about imaginary friends, comforting as those friends may be. But nice try, Father."

"Oh, I always try. Goes with the territory. And now I must be off, although perhaps one more scone...and I won't forget Dr. Sen's words."

Nor should we all. The sentiment, of course, has been stated before.

Lest we forget.

Keeping Current

Reading The Economist these days, packed with fiscal articles of doom and gloom, is akin to poring over The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Now in my opinion the Tibetan Book of the Dead is crap. But if the monks who wrote it knew it was crap, well then it's not crap. (Discuss among yourselves.)

My mood was not improved when I learned, upon my return from Geneva, that the Compte de Rienville would not be visiting. Apparently he had been sent to Tripoli and given the task of determining just where Moammar Gadhafi might be. As any woman would agree, he got his priorities wrong -- there are, I suspect, hundreds trying to determine Gadhafi's whereabouts. The Compte would have been much better off in my company. Certainly I would be much better off.

As to old Moammar's place of refuge, theories abound. Sir Harry suspects he will hare off to Zimbabwe, where his friend Mugabe will welcome him, kick some white landlord off his farm, and make him a present. Matilda Hatt, based on information based on a reliable source, is certain he has gone to North Korea and is exploring that country's delights with that paragon of democratic idealism, Kim Jong Il. This latter theory I believe to be rubbish. Tilly's "reliable source" was a drug-addled Azeri she encountered in an alleyway in Baku.

My own theory, based on Gadhafi's background and my own knowledge of Libyan tribal structure, is that he has fled to the town of Beni Walid, about 150 kilometres southeast of Tripoli. This town, and the surrounding area, is held by an ally of Gadhafi's, the powerful Warfalla tribe. The rebels are unlikely to attack, given that some of their own forces are members of that same tribe. Just a theory, mind you, but we will see.

Finally, and to end on a more positive note, it has become apparent that the whole Libyan situation is one that while there was a nasty and bloody cost in lives, nevertheless met with success. Good on the rebels, and good on NATO. One can but hope that what happens now profits all Libyans.

This outcome was presaged by a bright young Muslim girl at the beginning. In an excerpt I caught on Al-Jazeera, she had said "If NATO can take out the heavy stuff, our boys will do the rest."

Sounds like they did.

Of Predators and the Matter of Matter

To Geneva, to spend a weekend with my son Mark, who is a physicist and working with others at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN.

I left a worried Irving (my minder) back at the Manor. The threat from Al Qaeda had diminished greatly; that outfit was now on the run from American drone attacks involving Hellfire missiles fired from Predator aircraft. Irving was not so sure the jihadists had given up, but when I informed him of a certain mis-information initiative, he relented.

This plan was simplicity itself. Certain imams and mullahs had been approached by the most trusted and scholarly Islamic authorities we could produce, and given a message. To wit: The Qu'ran had been terribly mis-interpreted by said imams and mullahs, particularly where suicide and the treatment of women were concerned. Allah was furious, and, taking a page from Zeus, allowed the Americans to hurl His thunderbolts from the sky. Seems to be working, too.

I was staying of course at the Kempinski. Very pricey, but the view of Lake Geneva and Mont Blanc was spectacular. The price had another advantage, in that it was beyond even the outrageous expense accounts of sundry U.N. personnel. Thus I could avoid any number of people walking around boring everyone they met and ever so afflicted with office.

Mark swept into my room, and gaped.

"Wow, Ma! Sure beats the dormitory at CERN."

"Life is there to be enjoyed. This is a suite -- your digs are next door. Laphroaig?"

Mark nodded, and I poured out two healthy dollops of the greatest peat based Scotch there is. "Now, how are things at the great smash-up?"

"We're close," Mark said excitedly. "We're very close to finding the Higgs bosun."

"Won't change a thing. Futile endeavour, really."

It's not futile! The importance --"

"Oh, don't get me wrong. Closing a door in a direction is not a Bad Thing. Allows for exploration in more profitable areas."

You're not still harping on that whole conscious thing, are you? That consciousness, not matter, is at the heart of the universe?"

"You bet I am. Time for you to review Heisenberg, Bell's Theorem, and Alain Aspect's proof of that theorem. And you wouldn't dispute that we are made of atoms?"

"Of course not."

"Well what staggers, or at least it staggers me, is that our atoms have become conscious that they are atoms. I admit this didn't happen overnight -- evolution takes time -- but this did occur. Hence my belief that EVERYTHING IS IN THE PROCESS OF BECOMING. Q.E.D."

Our discussion went on over a spectacular dinner, and well into the night. I ended all this by handing Mark a piece of laminated paper. It was a reproduction of a cartoon in which two puzzled archeologists are in a cave, gazing at a slew of drawings on the walls -- stick figures, hieroglyphs, circles, squares, and any number of unknown markings.

"Take your time with this, Mark. It will become clear."

Mark pored over the drawing for a long time, then exploded with laughter. "Oh, that's good. Very good." He had spotted, in an obscure corner of the cave, a simple inscription: e=mc(2).

"Got it from Punch Magazine," I said, "when it had an international audience. Sadly, not any more."

I miss Punch.

Of Iced Tea, Archery, and Poetry.

Ensconced in my office at The Manor, I had just finished reviewing accounts related to my sugar beet holdings. Everything was in good shape, save for one anomaly. I owed money, but the person who should receive the funds, couldn't. You see, the biggest of my sugar beet enterprise in in Ukraine, and the past Prime Minister, Yulia Tymoshenko, who had been extremely helpful in arranging my acreage purchase, had then gone and lost an election and was now in opposition.

Now in Ukraine, being in opposition tends to mean that you are thrown into prison by the victor. Or, in this case, Victor, surname Yanukovych. In any event, I couldn't get the payment to her, at least not yet, and resolved to do what I could. This would mean getting in touch with one Vladimir Putin, and making him an offer he couldn't refuse. Then he could make an offer Victor couldn't refuse. My thoughts were on this matter when my maid and gardener Consuela popped her head in, carrying a large tray with several glasses and a big jugful of...something.

"I've just made some iced tea for the group outside," she informed me. "Would you like some?"

"What group outside?"

"Ms Levi, the Compte and Mr. Irving. They are shooting arrows."

"Are they now? This I had better see. Give me the tray, Consuela, I'll deliver the goods."

I took the tray, went outside, and sure enough, there were the Compte and Irving wielding the big Bickerstaffe longbows that Lord Strunsky loved to shoot when he was in the mood. I couldn't draw the things more than half way, but Lord Strunsky had no difficulty. Nor, it seemed, did the Compte and Irving.

"Ah," said the Compte, "sustenance. And brought by a veritable vision of pulchritude."

"Shut up", I retorted, but was inwardly pleased. Then, looking down the shooting range, noticed the two targets, all at this point resembling pincushions given the number of arrows that protruded.

Rachel, who had been engrossed in a book, looked up and said, "They're very good shooters My Lady. Very good indeed."

I didn't disagree, but had noticed something else. Irving's target featured a photograph of Iran's Ahmadinejad, which made a degree of sense, but I couldn't identify the photograph on the Compte's target. Not being shy about such things, I asked.

"General Norman bloody Schwartzkopf,' the Compte replied tersely.

"Why on earth?" I queried. "I thought old 'stormin' Norman' did a pretty good job during the first Gulf War. Got in, achieved the objective, got out. Mind you, that was on the orders of Bush Senior. And as we know, the son was not the father."

"Not the point," replied the Compte. "It was his statement when he learned that French forces wouldn't be participating. Now I admit, that wasn't our finest hour, but still, to say that 'going to war without France is like going deer hunting without your accordion.' Merde. He's forgotten names such as Austerlitz, Jena, Borodino -- well, I could go on."

I thought that Schwartzkopf might remember other names, such as Blenheim, Trafalgar and Waterloo, but decided to hold my piece in the cause of international relations, or, more importantly, certain, er, other relations. He was a magnificent man.

At this point Rachel interrupted with a loud 'Wow!"

Everyone turned to her.

Rachel was waving a book about, and I saw that it was Lord Strunsky's copy of a text he had published himself entitled simply Poems Worth Reading. She must have retrieved it from the library.

"Just listen to this," she exclaimed. It's from a poem by Yeats, The Second Coming. Describes the current political scene perfectly. He writes, 'The ceremony of innocence is drowned / The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity.' Says it all, really.

There was a long silence after this, while each of us substituted various figures into the two camps. Finally, the Compte said, "Perhaps some iced tea?"

Good. One cannot be morose forever.

Life Can Be A Riot

Given the happenings in London, I had expected a call from Sir Harry, and was not disappointed.

"I would be interested," he said, "in your view. It's also why you get paid --"

"Surely," I interrupted, "this is more a matter for MI5 rather than your outfit." I was hesitant to enter this particular fray -- there are no easy answers, and even to evolve a strategy would take no small effort.

Sir Harry would not be put off. "My MI5 colleagues were impressed with your position on the American legislative gridlock, and appreciated your, how would the Americans put it, yes, 'off the wall' comments." (Sir Harry wanted me to know that he knows American idioms.)

"Very well," I responded, and I will try to assess the situation in a straightforward manner. No leg before wicket, as it were." (Thereby letting Sir Harry know that I am familiar with British idioms.)

Sir Harry snorted, then growled, "Just get on with it," and hung up.

In reviewing the situation, I realized right away that the English riots were a symptom, not a cause. The cause went much deeper, and perhaps finds its best expression in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In that excellent piece of work, one of the Christmas Spirits confronts Scrooge with two ragged beggars, a boy and a girl. "The boy is Ignorance, the girl is Want," the Spirit informs Scrooge. "Both are fearsome creatures, BUT FEAR THE BOY MORE."

Indeed, and thus the root cause of the riots emerges. Ignorance. Until that is addressed, not much else will matter. Or -- I draw on UNICEF here -- things will not really improve until education is properly funded, and the Military has to hold a bake sale to build a bomber.

There is, of course, more to it than that, but education is where you start.

A second aspect that needs attention is the 'something for nothing' attitude. Welfare funds distributed without a concomitant responsibility to add to society breeds an attitude of entitlement and complacency, particularly where young males are concerned. Lacking work, and without the education to either gain employment or to evolve it through self enterprise, they HAVE NOTHING TO DO. Thus when there is an excuse for a good riot, well, they're all for it. Beats boredom hands down.

Now if education became the government's first priority, and welfare became associated with various forms of community service, light begins to appear at the end of an (admittedly long) tunnel.

Technology can help, but only as a handmaiden to a larger objective. Unless an idea put forward by James Marten in the old Datamation magazine ever comes about. To wit:

With a single flick of microscopic cilium, a one-celled animal will propel a stream of microbes towards the next living logic gate. Another of humanity's dream long deemed impossible will be realized: flesh and blood that actually thinks.

Rimshot.

Debt And Dastardly Deeds

To Carisma, and lunch with my good friend Matilda Hatt. I arrived early, ordered a serious Grey Goose on the rocks, and began looking forward to the best ravioli in town. (My cook, Henri, disagrees, stating that the chef at Carisma has no understanding of how to use oregano. I stay out of such arguments; the ravioli remains superb.)

Matilda entered, distraught, plunked herself down, tried to smooth some wrinkles in her pant suit, saw my drink, and said "I'll have one of those too. Or maybe four. And you had to wear Givenchy, didn't you? But the skirt's too short."

I ignored this last bit. Tilly has no understanding of dress."Tilly, what on earth's the matter? You look worse than you did when you climbed out of that sewer in Milan sporting a very bloody nose."

"Just wait a bit," she said. Our waiter arrived quickly, and soon Tilly was similarly armed with Grey Goose. "Now, Simone, just listen."

What was concerning Tilly was the current debt crisis in the U.S.A., and the fact that the CIA was facing drastic cuts. What really irritated her was that her own finances were in good shape, yet she and other of her colleagues faced being either let go or severely downgraded for causes not their own. "Just how the hell did this happen?" she asked, fury in her voice. Then, to a passing waiter, "Yes, I'll have another."

"How it happened," I began, "was ignoring the advice proffered by Mr. Micawber in Dickens' David Copperfield."

"What are you talking about?"

"Hear me out, it's really quite simple. To wit, 'Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.' The U.S. is now experiencing misery. Of course, so is Greece, Portugal, Spain and quite likely Italy. All because of that twenty pound ought and six."

"It can't be that simple."

"Granted. A person is not a country, and a little debt carried by a country helps the bond market along. That said, if the politicians in those countries had paid more attention to old Micawber's advice, a lot of the mess could have been avoided. But things intervened."

"What things?" I had Tilly's attention now.

Well, concerning the U.S., quite a number. The repeal of Glass-Steagall, the rise of arcane derivitives, a mis-use of VAR, the sub-prime mortgage mess and the arcane CDO's that followed, to say nothing of an extremely expensive and totally unnecessary war in Iraq. Oh, and at a time when you would expect revenue mechanisms to be front and centre to pay for all this, tax breaks were given to high income earners who least needed them."

Tilly just stared at me. Then taking a healthy swallow of her drink, said "I understood the Dickens stuff, but not the other."

"It's OK, Tilly. Neither did the politicians or the financiers. But I have hope. Barack Obama does understand the issue, although he faces an uphill battle with certain members of Congress who insist upon having a tea party and putting ideology before common sense."

And for the first time since she had sat down, a small smile appeared on Tilly's face. "So it will be all right then?"

I was quick to respond. "I didn't say that. In fact, things will likely get worse before they get better -- the debt hole is a deep one, and even Obama might not be able to make progress. After all, as Schiller tells us, 'Mit der Dummheit kampfen Gotter selbst vergebens.'"

"What the fu --"

"Sorry." Tilly was fluent in Arabic, Farsi, and Pushtu, but German not so much. "What Schiller is saying is 'With stupidity the gods themselves struggle in vain.'"


"I want another drink," said Tilly

Expecting The Unexpected

I had asked Rachel Levi, my I.T. specialist, to encrypt and send off some notes Sir Harry had requested on the Norwegian tragedy. The response team taking 90 minutes to arrive an arrest the perpetrator was ludicrous, and Norway is going to have to invest in creating mobile tactical squads that are armed, along with one or two helicopters that can actually get off the ground. Surely NATO could part with a couple of Black Hawks? At least get on the phone to Hillary. I mean, this was a lone psychopath, and should have been stopped in his tracks much sooner than he was. The attack, however, was unexpected, and there is the rub of the question.

[An aside: The incident in Norway was horrible, but the man was, finally, stopped. Other countries which didn't stop such psychopaths paid a terrible price -- Hitler in Germany, Pol Pot in Cambodia, and anyone with the surname Kim in North Korea.]

Once the material was sent to Sir Harry, I began a heated discussion with Rachel. We were in what used to be a cozy basement den, but,given the variety of computer equipment it now housed, the place now resembled the tracking room at NORAD.

The root of our discussion concerned the WRAITH software, developed by Rachel, and smuggled out of Israel because Rachel had doubts about the use of the software by the Likud Party presently in power. The situation had been smoothed over, helped by Sir Harry of MI6, but Rachel was still very much a persona non grata as far as Likud was concerned.

What the software did was very simple; how it did it was complexity itself. In short, Rachel could take over another computer system without the users of that system being aware that anything was amiss. An example. Before we began our conversation, Rachel had been happily transferring amounts of money ($100.000 a pop) from certain accounts and sending them to a number of NGO's concerned with the ghastly famine now present in the Horn of Africa.

"I just thought," said Rachel, "that countries such as Saudi Arabia, Russia and China, and businesses such as Exxon and Goldman Sachs, should be doing more to help. And to them, $100.000 is more of a rounding figure than anything else. Surely you would agree?"

I admitted I could not find fault with her approach. "But Rachel, I continued, "it really has to stop. At least for a time."

"Why?' she countered. "The system's foolproof --"

"No system is ever foolproof. And your efforts are attracting attention, and, worse, these efforts are beginning to focus on this location. Or so I am informed."

"By whom?" asked Rachel, a note of petulance in her voice.

"Not germane to the discussion," I replied. (Actually, it was Matilda Hatt of the CIA who had given me the heads up.) "And you, Rachel, of all people, should know that there are some very capable techies out there, and sooner or later you would be traced, hacked, and your software protocol fall into some very dubious hands. If you will, it is in line with the analysis I asked you to send to Sir Harry."

"The 'Expect The Unexpected' thingy?"

"Right. That's the point. Just because you expect your software to be safe, doesn't mean that it is. The unexpected can and does occur."

"As you wrote in the Norway stuff."

"As I wrote in the Norway stuff."

Rachel sighed. "Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted. But I would ask for one more favour. I can create a phantom --"

"What?"

"A phantom server. This will attract, at least temporarily, any hacker trying to locate WRAITH. Thought of the perfect place, too."

"Where?"

"Beijing. The Chinese are already under suspicion in the I.T. area, so this would make sense. Gets you off the hook too."

"Always nice to avoid hooks. Something I share with Peter Pan."

"Who?"

I just stared at her. That's the trouble with specialists. They specialize.

Discuss among yourselves.

Legal Lunacy

My legal advisor had requested a meeting, and it being insufferably hot, I suggested the Manor pool. This offer was received with thanks -- the weather really was trying to simulate at least one version of the afterlife.

I was on the diving board when the advisor, Gina Favola, appeared, wearing a spectacular bikini. Gina and I had grown up in Naples before we left; I to England and Oxford and eventually to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, she to Toronto and Osgoode Hall, where she received her law degree and now practices corporate law for a VERY prestigious firm.

"Ah," I said in Italian, "the Bean appears," and before she could retort, dove in. This sobriquet came about when we were children. Gina's surname really means "butterfly" in Italian, but kids being kids, "favola" was reduced to "fava': that is, "bean." So it goes.

I surfaced, and then was cannonballed into by Gina. When heads again appeared above water, Gina said, "That's what you get for the bean reference. Truce?"

"Truce".

We swam to the edge of the pool, happy to be conversing in our mother tongue. The only others partaking that day were Consuela and her little daughter, Maria Aisha, happily splashing about in the shallow end. I wondered briefly where her husband Ahmed was, then recalled that he was in the Manor's greenhouse, attempting to splice some seedlings to create a number of very poisonous hellebores, complete with angry red leaves. These would be planted at the Manor's front gate to ward off unwanted callers. I was all for it.

Perched on the pool's edge, I asked Gina what was on her mind.

"Two things, actually. First, that land claims thing from the Crees. You will be happy to know that your offer was accepted."

A wee bit of background here. As readers will know, I have title to a rather large acreage in Northern Ontario, part of which I use for Camp Can Do, my program for women who for a variety of reasons have lost confidence in themselves. The program demands facility with motorcycles and small aircraft, and is designed to allow the women to, as Mark Twain once put it, "face life with the supreme confidence that a Christian feels in four aces."

Apparently a section of this acreage had been identified as a Cree burial ground, and a group of these Crees wanted the land returned in order to restore it to its original purpose. I saw instantly that the section of land in question was totally useless, and had Gina legally sign it over to them, wishing them well in their purpose.

Gina said, "This was not well received. They were looking for a cash settlement."

"Of course they were," I replied. "Not going to happen, and don't get me started on the idiocy of the Indian Act --"

"But there was an up side to the thing," Gina interrupted. "One of the younger lads was really into sculpture, and wanted to erect a suitable memorial. I looked at some of his really excellent work -- bought two pieces in fact -- and gave him the go-ahead, along with monies to purchase the necessary materials. Total cost, $2000.00, a sum which delighted him. Since the figure the group was asking for was in excess of $500,000.00, I thought this reasonable."

Well who could argue with that? "Now Gina, you mentioned there were two things on your mind."

"Si. And this one's a bit tricky. You should know that the firm allows its associates a certain amount of leeway when it comes to taking pro bono cases. I have just undertaken one, at the request of a moderate Muslim group."

"A moderate Muslim group? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

"Now, Simone, don't let your bias show."

"Oh, why not. I have a lovely bias. And after all, any number of jihadists would love to see my head on a platter."

Gina ignored this, and plowed on. "Now what has concerned this group is a decision by the Toronto School Board to allow Muslim prayers. On school time, no less, in direct contravention of the Provincial Education Act."

I said, "So -- what is that legal term, oh yes -- estop them."

"Normally, all this would go away. The problem here is the Charter of Rights, and its stressing of the right to religious practice. The charter trumps the Provincial Education Act."

"So it's game over," I replied glumly, "unless provincial politicians have the guts to invoke the Notwithstanding Clause. Which they don't."

"That may be true," said Gina, "but all is not totally lost. You see, at prayers, the girls, being inferior, must be behind the boys. This aspect also brings in the Charter, in that males and females must be treated equally. So here, then, you have two rights clashing. This is Supreme Court stuff, and why my firm allowed a pro bono approach. Eliot's 'right deed for the wrong reason' if you will."

I decided this was one case I would follow with interest. I also decided it was time for lunch, and as we walked into the Manor, my thoughts turned to the problems religion can cause, and took comfort in remembering H. L. Mencken's thinking on the matter: "Every time scientists take another fort from the theologians and the politicians, there is genuine human progress,"

Amen to that

Canada Calling

I try to avoid involving my brats in these missives, but occasionally they impinge upon things. This is one of those times.

My eldest son, Sebastian, was in town negotiating a clothing deal with Target, and dropped into the Manor as a matter of courtesy. Well, not quite. He had found himself in a situation, and wanted some advice.

I always like to give advice, particularly when asked.

We sat in the kitchen, happily destroying one of Henri's quiches. Henri, my cook, considers quiche one of his triumphs, and in that he is not wrong.

"So," I began, "what's this all about?"

"That." He pointed to the hem of my skirt, upon which was Sebastian's logo, a small red maple leaf.

"I think it's rather cute," I said. "Makes a little statement. Much better than the Nike Swish or that wee alligator. What's the problem?"

Sebastian, as I and Lord Strunsky taught all our children to do, was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. All the kids have well absorbed the Irish proverb, 'Many a man's tongue broke his nose.' Then he explained.

"When your driver Ahmed picked me up at my hotel, I couldn't help noticing the slew of condos being built. Cranes are everywhere and I have never seen so many cement trucks in my life. Ahmed indicated that most units were pre-sold, but wasn't sure just who had bought them. And by the way, Ahmed talked me into discounting two dresses and three skirts for his wife. He's a great bargainer. You know, I could use a talent like that in my purchasing department --"

"Forget it. Ahmed stays here."

"Worth a try. Anyway,My stores in New York and Chicago sell a great many items, all with that maple leaf. The logo obviously surfaces thoughts of Canada within certain minds, and lately, there have been a slew of questions about Canada, what the policies are, how to obtain citizenship, do you have to speak French?...well, the queries go on. So Ma, any ideas you have on responding to such questions would be appreciated."

Now as readers will know, I have good sources of information, and I knew for a fact that a lot of American money was tied up in those condo units. But this was investment money, and I think Sebastian's issue was somewhat different.

"I think that simplicity is the answer. I remember Isolde, when she was two, asking 'Will I burn my fingers if I touch the Sun?' to which your father replied, 'Yes.' I mean, why would you launch into an explanation of hydrogen fusion with a two-year old? Your father, Sebastian, was a very smart man, who knew very well that context precedes comprehension."

"And this is relevant...how?"

"By keeping any information simple and to the point. And I am going to assume the queries come from sane Americans, that all too silent majority."

Sebastian nodded.

"Then I suggest the following."

What I outlined to Sebastian was summed up in four points. First, the person would have to swear allegiance to the Queen. That might stop the query in its tracks. Second, language. Unless the person was planning on settling in Quebec, in which case fluency in la plus belle langue du monde was a definite plus, English will do just fine. Third, taxes are somewhat higher. You don't have single payer universal health care, a sound Federal pension plan and well-funded social security without the fiscal resources to make them happen. Canada has, for instance, a Federal sales tax. America does not.

Finally, Canada has read the Second Amendment to the American Constitution correctly and has an armed militia; that is, the army and police. Now while long guns are permitted for farmers and hunters, handguns and assault rifles are illegal, and The Law takes a very dim view if you are caught possessing one. It is no wonder that those committing a crime, when being chased, take the first opportunity they have to ditch their weapon. A gun on your person in this type of situation puts you in very deep legal shit.

"So there," I said to my son. "This type of information should give any curious American much food for thought."

Sebastian said, "My thanks. But my American customers all appear very worried, and even are talking about the U.S.A. going bankrupt."

"Well then," I responded, "one can only hope that a point made by Winston Churchill holds. As he so well put it, 'America usually gets it right, after she has exhausted all the alternatives.' Agreed?"

"Agreed."

The Royal Tour

Irving entered the room, the secure phone in hand.

"It's him", he said.

I sighed, and put down the book I was reading, given to me by an esteemed cousin whose only quibble with me was his not approving of my relationship with the Compte de Rienville. The book was by Stephen Clarke, and was entitled 1000 Years of Annoying the French. Good stuff, if you're in the mood for some highly interpretative history.

I took the phone from Irving, who then wisely left, not wanting to irritate me further.

"Well?" I said.

It was, of course, Sir Harry, who began as usual with no preamble whatsoever. "Just what are you Canadians trying to do? Kill them?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Hockey games. canoeing. dragon boat races. And that little manoeuvre with the helicopter -- well, faces at the Foreign Office were ashen. Ashen I tell you."

"Oh for God's sake, Sir Harry. You are jesting at scars that never felt a wound. The two of them were never in any danger, and in fact my sources tell me that they are enjoying the trip immensely."

"Oh, really? Setting a helicopter down on water? I mean, the whole machine could have vanished into the deeps --"

"Enough of this," I interrupted. "The helicopter exercise was a special request by the Prince himself. Canada is the only country that knows how it is done, and William wanted to learn the technique. Which he did. Have you forgotten that his trade is helicopter search and rescue?"

"No I haven't. But this leads me to my request."

Hah, I thought. Here we go.

"I need your analysis of the Royal visit." said Sir Harry.

"I am not part of the security team."

"No," said Sir Harry bluntly,"but you have colleagues that are. And you talk to them. What I have now is the tabloid press, with its pernicious, pettifogging puffery. Ghastly. I want to know what's really going on. Why are the Duke and Duchess so damn POPULAR?"

I was silent for a moment, digesting the phrase 'pernicious pettifogging puffery', and part of me wanted to commend Sir Harry on his foray into the world of Alliteration. I refrained, and instead bowed to the inevitable. "Right," I said, "a report will be sent in the usual way. I already know of one aspect that will interest you."

"And what is that?"

"Ah, that will have to wait until you receive the complete report. Bye, now."

Sir Harry was not the only one who could be brusque.

I then proceeded to have several conversations with various colleagues in The Trade who were tasked with all things having to do with security. In all their comments, I discovered a surprising thread -- the Duke and Duchess were enjoying themselves immensely, no more so than when conversing with Canadian John and Jane Does.

I thought about this a bit, and came to the conclusion that such conversations were with people that led far more interesting lives that those of the dignitaries accompanying them. Addicts in recovery, men and women that had lost their homes to fire, soldiers just returned from Afghanistan -- all were engaged with, and avidly listened to.

This worked a charm in Quebec -- not the easiest venue to impress -- and as for the First Nations, well, the reception was heartwarming. Not surprising, given that Victoria herself had signed the treaties, and thus property rights allotted by the Great White Mother Across The Sea became a fact. The couple even managed to crack open (a bit) the frozen ice that is Stephen Harper. Apparently the Duke and Duchess, no slouches when it comes to pop music, were surprised as hell to learn that the Prime Minister was also no slouch in this area. One source indicated a particularly animated conversation during the Canada Day celebrations in Ottawa exploring the linkage between Bruce Springsteen and earlier 'social' singers such as Leadbelly and Arlo Guthrie.

So the leitmotif of my report to Sir Harry will focus on this interpersonal aspect above all others. The ability of Will and Kate to talk to people, and more importantly, to listen. Moreover, one might wish that if the majority of our politicians are paying attention, some of these interpersonal skills might be picked up and employed.

Mind you, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride....

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.