Reflections

Although still making an all too slow recovery from that 'Walking Pneumonia' thingy, nevertheless a quiet period, something to be treasured. What with Sir Harry temporarily out of commission, his aide Sir Peter Crapp doing God knows what in Beijing, and Tilly Hatt assigned to a desk in Langley after the incident in Kenya and her use of a wildebeest stampede (don't ask) -- all this allows some time for reflection.

I have noted, for instance, a growing tide of public opinion against immigration. There is some heft to this point of view. No country wants to import those who are bent on its destruction. What gets forgotten is the wisdom that different cultures bring to the social table, as it were. I give five instances of this, drawn from five distinctly different cultures, in the hope that more judicious thought can be focused on the topic.

1) From our first immigrants, the First Nations Peoples. Here I recall the scene in the film, Little Big Man, where Chief Dan George is asked to end a severe drought by enacting a traditional rain dance. No rain occurs, however, and the Chief calmly replies, "Sometimes the magic doesn't work." From this I took a good dose of humility: not everything attempted will automatically succeed. Or, to use the modern vernacular, 'Shit happens. Move on.'

2) From Africa. In his fine novel, Cry, The Beloved Country, Alan Paton writes that "Fear destroys, sorrow may enrich." I had to think long and hard about this, and discovered that Mr. Paton was bang on. In the trade, a bit of fear is healthy, and sharpens ones' instincts. Too much fear, however, can paralyze, close you down, leaving you helpless. Sorrow, while not the most pleasant of emotions, opens you up, and you become more aware of your own being, as well as becoming more empathetic to the plight of others. So my thanks to Alan Paton. Go well, umfundisi.

3)From Germany. It was the German General Helmut von Moltke who wrote "No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy." Self-explanatory, really, and invaluable to those in The Trade. If only Cheney and Bush had....oh, forget it. Fugitive speculation.

4) From Japan. A Japanese proverb goes as follows: "Vision without action is a daydream. Action without vision is a nightmare." Again, self-explanatory, and again, Cheney and Bush raise their dandruffy heads.

From Spain. In Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quixote we read the following: "Too much sanity may be madness, and the maddest of all, is to see life as it is and not as it should be." Step forward, Syria. Step forward, most of Africa. Step forward, the Pakistan tribal areas. This in a sense links back to #4, where there is nothing present other than hatred toward anything or anyone that is in the least bit different from the tribal point of view. This is not vision but lunacy.

There. I feel much better now.

Credo

Tried to reach Sir Harry on the secure line, but this apparently not possible. I did get Sir Peter Crapp, who informed me that I wouldn't want to talk to Harry anyway.

"The ribs acting up again?" I queried.

"No. This times it's teeth."

"What?"

"As I understand it," he replied, "Harry somehow infected a tooth, and the infection spread. The teeth were then impacted, but the impactions keep falling out. Harry is almost ready to authorize an 'termination with extreme prejudice' order against the dentist, but was dissuaded, and sent home. So no, you don't want to talk to him. Can I help?"

"Perhaps. There is a situation in Beijing that needs looking into. If I have it right, they are closing in on Wei Lo, and she may need an extraction."

"And you know this...how?"

"The source has been reliable in the past. But it does, I think bear looking into."

"We'll get on it. Might do it myself."

"Beijing being about as far from HIM as you can get."

"Precisely."

Sir Peter hung up, and I was left with my thoughts. Afflictions seemed to be striking a lot of my friends and colleagues these days, what with the Emp and my financial advisor WD both undergoing heart valve surgery. The only one who seems to be escaping all this is my sugar beet manager, Bohdan, but then, Ukrainians are hardy. (Hang in there, Yulia!)

I myself succumbed to what I thought first was The Undertaker's Disease (Beri-beri) but was later diagnosed as Walking Pneumonia. I guess I should be grateful that it wasn't the running or sprinting kind. In any event, my energy level fell to zero for three days, and it is only now that some capability has returned. The whole period, though, allowed for time to reflect on things, during which I developed some tenets and principles upon which to base a life. My credo, as it were.

Here it is.

1) Do no harm. This may strike the reader as odd, given that I am in The Trade. It is not. I use my Erma SR 100 rifle to take out those who, for whatever reason (mainly religion) delight in torturing and killing innocents, and throwing acid in the faces of young girls and women. My rifle then becomes a scalpel removing a cancerous growth from the body politic. I rest my case.

2) Never whine. It accomplishes nothing, and those to whom you are whining will quickly come to think of you as a pain in the ass.

3) Get as much happiness as possible.

4) And finally, as I have previously stressed, Feel the importance of compassion, and respond to it.

So there. Of course there are always The Ten Commandments. But only the Ten Commandments. After all, the rest is just commentary.

Enough. Discuss among yourselves.

It's All Greek To Me

So....a quiet afternoon, time to keep up my mother tongue of Italian in good shape. I had just started re-reading Manzoni's I Promessi Sposi* when the secure line rang. It was Sir Harry, apparently recovered from his cracked ribs.

"So we're all better then?"

"Not by half." he replied, "but it's now bearable. But you would have no idea --"

"Actually, I do. Remember? Cracked some ribs myself when you ill-advisedly sent me to Kiev without first --"

"Oh, forgot about that," he interrupted. "Water under the bridge. Now I would like your analysis of what's going on in Greece."

"Really, Sir Harry? Really? I mean, there have been volumes written on this, what with I.M.F. Reports, World Bank discussions, a vast amount of hand-wringing on the part of the European Union -- "

"True. But I want something different, a feel of the situation if you will."

"You have feelings?"

"Shut up. You know what I mean." Then the line went dead.

I must confess that I knew what he was driving at. What Sir Harry wanted was the human element stressed, rather than the financial arabesques being bruited about. In order to accomplish this, I called up my old friend Theo, who had been in The Trade himself not that long ago, where he was in charge of Athenian security. Theo had been let go for wanting to cut his budget into something more manageable by laying off a goodly number of people who had been politically appointed and were contributing precisely nothing. Disgusted, he had emigrated to Canada, and now owned and operated a first class restaurant on the Danforth in Toronto.

We met, and over a first class moussaka I learned a lot. For one thing, the situation in Greece is not as bad as the media makes out. You see, in Greece, over 80% of the population own their own houses. These are, however, located in various villages and hamlets scattered throughout the country. Many had left their abodes to live the good life in Athens, but had held on to their property. When things went south, they returned, and picked up where they had left off, usually cultivating olive orchards and tending vineyards. Hard scrabble to be sure, but a living.

"What on earth did they do for money?" I asked.

"Oh," replied Theo, "they always had a bit of money. Usually stashed in an urn or under the mattress. Certainly enough to make things meet. Just."

"Wouldn't they just put their savings into a bank?"

"Would you put your savings into a Greek bank?"

Point taken.

Theo then went on to indicate that vast numbers of Greeks were pulling up stakes and emigrating, with the two most popular locations being Australia and Canada. In his view, this was doing much to ease the financial burden on the state. Also helping were a number of projects involving the creation of resort hotels dotted hither and yon on Greece's magnificent coastline and stunningly beautiful islands. I was not surprised to learn that Chinese money was heavily involved, given the amount of cash China has stashed away. In this area, the future looks bright.

According to Theo, the ones most affected by the crisis, and were raising hell on the streets, were those in the public service. He had no sympathy: jobs for life, accompanied by constant pay raises and wonderful pensions, were great, but only if state revenues could support all these. They couldn't.

Theo also felt that most of those affected knew this, but simply ignored the implications. The international bond market didn't, and the death spiral began, with various economists now holding centre stage. As for economists, Theo concluded his remarks by quoting Peter Drucker: "In all recorded history, there has not been one economist who has had to worry about where the next meal would come from."

Sounds about right.

* 'The Betrothed'

To Lose Is To Win

My daughter Isolde flounced in, and announced that she would be staying at the Manor for a few weeks. She is an up and coming violinist with the Vienna Philharmonic. Apparently, the concert master of the Canadian Opera Orchestra had come to grief -- his four-year old son had inadvertently slammed the car door on his fingers -- and he realized that this would severely affect his violin playing. There being a close network in this area, a call was put out, with the end result that Isolde was deemed available in that the season in Vienna coming to an end.

"And Mum," she said excitedly,"you know that opera is a passion of mine. This could be a big break. Also, the COC rehearsal schedule is not that bad. I can even go to FOUR Leaf games. The tickets are just behind the Leaf's bench."

"The arena is sold out. How on earth did you manage--"

"Jenny got them."

That explained it. "Jenny" was Isolde's current girlfriend, and a former member of Canada's National Women's Team.

I should mention that Isolde, as well as being more than proficient with the violin, loves hockey, and simply adores the Toronto Maple Leafs. I was glad to see her, wished her well, although I remain baffled with her attachment to a team that is, well, simply not that good.

This got me to thinking.

The hockey team would seem to fit the title of Leonard Cohen's novel, Beautiful Losers. I mean, here is this team that has players who, with one or two exceptions, are not really of NHL calibre. So the losses pile up, AND YET THE ARENA IS ALWAYS PACKED. Even in other Canadian arenas, there are vociferous fans that give the Leafs their support. One wonders why.

Further brooding on this question led to the following hypothesis. The Canadian psyche has always had a pronounced streak of pessimism running through it, whether due to the harsh climate, the awesome geography, or even the distances that must be covered in order to connect with other Canadians. The glass is always half empty.

I believe it was Margaret Atwood who once wrote, "If a Canadian had written Moby Dick, it would have been told from the whale's point of view." Or, I thought further, if Moses had been a Canadian, he would have gladly received the Ten Commandments, but then looked skyward and said plaintively, "The Commandments are fine, but, O Lord, what about funding?"

You see what I mean.

Yet this attitude has served us well. Canada is well regarded internationally, and is a magnet for immigration for many who find themselves in dire circumstances. Only lately has our inherent modesty in international relations lessened, probably because at this moment Canada is led by a Western economist, Stephen Harper, who exudes confidence in the country. This tends to horrify many, who state, "I will never vote for the man!' But then they add, sotto voce, "Except perhaps on election day."

After all, Harper's policies did much to keep Canada from falling into the financial pits that now bedevil the U.S. and Europe. (I did mention that the man was an economist.)

So maybe Canada's psyche is beginning to change to a more positive outlook. This was always true where international hockey was concerned, where we in our support rival Brazil and Argentina in their support of their soccer teams. Losses here lead directly to a depression that lasts a considerable time. In all other areas, losses are accepted. Indeed, such losses are expected, on the grounds made explicit by the statement, "Builds character, eh?"

I could hear Isolde in the adjoining room, chatting happily to Jenny, and was glad, yet still somewhat stumped by her passion for opera and the Leafs. Then I had it.

Both deal in tragedy.

And I can hear my late mentor, Dr. L., saying softly, "And comedy, Milady. And comedy."

South Of The Border, Down Washington Way

Last night, I had the opportunity to attend a reception at the American Consulate, courtesy Matilda Hatt. This provided a means to re-connect with some colleagues in The Trade, and to reminisce on some past actions. For the first time, I understood just how my involvement had limited the damage in what is known as the Dubrovnik Debacle, by entering a brothel to -- but enough; the incident is still deeply buried in some 'For Your Eyes Only' file, and there I must leave it.

At the reception, the conversation was all gloom and doom. In fact, I was approached by at least six senior employees who wanted to know the steps necessary to become Canadian citizens. The leitmotif running through all these requests was a feeling that they were not leaving their country; their country was leaving them.

I could see where they were coming from -- the growth of the chasm between Democrat and Republican, the politicizing of the Supreme Court, and the sheer nastiness that was fast becoming a hallmark of the current Presidential campaign.

Now there has always been a tension between left and right in the good old U.S.A. The federalism espoused by Alexander Hamilton was countered by the states' rights thesis of Thomas Jefferson. This duality can be traced throughout American history to the present day, but previously, when push came to shove, a compromise was always reached. What is different now is that, to Republicans, 'compromise' is a dirty word.

The Democrats, or at least Barack Obama, saw 'compromise' as a valid technique to accomplish reach agreement on issues related to legislation.

What quickly became apparent to the American electorate was the intransigence of the Republicans on this point, what with their emphasis on God, Sarah, guns, abortion, low or non-existent taxes and the wonder of Tea Parties. Even Mitt Romney, a sound businessman who as Governor did a good job in Massachusetts, is now caught in the maelstrom. Democrats have now realized that compromise is off the table, but the realization has come late. Perhaps too late, and hence the request by some for a possible life in Canada. Not an easy step for an American, in that a Canadian citizen owes allegiance to the Queen. I mean, they can't help thinking, "Was that wee tussle in 1776 all for naught?"

This conundrum was discussed at length. Finally, the senior aide to the Consul leaned forward and asked, "And what would you suggest?'

"To do some remembering," I replied. "It seems to me that what has gotten lost in the shuffle is the founding motto: E pluribus unum.

At this point a sweet young thing by my side whispered, "What does that mean?"

"Out of many, one," I replied. Lord, we never should have dropped Latin from the curriculum. "Moreover, there needs to be more consideration given by all in a leadership position to the truth of a certain statement, the Strunsky Principle if you will."

Even Tilly Hatt was intrigued by now. "And just what statement is that?"

"Goes as follows: 'To feel the authority of compassion, and respond to it'. This is inarguable, and now I feel the need for another martini."

"I will see to that," said the Consul himself.

And he did.

Two Equities

My quiet evening at the Manor got interrupted when Matilda Hatt stormed in, all agog to watch the Oscars. I hadn't planned to, but Tilly was a good friend and colleague in The Trade, and I acquiesced.

We headed for the den, where my massive flat screen TV was located. Soon we were settled with some superb hors d'oeuvres prepared by my cook, Henri, and serious inroads were being made into an excellent Chablis. Before the show began, Tilly asked me, "Where did the name 'Oscar' originate?"

"The matter is under some dispute. My own research indicates that one of the Academy secretaries, upon seeing the statuette, remarked that it resembled her uncle Oscar. From there, the name simply stuck."

"Well, whatever," replied Tilly. "But I do like the show. Don't you?"

"Only so-so. Some history,however, is worth mentioning. The first show was in 1929, and the majority of best actor votes went to a dog, Rin Tin Tin. This sent a certain frisson through the Academy, and it was decided that canines were not eligible. Pity. It would be interesting to see the front row of the Kodak Theatre lined, not with stars and starlets, but kennels."

"Then who did win best actor?"

"Emil Jannings," I said. "For the films The Last Command and The Way Of All Flesh. Yet there is one aspect of the Oscars that I find commendable."

"What's that?" said Tilly, taking a good swallow of Chablis.

"The fact that there are winners and losers, something true of life itself."

During the show, I was able to elaborate on this dichotomy. Or, put another way, the difference between Equity of Opportunity and Equity of Outcome.

Equity of Opportunity

This should be striven for mightily. A race is perhaps the best example, where all the runners line up at the starting line. All are equal at this point. Hence what we have to do is ensure a similar model in other areas. A perfect world, then. would be one where everyone started out equally to make there way through life. A moment's thought, however, quickly demonstrates that we are some distance away from this ideal. Doesn't mean that we should stop trying.

Equity of Outcome

Here be dragons. To return to our race model for a moment, under this philosophy a runner such as the magnificent Usain Bolt would have to start well back from the starting line, to ensure equity of outcome. In a short story by Kurt Vonnegut -- the name escapes me -- those ballet dancers who are proficient in leaps, twirls and footwork are forced to wear lead-lined tutus to weigh them down. By the same token, Vonnegut tells of a school where particularly good-looking boys and girls have to wear masks that emphasize the plain. Everyone's a winner. So with the six-grader who comes home with a gold star, delighting her parents, until they learn that everyone got a star.

Well I'm sorry, that's not how life operates. You win some, you lose some, and you learn more from failure than you do from success. So let's concentrate on downplaying equity of outcome and work to provide equity of opportunity. This is essential. After all, in global society, some classes do well, some do not: classes with indoor plumbing have the best chance.

Whither The Weather

As I watched from the conservatory window, a serious martini in hand, the wind lashed at the pewtered panes while appearing to blow snow in every direction. This had been going on for some time, and was really the first significant storm of the New Year. Consuela, my gardener, was at my side, all excited. She was eager to put into action the new John Deere snowplow I had recently purchased. She would have to wait -- the force of the wind made plowing an exercise in futility.

"How long do you think all this will last?" she asked.

"Don't know," I replied. "That's the thing about weather. You never really know."

Consuela sighed, then said, "Well, I'll just check the machine anyway."

She departed. Now I knew full well that the snowplow was in perfect working order, but a passion for machinery was not to be denied. So off she went, and I was left pondering the nature of weather.

It is, I thought, no accident that weather is a great opening topic for conversation. No one really understands it, and hence every opinion can be considered correct. I mean, nothing will stop a conversation more dead in its tracks than a position put forward by someone who knows what they're talking about. And it is usually safe and not subject to vitriolic argument.

I say 'usually' because there was one time I got into a very awkward situation in a weather discussion.

The issue erupted at a dinner party given by my Chief Financial Officer, best known simply as W.D. There was lots of chit-chat over the bacon-wrapped hot shrimps and toasted Brie with sesame crackers, and all was going well. The problem occurred at the dinner table.

I had been seated next to the Archbishop of the diocese -- W.D., on a pro bono basis, helps with parish accounts -- and, being in good mood, decided not to discuss religion in any form. The weather, I thought. Always non-confrontational.

"Well, Your Grace, a fine sunny day today."

"It was indeed. God favours us every so often."

An inner voice at this point urged silence. But Roman Law states that silence gives consent, as Cicero tells us: silentio te consentire. I simply found it too difficult to remain silent.

"God and the weather," I replied. "A close relationship there. In fact, I would posit that weather started the whole religious thing."

"Your meaning?" replied the Archbishop, suspicion in his voice. My atheistic tendencies were not exactly a secret.

"Just consider. Way back when, the weather would terrify, and it is not difficult to see that the power of storms, floods and fires were under the control of powerful forces, the gods and goddesses of the time. Zeus and his thunderbolts, Loki and his control of fire, Tibetan moon festivals, and, given some research, the minor storm god in Judea that became Judaism. All understandable. And then it all went wrong."

The Archbishop took a good gulp of Chardonnay, then asked, "How so?"

"Well, as science began to explain how storms, floods and fire were all interconnected with weather patterns, you would expect that belief in imaginary beings would fade. It didn't. There was simply too much to be gained -- power, prestige, even money -- in keeping the whole thing going. Not only that, but various beliefs began to clash, and are still clashing. For instance, the Middle East --"

But the Archbishop had had enough, and went to W.D. to make his excuses, citing an urgent diocese issue in need of resolution. W.D. rolled his eyes at me, but I simply shrugged. It was his seating arrangement, not mine.

So once again I was confronted with the fact that emotions and ideas follow beliefs, and that religion will be with us for some time. Beliefs do not change quickly, and there are sometimes storms we cannot......weather.

Salad Days

Yes, a bit late with this entry, but got sidetracked -- a lovely 'winterlude' at the Emp's northern island cottage. Readers may recall certain previous events at that venue, described in the entry "The Lost Spike" last October.

The same cast was present this time: Bohdan, the Manager of my sugar beet plantation in Ukraine; Sir Peter Crapp, a colleague in The Trade, and of course the Emp, who hosts (magnificently) these gatherings. What was unusual about this get-together was the incredibly wide range of topics under discussion, all under the rubric of --
Bohdan's salad.

Now it must be instantly admitted that this salad was very good indeed. A wonderful mix of garden leafage, delicately dressed with tender care. The problem was over-emphasis. At dinner that night, superb stuffed spareribs prepared by the Emp, seventeen and a half references were made by Bohdan to the glories of the salad. I say seventeen and a half, because the Emp had had enough, and ordered the references stopped before the eighteenth could be uttered.

Doesn't,however, take away from the fact that it was an excellent salad.

But this writing is really about discussion items. Sir Peter, for instance, brought forward two interesting 'p' words: 'pilated' (as in the woodpecker) and 'pizzle'. This latter term was unknown to the Emp and Bohdan, and were somewhat shaken to learn exactly what it was -- the penis of a bull. Its use as a whip didn't disturb, but when I mentioned that roasted pizzle was considered a delicacy in some cultures, that was a bit too much for the Emp, who fled to the kitchen and began preparing little meatballs for a hors oeuvre. I found his choice an interesting one, and began to connect....[Don't go there. Ed.] And before leaving 'p' words, I gained some praise from the Emp by unintentionally finding certain pliers that had been searched for long and hard. Moreover, all assisted in a successful endeavour to restore a much-treasured pot to its original state. On such things happiness rests.

The next day, after mentioning how good his salad was as a breakfast item, Bohdan then expounded on an article he was reading on Syria, and the grim behaviour of Bashar al-Assad and his attack on his own citizenry. What was of interest was Mrs. Assad. Her religious sect was one of the groups being shelled or bombed, and this behaviour on the part of her husband surely must put a wee strain on the relationship. Or so one might think.

Dinner at the Inn across from the island, a treat from Sir Peter, was excellent, although the Emp was not ecstatic, having ordered the wrong thing. All others were entirely satisfied with their servings, giving the lie to the adage connecting marriage with restaurant orders, to wit: "You are always satisfied with your choice, until you see what the other guy ordered."

I could go on about conversations on I-Pod apps, the aggression of blue jays, comedic films, and Ontario's flirting with a Grecian fiscal model, but enough is enough, and a good time was had by all. The Emp deserves much credit.

And the salad really was very good.

Providing Cheer

To London, to offer sympathy to Sir Harry, and attempt to cheer him up -- a daunting task at the best of times. I stayed at the Dorchester in Park Lane, and after my visit was looking forward to those excellent Cornish scallops the hotel specializes in.

Sir Harry was recuperating in a safe house provided by MI6, the address of which...well, forget about that. I entered his room, and there he was, propped up in bed surrounded by pillows everywhere.

"You're looking well," he said.

My God, a compliment. Rarer than hen's teeth. Mind you, I was wearing one of my son Sebastian's best creations, a black woolen sheath that fit perfectly.

"Thank you," I replied. "How are the ribs?"

"Better. But still bloody painful."

"I don't doubt it. Had a similar injury myself."

"Do tell."

So I did. The injury occurred during my time at an English Prep school while playing field hockey. A strapping Scottish lass sent me crashing to the ground, breaking three of my ribs in the process. On the way down, I managed to hook her knees, and she wound up with a broken leg. Since then, however, we have become the best of friends. The whole incident prompted her to gain an interest in bones, and she now heads up an orthopaedic clinic in Edinburgh.

So girl's field hockey goes. The men play it relatively sanely, being used to hard contact sports, and, more importantly, not wearing short skirts. (Think about that for a moment). And a curved stick in the hands of an irate female can do vicious things....but I digress.

Sir Harry had fallen asleep. Well, I thought, that anecdote sure cheered him up.

I made to go, when his voice rang out.

"Just dozing. You do go on, you know. I want your opinion on this material. Send it over before you leave. Still at the Dorchester?"

"Yes," I said, taking the file.

"Too many Cornish scallops will cause indigestion, you know."

"Shut up. What's in this stuff anyway?"

"Read, think, write, then get back to me. Now I want to rest."

"It's been a lovely visit."

Sir Harry snorted, and closed his eyes.

Back at the hotel, I opened the material, and read. Fascinating. The Chinese apparently were getting tired of constantly paying off kidnappers who were preying on the myriad of Chinese workers, and now and then executing them, in dicey parts of the world. They were requesting help in going after the perpetrators, freeing any nationals at risk, and making sure that said perpetrators never were in a position to act again. They actually used a phrase that has now become sort of a cliche, to wit: "Exterminate with extreme prejudice." Obviously, some member of the inner circle was reading far too much Robert Ludlum.

This was interesting news. Yes, Britain had forces skilled in what the Chinese were requesting, and could assist. In return, a similar favour could be requested from China. For instance, a marked improvement in British finances. David Cameron would be over the moon, the City would be happy, and I would have achieved my objective.

Sir Harry would be immensely cheered up.

Solidarity Not So Forever

[Ed. note: I have been given to understand that some readers, wishing to comment, have found Google's g-mail function to be cumbersome to navigate. To make life easier in this regard, comments can be sent directly to Lady Simone at bill071@rogers.com. I will ensure that they are forwarded to her Ladyship for any action she may deign to take.]

Skimming the local newspaper, I noticed that a garbage strike looms. While the Manor is not affected -- I have an arrangement with Don Guido's Waste Management Company --nevertheless the article did prompt some thoughts on the role of unions.

Now I should like to say at the outset that unions at one time were critical in providing wages a family could actually live on, as well as safety guarantees and benefits. It was, to put it mildly, a difficult struggle. Even a cursory reading of such material as George Orwell's Down The Mine, Upton Sinclair's The Jungle or John Galsworthy's play Strife makes this point inarguable.

However, things change. I describe three types of negotiation. The first two involve only a company and a union. The third is somewhat different.

The Good

Here Management and Union are honest with each other. Management shares a true account of the firm's financial position, the Union verifies this account, and an agreement is reached. When the company is doing well, the Union can legitimately bargain for a better contract. If things are not going so well, this would negatively affect a future contract. The key here is honesty. (Germany is particularly adept at this approach).

The Bad

Neither Management nor Union wish to "show their hand", as it were, and the bargaining process tends to resemble a game of Texas Hold Em poker. Bluffing and histrionics are common, and a strike or lockout becomes a distinct possibility. (This is particularly so in the U.S.)

The Ugly

Where things get really nasty are those negotiations between government and public service unions. Nasty, because there are now three, not two, groups involved, the third group being the public at large. This group is wholly innocent in terms of setting bargaining positions, yet, given a strike or lockout, bears the brunt of the pain caused by a service withdrawal. (A world-wide problem.)

The answer lies in either deeming the public service 'essential', or putting in place a system of binding arbitration, with representatives from the union, the government, and a third representative acceptable to each.

The above seems the fair way to go. After all, there is nothing in the Bible, the Qur'an, the Vedas, or any other scripture about powerful imaginary friends that says life is fair. It is up to us to put the fairness in.

So let's get on with it.

Unwanted Advice

With Sir Harry still voiceless, and nursing sore ribs, there occurred a welcome respite from work, save for some futures trading with respect to sugar beets. This lacuna provided some time for me to get on certain secure telephone lines, and proffer a number of people certain advice. To wit:

To Barack Obama: Stop trying to be Mahatma Gandhi, be bolder, and think of a Roosevelt, any Roosevelt, but particularly Teddy or Franklin. Either will do.

To Stephen Harper: Be a bit more cautious on the world stage. Cultivate Angela Merkel.

To Angela Merkel: Be a bit bolder on the world stage. Cultivate Stephen Harper.

To the Chinese leadership: Stop trying to harm Western children by sending toxic toys to North America. Someone in the inner circle has obviously read Swift's A Modest Proposal, but has not realized that the good Jonathon was writing satire, not policy.

To David Cameron: This tap dancing (actually, more a gavotte) to avoid hard decisions about Europe, the E.E.C. and the Euro should cease -- it will end in tears. But perhaps a career on Broadway beckons....

To Al Qaeda, the Taliban, and all other Islamic fundamentalists: Read and absorb Christopher Hitchens' God Is Not Great. Once the shock of awareness has subsided, there are schools to be financed, hospitals constructed, bridges to be built, and un-burka clad women brought into the scheme of things as full partners. Now get on with it.

To Mahmoud Ahmedinejad: Read up on Spike Milligan and Oscar Levant, then check yourself in to the nearest asylum. You are an embarrassment to a once great country. And if you can persuade your friend Hugo Chavez to do the same thing, all the better.

To Toronto's new mayor, Rob Ford: Continue your campaign to put Toronto's fiscal house in order. Yes, I am aware of the howls of outrage coming from all those on the City's payroll who "study" issues, host focus groups, and hare off to conferences in sunny climes. As you know, any studies or reports are shelved almost as soon as they are written, and nothing is recommended except that further study is warranted. So continue to do what you are doing, and always keep in mind the following advice: Nihil te bastardes carborundorum.*

So. Advice from a genius. I know this because, as Goethe tells us, "Genius consists of knowing when to stop."

And I just stopped.

* "Don't let the bastards grind you down."

Oddities

I was annoyed when the secure line rang. I had been asked by a certain atheistic publication to point out the errors Martin Buber had made in his book I and Thou, and was enjoying the experience. However, needs must.

It was Sir Harry's aide on the line, Sir Peter Crapp. Now he and I have an interesting relationship: I believe him to be smarter than I, but according to Matilda Hatt, he believes the same of me. We circle each other warily, but do get along surprisingly well. Sir Peter is also a magnificent cook, and what he does with a smoked pork chop...well, words fail me.

In any event, Sir Peter had a tale of woe to relate. Some unpleasantness had occurred at Sir Harry's club. Apparently Sir Harry had taken too large a swig of a bloody Caesar he had been imbibing, and had swallowed the celery stick. On the way down, the stick had somehow managed to scratch his larynx, temporarily disabling his speech function. In his efforts to dislodge the stick, Sir Harry had fallen, severely bruising his ribs on a nearby Chippendale table. Now he was in hospital, mute and immobile.

But not out of it by any means, and Sir Peter informed me that Sir Harry had charged him with getting me to pick up a package at the usual place. When retrieved, I was directed to make the best use of the material, a use that should be of maximum discomfort to the Ungodly.

This was not welcome news, since "the usual place" was a seat at the local hockey arena, and could only be accessed during an actual game. I should add that I have purchased two platinum season tickets, and that these are given to a local teen-age homeless shelter with the proviso that I would need then from time to time. I made certain that this condition was made known to all at the shelter -- too many of those kids had had the rug pulled out from under them at the last moment. No need to repeat the idiocy.

I should admit that I enjoy a good hockey game. What I do not enjoy is the screaming decibels of sound that accompany the experience. The Powers That Be that manage the arena seem to be terrified of silence, much like teen-agers with their ears constantly glued to their I-Pods. Recently, however, a solution has presented itself. My driver, Ahmed, and his wife (and my gardener) Consuela, are mad hockey fans, and cheer on the local team with gusto. They were delighted to attend, and to retrieve what had to be retrieved.

I asked Sir Peter, "Do you know what is in the package?"

"I have a good idea, but have not actually seen the material."

"Well you will."

Ahmed and Consuela were delighted to go, and I agreed to baby sit their little girl, Maria Aisha. Hell, I've raised four myself, and occasionally (just occasionally, mind you) felt the need to keep my hand in.

The process of retrieval is simplicity itself. One of the seats has a false bottom that opens when -- well, that's classified. Unless the person knows the opening procedure, it is impossible to detect. How all this was done is also classified, although my good friend, Code Barry of CSIS, let me in on the mechanics of it all.

All Ahmed had to do was to open, retrieve, and slip the package into Consuela's purse. Ahmed is adept at this, waiting for a goal and acting as the crowd goes into wild celebration. Sometimes, however, our roller coaster team doesn't score a goal, in which case Ahmed waits for a fight to break out, causing the same effect.

Later that night Ahmed returned with the package, a video disk. I inserted it into my player, and Sir Peter and I viewed the thing. The footage was a bit raw, but it showed clearly a large number of North Koreans being beaten and hauled away to prison. Their crime? Not bemoaning, weeping or wailing enough at the recent funeral of Kim Jong Il.

"Hmmm," said Sir Peter.

"Hmmm," I replied. "What do you think?"

"It's your call."

"Iran. It could be inserted into their Government TV news broadcast. Tilly's colleagues at the NSA managed that not too long ago. Let old Ahmedinejad justify that to Kin Jong Un."

Sir Peter said, "Fascinating, and a cosy relationship would become decidedly less cosy. But Iran will immediately try to trace the tape's origin. Any thoughts?"

I thought for a moment, and then had it.

"Easy-peasy. The Kremlin."

Sir Peter stared at me, then said, "Let us never become enemies."

We Are Steeped In Blood So Far....(Macbeth).

I'm glad to be a bit early with this one, considering the tribulations that have occurred recently that have prevented me from maintaining some sort of schedule. These tribulations centre around a bacterial infection, and the taking of an anti-biotic drug (Biaxin, since you ask) that is taking its own sweet time in killing the bacteria dragon. Pity there isn't a drug called Siegfried, who, after chatting up the dragon for a little, proceeds quickly to slay it. Then it is off to find Brunnhilde and her protective ring of fire and -- [that's enough Wagner: ed.]

In any event, I had loads of time on my hands, and was driven to watching far more television then I ever had before. Or will again. My sainted aunt! Mind you, I have always had my suspicions about this medium. After all, the word is half Latin, half Greek. How could any good come of it?

First came a barrage of religious shows that preached eternal salvation if only one followed the rules as set out by whatever preacher was holding forth. The only common denominator appeared to be the ongoing need for financial contributions, which, if I recall the New Testament correctly, was the exact cause of Christ turfing the financiers out of the Temple.

The came the talk shows -- Dr. Phil et al -- where I encountered any number of people being interviewed who were batshit crazy and seemingly proud of it. It was actually a relief to stumble into General Hospital, which is at least an honest soap opera.

But what staggered me, and the reason for the title of this piece, was the number of shows related to the care and feeding of vampires.

Now I well realize that anything to do with blood extraction is tricky. No government that I know of does this directly, as they do with (rapacious) taxation. I mean, a government would find it difficult in the extreme to defend taking blood directly from the citizenry. Hence the use of arms-length organizations such as the Red Cross to do this. Yet this extraction holds a macabre fascination, something Bram Stoker got onto with his Dracula, and vampires have had a very successful run indeed.

Unfortunately, most television shows featuring vampires are rubbish. The creatures cavort about in the sun, do well in school assignments, and many are helpful and good. Stoker would be appalled. There are, however, two exceptions, one from the past, one current.

In the past, Buffy The Vampire Slayer got full marks, not for the story line, but for the writing sub-text that flowed through the show. One example of this will suffice. A teacher hands back an essay assignment, remarking, "Well, Willow, I really can't critique your use of pure reason." (Work on that folks -- there is a clue in the fifth word.) I was hooked on the show from that point on.

The current show that impresses me is True Blood. The thesis: a blood substitute has been developed -- by the Japanese, who else? -- that allows vampires to 'come out of the closet', a term used advisedly. In truth, the show is not so much about vampires as it is about social upheaval and bigotry. And often the show's sub-text is more important than the main plot line, which can and often does goes completely over the top in terms of violence and sexuality. But back to the sub-text. Example -- at a bar, a newspaper is briefly seen on a table with the headline, "Brad and Angelina adopt vampire baby."

Works for me.

However, it was a relief when Irving showed up with the latest copy of the New Yorker. Good. Off went the television. Bye, bye vampires. But I had only turned one page when I encountered the following cartoon. Two teenage girls are shown leaving a classroom, with one saying to the other, "There are no vampires in our school. We are SO unlucky!"

One can only hope, as Conrad's Lord Jim did when he swallowed the pearl, that this too will pass.





The popularity

From The Editor

Apologies to all readers -- Lady Simone has become indisposed again. She had been recovering nicely from a mysterious acid reflux situation when, hopping down the Bunny Trail, came Bucky Bronchitis. For a while, between nasty coughing fits, all she was capable of was terrorizing everyone at the Manor, cursing all physicians, and generally being impossible. Things now have settled down a bit, and when Irving last saw her, she was curled up in her bed reading the Book of Job.

As soon as I receive her next missive, you will. Given the Lady's iron constitution, shouldn't be too long.

Cracks In Various Edifices

After a rather hectic Christmas, I can report that peace has returned to the Manor. All the kids had put in an appearance, along with their friends and sundry acquaintances of mine. One dinner party was particularly memorable, involving as it did a wide-ranging discussion on the trends most likely to be prominent in 2012.

These trends were numerous, ranging from a committed PETA supporter on the importance of 'swine rights' to a biologist arguing forcefully about the critical nature of nematodes and their role in advancing agricultural production. A host of other trends were mentioned, but the group managed to winnow the list down to three.

The first is the coming into being of what Marshall McLuhan called 'The Global Village'. (The man was truly prescient.) The edifice containing nation states that remain separate and distinct is beginning to crumble.Technology has made possible a sharing of information that could only be dreamed about in earlier ages. The effect is dramatic, allowing oppressed people in dire circumstances to see and comprehend that not all are so oppressed, and, indeed, being free and relatively left alone by government or dour religious authorities, create little 'flash mobs' that feature joyful singing and dancing. If them, why not us? The group was unanimous in seeing this question as achieving real impact in 2012.

All also agreed that the second edifice showing cracks was the theory that 'Global Warming' was a hoax and not of any significance. Yet all present concurred that the last Ice Age was still in retreat, things were getting warmer and the weather getting more and more unpredictable. Our efforts at capping carbon are paltry, but this pales in significance when one considers the effect of methane currently bubbling up in the Arctic and Antarctica as the ice sheets decline. Methane is a far more formidable greenhouse gas than carbon, and life on planet Earth is going to get very exciting indeed, with at least some if that excitement scheduled for 2012.

Finally, cracks are beginning to appear, after some 10,000 years, in the role organized religion plays in life. Richard Dawkin's book, The God Delusion, has sold two million English language versions, and has been translated into 31 others. Christopher Hitchens' God Is Not Great' has become a best seller. This, in my opinion, is all to the good.

I do understand why our paleolithic ancestors invented all manner of gods and goddesses to explain the things that, given the state of knowledge at that time, were mysteries. There even was a birth goddess who was called upon when a man and a woman united. She, however, faded away when the tribe learned to count to nine.

It was, however, when patriarchy grabbed the religious reins that things really took a turn for the worse. The 'holy' religious texts used to browbeat various populaces into submission have foundations with no basis whatsoever in fact. Yet these texts allow religious leaders to wage war, curtail all manner of freedoms, and see women as chattel. AND IT IS STILL GOING ON. Science and reason should have brought all this to an end long ago, but the staying power of religion is formidable.

This could, and probably is, a result of fear of death. Woody Allen puts this well (as he usually does) when he stated "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve immortality by not dying."

Cracks are, however appearing in the religious edifice, and not before time. As for me, I take solace in the following advice from Victor Hugo: "It is nothing to die; it is frightful not to live."

Discuss among yourselves.

Irony And An Incident In Berlin

Just arrived back from Berlin in time for the annual Christmas gathering at the Manor. The event I most looked forward, the Great Snowball Fight involving the staff and kids, unfortunately has been cancelled. The problem? Snow. There isn't any.

Well, these things happen, and not all was bad. Team Simone will hold the Snowball Championship Trophy (a crystal icicle designed by Claes Oldenburg) for another year.

As for my trip to Berlin, it came more or less right out of the blue. The Compte de Rienville had been staying with me at the Manor, but had received an urgent request (an order, really) to attend a meeting in Berlin. "More Euro gnashing and flossing of teeth" he said, annoyance in his voice. Then he brightened. "Perhaps you could come with me? For companionship...and...er...comfort."

"Always glad to supply both," I replied. "And a chance to keep up my German."

"C'est si bon."

The Compte made arrangements. First class on Air France, to which I reciprocated by booking a suite at the Adlon on Unter den Linden. Then we were off.

It had been some time since I had been in Berlin, but it was in this city that I had first really practiced The Trade. Not without some mishaps, including some nasty run-ins with the Stasi of the then DDR. Thus when the Compte sallied forth to his meetings, I took the opportunity to roam about. The Adlon is centrally located, and close to the Brandenburg Gate. I went through, thinking that at an earlier time this would have taken some time and not a little courage.

The changes in the former East Berlin were remarkable, and the rubble that had all been too evident at that time had disappeared, with new edifices everywhere. I searched for, and found, a back alley off Karl Marx Platz where I had almost been captured by the KBG. I shuddered at the memory. THAT venue hadn't changed much.

The Incident occurred as I was making my way out of the alley. Three skinheads entered. They spotted me, pulled out some wicked-looking knives, and one snarled, "That purse. We'll have it!"

That 'purse' was my Louis Vuitton, and they definitely weren't having it. I thought of using the martial art known as Tai Chi Chuan, but this was a killing technique, and would be like using a hammer to kill a flies. Instead, I opened my purse, pulled out my small Smith & Wesson J-Frame, and said calmly, "Well, lads, now you've done it. You've fallen victim to a cliche -- you've brought knives to a gun fight. Bad idea."

The tallest of the trio, and the obvious leader, said, "That puny little weapon? Bullshit. Let's take her!"

I shot him in the leg.

That brought proceedings to an abrupt halt.

"Now, lads, those knives. Schnell, bitte!" That shot would have been heard by someone, so time was an issue.

The two left standing complied, thoroughly cowed. (Bullies always tend to collapse when confronted by someone eager to fight back). I gathered all three knives, and said bluntly, "Now think about all this. And do something with your lives. Drive a truck. Make a shoe. And always remember, expect the unexpected. Oh, and you friend will need medical attention. If he is indeed your friend." That choice I would leave to them. The one thing I was sure of was that I would never be implicated in the attack. Brought down by a woman? An admission that would never be made.

I left the alley, dropped the knives into a nearby catch basin, and returned to the hotel and a serious Grey Goose over ice. The Compte arrived in a bad mood -- Euro meetings have that effect on him -- but the Grey Goose treatment, my recounting of The Incident and some play (our business, not your's) soon put that right.

The Compte said he had a connection at the Berlin Staatoper, and if I liked, we could attend. But I could tell he wasn't overly keen on the idea.

"What is the opera?" I inquired.

"Wagner's Gotterdammerung."

"Oh, let's not. Why attend an opera when Europe appears to be well into the twilight of the gods in any event?"

"Point taken," replied the Compte.

And here we come to Irony. It amazes me that Germany in the first half of the Twentieth century set about wrecking Europe, and largely succeeded. In the early Twenty-First century, however, it is Germany that has the power to save Europe. Odd. Exceedingly odd.

So concludes my little sojourn in Berlin.

Fitting, then, to wish all readers a truly Frohliche Weihnachten.

A Veil Of Tears

Sorry -- a bit late with this one. Christmas at the Manor can be hectic, and throughout all the running to and fro, Wordsworth's line kept thundering in my head: "Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers." But finally came a lull, along with a welcome visit from the Compte de Rienville, who somehow had managed to extricate himself from a myriad of European meetings involving frantic hand wringing about saving the Euro.

We were relaxing in the kitchen, enjoying a fine quiche laced with truffles whipped up by my cook, Henri, all washed down by an excellent Chablis. Both of us were absorbed in various newspapers. It was then that I noticed an item, and said to the Compte, "What if I were to apply for citizenship in Saudi Arabia?"

This question resulted in a huge "Hah!" as well as spilling of a good dollop of Chablis.

"What's so funny?"

He replied, "Oh, I just had a vision of you in a naquib trailing behind some bearded loon of a guardian, all meek, Islamic and submissive. Not really you, Cherie. Not by a long shot."

"Yet, were I actually to apply, then I would have to agree to abide by Saudi culture, mores, and their strict interpretation of Islam. This I accept -- it would be my choice, my responsibility."

"And your point is....?

"My gorge simply rises at --"

"And a beautiful gorge it is --"

"Stop it. I am talking about the reverse of the medal. What is profoundly irritating to me is that several women, daughters of Islam if you will, are refusing to remove their veils when taking the citizenship oath and receiving their papers. One went so far as to say she would be more comfortable swearing allegiance to Allah than the Queen. Now the Queen is an actual personage as well as a symbol, while Allah really is an imaginary friend. The whole thing borders on the ludicrous."

"So what occurred?" asked the Compte.

"I am glad to say that the good Jason Kenney, Minister of Immigration, would have none of it. This is Canada, not some country under the sway of self-appointed religious lunatics. I mean, if I were to flounce about Mecca in a tight sweater and mini skirt, I would probably lose, not only sweater and skirt, but my head as well."

"An appalling thought."

"What?"

"You losing your head."

The Compte can be charming, but from time to time can safely be ignored, and I continued my little rant. "What I have trouble grasping in all this is that if these women are so uncomfortable with the Canadian way of life, why don't they just up and leave for whatever religious hellhole they came from?"

"A good question," said the Compte. "It is as if these women want to keep some of their traditions, but not all. Your word 'hellhole' sums it up well. I suspect, when push comes to shove, veils will be removed. Now I have come across a newspaper item that gets at another type of veil, a kind of vale of tears."

"What are you talking about?"

"I notice that Christopher Hitchens has passed away. A loss -- he always put forward interesting stuff".

"He did indeed", I said, "and I am sadly aware that he is no longer with us. His attacks on the horror of organized religion are to me essential reading. One quote from his God Is Not Great stays with me, a title from an etching by Goya: 'The sleep of reason brings forth monsters'. Hard to top that."

"And I won't even try," replied the Compte.

Family Update And The Imperfect Perfect

During my recent wrestle with the Illness Corn God, it was heartening to note that all my brats fluttered in from various parts of the globe, all full of concern. Lord Strunsky and I must have done something right. As I perked up, and they saw that I was well enough to cope with Newt Gingrich and his dandruffy head, fears were greatly allayed.

All were doing well.

My oldest daughter,Isolde, she who performs miracles with the violin, had flown in from Vienna, where she had gained the position of concert master at the Vienna Philharmonic. It was good to see her happy. Sebastian, my favourite dress designer, came in from Paris and was also doing well. Very well indeed, of which more in a moment.

My second daughter Victoria, an historian who supplements her income with portraying girls in all manner of peril in television and film, flew in from Los Angeles. Vicky, however, was in a spot of trouble. Apparently she had written an article for some prestigious magazine, the thesis being that the Old Testament of the Bible contains only one actual historical reference -- there really was a King David. All other instances are either folklore, hearsay, myth or priestly invention. The storm of criticism from infuriated divines this evoked was massive This thesis I will have to research myself, but if true, I told her in no uncertain terms to not apply the same technique to the Qur'an. Having one Strunsky on a hit list was enough.

Mark, my youngest and now a physicist, arrived from Geneva where he was involved with the Large Hadron Collider at Cern. Grateful that he had taken the time to come, I refrained from getting into our usual argument about whether consciousness or matter was at the heart of the universe. To my mind, smashing things to bits simply leads to smaller bits, but that's an issue for another day.

Now back to Sebastian.

He was, to put it mildly, ecstatic. He had just completed his Paris showing, and it had been a resounding success.

"And," I asked, as any mother would, "just how was this success achieved?"

"Well" he began, "about a month earlier, I came across a poem by Robert Browning, Andrea Del Sarto, to be exact."

"Andrea Del Sarto," I said. "Sixteenth Century. A Florentine. Called 'the faultless painter.'"

"Exactly. He painted perfect pictures, symmetrical, everything in its proper place. This made him popular in his time. But now...not so much. Then I went to the Louvre and looked, really looked, at Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. The imperfection, if that's what it is, is in that smile. It draws you in, and holds you."

"Your point being?"

Here Sebastian got somewhat animated. "Long story short, Mum, I took this accent on imperfection and applied it dress design. Sheathes with oddly placed zippers. Skirts never with a perfectly rounded hem, slightly askew, but never outrageously so. Just enough to raise interest. Buttons and fringes where buttons and fringes rarely are. All of which, when shown, riveted the audience, Or so I am told. I left soon after the showing when I heard about your illness."

"I guess the proof will be in the orders."

"You're right. Although I hear that two have already been placed."

By whom?" I asked.

"Well, Lady Gaga was one."

"And the other?"

"The Duchess of Cambridge."

"Really! Can't go wrong there."

Sebastian smiled, and said, "You know, it was something you said that encouraged me, that Dorothy Parker quote."

"And just what quote was that?"

"Nothing succeeds like a dress."

Eye Of Newt

I have just dealt with a rather unusual request from the Americans, received from my CIA friend, Matilda Hatt. Apparently someone in some Department or other had read (and, surprisingly, understood) my analysis of the European debt crisis, and wanted my thoughts on the upcoming American election. Given the sea of Republican candidates that keep bobbing up, they apparently were at sea themselves when it came to assessing who would run against Obama next November.

This does not surprise, given that the confusion does not spring from politics, but rather from the media. You see, the media knows full well who will be contesting the election, but if they declare this, there would be nothing to write about for almost an entire year, and blank pages or screens are every media manager's nightmare. Moreover, receipts would fall, subscriptions lapse, and monetary rewards would shrink drastically -- a scenario to be prevented at any cost.

Hence great attention is given to a variety of Republican hopefuls. First to be so honoured was the former Governor of Utah, Jon Huntsman. This attention, however, did not last long. Mr. Huntsman advocated sensible and workable policies, had great experience in government, and was even appointed by Obama as Ambassador to China. (Huntsman is fluent in Mandarin.) While Huntsman is the one candidate that terrifies Obama, there was no need to worry -- most Republicans shunned him. After all, good sense is not what they're about.

Next to be promoted by the media was Texas Congressman Ron Paul, who wanted to eviscerate the Federal Government, save for the military. It was as if he was channeling the late North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms, whose answer to any problem America might face was "Bomb'Em!" This was even too much for the Tea Party.

Then the media turned to Minnesota Congresswoman Michelle Bachmann, who appeared a very attractive candidate until she did an extremely foolish thing and spoke out loud. One example might serve: "Carbon dioxide is portrayed as harmful. But there isn't even one study that can be produced that shows carbon dioxide is a harmful gas." Bye, Bye Michelle.

Governor Rick Perry of Texas then had his turn, and was doing well until, at a televised meeting of candidates, he emphasized that he would shut down three Government Departments -- Education, Health Care, and...er...ah...I...er...etc. etc. etc. Thus fell Governor Perry. [Note. The third forgotten Department was Energy, which has jurisdiction over America's nuclear initiatives and plants. What would happen to these if Perry's proposal ever came to be is unknown.]

Next comes a black challenger to Obama, Herman Cain. Mr. Cain runs a successful pizza business, and sees this experience as a springboard to America's highest office. He may be right, but it was all for naught, as a slew of sexual assault charges came to light. All Mr. Cain could do was to deny that he had had sex with that woman, or that woman, or that woman, and so on. The denials didn't work, and Mr. Cain's run was over.

Finally we come to the current front runner, former House Leader Newt Gingrich (real name Newton). We have seen Newt before, having success with his 'Contract With America' a contract that was quickly broken once Americans had a chance to see just what was on offer. Newt will put up a good fight, but the fact that he is a philanderer and an adulterer will be more that most God-fearing Republicans can stomach. After all, even as he was bringing impeachment charges against Bill Clinton's trip down the primrose path of dalliance with Monica Lewinsky, Newt was romancing his mistress while his wife was dying of cancer. A bridge truly too far.

So it will be the sensible Mitt Romney versus Barack Obama. Yes, Romney is a Mormon, a religion founded by a con man, Joseph Smith, always fleeing authorities across a multitude of state lines. At some point, however, he invented the Book of Mormon, and found an imaginary friend, the angel Moroni. This will work against him, but should not be insuperable to overcome. And as far as I know, no Mormon has flown an airplane into a building or maimed and killed on behalf of his imaginary friend.

The media, though, will still need things to write about, so there could well be other Republicans that are pushed into the limelight. And as for Newt, well, the election occurs in November, and the holiday season begins to loom. There would be few Democrats that could resist making the point that Newt really would be "the Gingrich that stole Christmas".

Couldn't resist that myself.

Currency Conniptions

Glad to be back from illness, and in one piece (sort of). I spent a great deal of time flat on my back -- no comments please, just don't go there -- and all too many said that if that was the case, things were at least... looking up.

The lack of physical activity did lend itself to a great deal of thinking, prompted by the various and sundry debt crises affecting the world. Each situation has its little idiosyncrasies, but the more I pondered, the more I perceived a common thread: money had lurched towards being an end rather than a means.

This matters.

I have learned through running a successful business (love those sugar beets) that money must be tightly tied to production, whether of goods or services. In this sense money acts as a medium to facilitate said goods or services. Put bluntly, it has no other value. In fact, the inherent cost of an American dollar, a Chinese yuan or a Euro, is minimal. That we give it a much higher inherent value is an act of faith that rivals anything promulgated by the Vatican or exhorted in a mosque.

As long as this bond (money) between the maker or deliverer of a good or a service and the buyer of same exists, things work well. Yes, there are strictures that come into play, such as the law of supply and demand, the necessity of being competitive, or, as Kenny Rogers might put it, "Knowing when to hold em, and knowing when to fold em."

Moreover, when a new approach beckons, credit might be necessary. Fine, that is what banks are for, but for that credit, there must be collateral. Pawn shops are past masters at this, actually holding the collateralized article for a given period of time. If the approach turns out to be successful, the article is redeemed; if not, bye bye pawned article.

Recently, however, American and European banks saw an opportunity to make money from money. They took the collateralized item (mortgage, land purchase, whatever) wrapped it up in some reasonable investment items, and sold them on to interested buyers who sensed enormous profits. All of which raises the dandruffy head of Signor Ponzi. When a number of the investors, worried about how the bond market was reacting to all this, actually wanted their money back, it simply wasn't there. Money had ceased to be a medium between producer and buyer, and become an end in itself, disappearing into the pockets of what is now termed "the one per cent".

The way out of this mess will be hard. The concept of money must return to its roots as a facilitation medium, and quickly. This will mean a great deal of harsh austerity -- step forward Greece, whose country 'collateral' is nowhere near what the country presently earns -- and very few other countries will be able to avoid fiscal pain.

And what lurks in the background? Well, Clinton advisor James Carville put it this way: "I used to think that if there was reincarnation I wanted to come back as the President or the Pope. But now I want to be the bond market; you can terrify anybody."

Bah, too much gloom. I will try not to get ill again.

Lady Simone Is Indisposed -- Editor.

Our apologies. Lady Simone has fallen prey to what an N.H.L. coach would term an "upper body injury" and cannot address her weekly insights. She hopes to return the following week.

Afghanistan Redux

"You want me to do WHAT?"

It was Sir Harry on the secure line, requesting that I meet with Maulvi Jalaluddin Haqqani, the warlord who runs most of the criminal networks in Afghanistan and a goodly portion of Pakistan.

"You do realize," I continued, "that the Haqqani network has close links with Al Qaeda, and that my name is prominent on their most wanted list? You do realize this?"

Sir Harry replied, "Simone my dear, you've forgotten the adage, 'Behold the turtle. It makes progress only when it sticks out its neck'"

"Yeah, but its MY neck."

"Some neck. Some --"

"Oh, stop it." (Sir Harry occasionally thinks he's Churchill. He isn't.) "Now what really is going on?"

Turns out that various 'feelers' had been put out by Haqqani personnel requesting a meeting. I was cited as the one with whom they wished to discuss 'things'. Apparently they knew of my close relationships with certain wives of world leaders, and mentioned Michelle O. and Hillary C. in particular. Moreover, they were interested in meeting the person who had almost got Bin Laden in Tora Bora, and since then had been a massive thorn in Al Qaeda's side.

I had to admit the request was an intriguing one, and when I learned that Sir Harry guaranteed a safe meeting, and that I could bring two associates, I accepted.

The meeting occurred somewhere in Northern Europe, and I cannot divulge more with respect to place. Sir Harry loaned Sir Peter Crapp of MI6, a person that was as skilled (almost) in the dark arts as I was. As for myself, I brought along Irving, who was fluent in Arabic, and Matilda Hatt, who had a good working knowledge of Pushtun and Dari. They had other attributes as well, should things take a nasty turn.

I was surprised that we met with only two men -- the Chief of the Haqqani Network, Maulvi, and his son, Sirajuddin. Maulvi began speaking in Russian, something that indicated he had done his homework, and knew that I was comfortable in that language. The fact that he himself was fluent was in all likelihood based on the fact that he had fought the Russians tooth and nail at the time when Russians had delusions of running Afghanistan. It helps to know an opponent's language.

I wore my hair long and uncovered, as well as a nice blouse and jacket and an Armani pencil skirt. My point? Haqqanis, you're a long way from some poor Burka-clad minion that would be putty in your hands. Deal with it.

A trade was being offered. The Americans use of drones was, in Maulvi's words, disrupting business, and stopping such attacks would be a Good Thing. I countered that stopping suicide bombings would also be a Good Thing, as well as cutting all ties with Al Qaeda.

"You ask too much," said Maulvi flatly.

"Ah, but hear me out," I continued. "What if your network suddenly went all legitimate?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, as I understand it, among other Network activities, you offer, for a price, 'protection'. Now in the West, we call that insurance. Just think, your Network could offer such protection to ALL Afghans. They would pay a reasonable and affordable rate; the wide coverage would triple what you're bringing in now, and your new firm could serve as a model of legitimacy. Think of it as The Great East Life Assurance Company. Goodness, you could bring forth an IPO, even, in time, a listing on the NYSE."

Maulvi turned to his son. "What is the infidel bitch talking about? ' This was in Dari, and Tilly whispered the translation in my ear. Sirijuddin had obviously spent some time in the West, and had a handle on insurance. After their short interchange, Maulvi leaned forward. "People would cheat. They would lie. They would want more money to replace things than what they were originally worth. How could this be prevented?"

So I told him how, and the Haqqani's became familiar with the keystone of all such companies -- the insurance claims adjuster. They also agreed in principle to the deal, and gave me the go ahead to approach my conduits.

Who knows, the whole thing might come to pass. Yes, it's thinking outside the box, but never was such thinking more necessary. In this regard, I remember hearing the testimony at the Senate hearing concerned with the deadly fire that engulfed a NASA space capsule, killing two astronauts. One of the Senators asked, "How? How could such a terrible tragedy occur? Was there a failure?"

"Oh, yes," replied the NASA astronaut under oath. "There was a failure."

"A failure of what?"

The reply was terse and to the point: "Imagination."

Ode On A Grecian Turn

Well, not an ode exactly -- I will leave that sort of thing to John Keats -- but the following little quatrain by Clarence Day struck a chord:

When eras die their legacies
Are left to strange police;
Professors in New England
Guard the glory that was Greece.

The key word here I believe is "WAS".

Now every so often I get a chance to simply mull something over, aided and abetted by a serious martini. In this case, my thoughts turned to Greece, and the "glory" that is now in serious decline. I offer these thoughts in the hope of making a very murky situation a bit clearer.

Not that Greece crashed overnight. It has, I daresay, been some time since the Greeks left mathematics, governance and architecture and went into the restaurant business. Notwithstanding this excellent culinary contribution, there has been a slow decline from the age of Pericles, Euripides, Sophocles et al. More recently, this decline began to hit warp speed as spending began to outrageously outstrip revenue, bringing Greece to the brink of bankruptcy.

And as Greece is now ensconced in the European Union, and has forsaken the Drachma for the Euro, the country cannot inflate their way out of the mess.

This would not matter overmuch if there were truly a United States of Europe, where Greece comprises an estimated 2%--3 % of European Gross National Product. The other "states" could easily make up the difference. In the United States, for instance, Alabama or Georgia could get into fiscal trouble, and a national solution would be called for. Europe, however, is a long way from such unity.

What exacerbates this situation is the interlocking of European bank holdings and bonds. Even the Americans are looking askance; their own banks and investment houses are more than a little exposed. The solution is seen in the form of a massive bailout, contingent upon stringent austerity demanded of, as George Bush called them, "the Grecians". All of this has produced a welter of hand wringing at meetings, involving much weeping and flossing of teeth. And when Greece appeared to offer its citizens a referendum on the looming austerity measures, the fear on European faces was palpable. (The referendum has since been rescinded.)

I do believe the situation will right itself. Scared politicians can act, if the scare is big enough. If they don't, well it is a Greek, Nikos Kazantzakis, who sums the situation up well in his brilliant Zorba The Greek. In the movie made from the novel, the Englishman, played by Alan Bates, asks;

"Zorba, do you think the log-moving mechanism will actually work?"

Anthony Quinn, playing Zorba, replies, "Dunno, Boss. It will either work....or be a catastrophe."

Difficult to improve on Zorba.

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.