Sympathizing With Svetlana

A bit late with this post, but things happen. To be precise, my Russian colleague in The Trade, Svetlana Marinskaya,  dropped in unexpectedly, and we spent last evening going through two bottles of superb Chardonnay that she had 'obtained'  in Ukraine. Lana, you see, is a soccer nut, and had been swanning about Poland and Ukraine watching the matches. Until she wasn't.

Now Lana and I share a history. Indeed, in Vladivostock, we had spent some time trying to kill each other. Yes, we were together in The Trade, but on opposite sides. Astute readers will suss out that we were unsuccessful in this endeavour, in that we were now happily drinking together some ten years later. Nothing personal in this, you see.

Mementos of this tussle are still with us -- a bullet scar on my right shoulder and a similar scar on Lana's inner thigh. If I had aimed a bit higher, any child bearing on her part would have....well, enough of past battles. It all goes to show that bullets and real estate share something in common: what matters, in the words of Phil Spencer and Kirstie Alsop, is "location, location, location."

Given last night's tryst with the Chardonnay, my memory of what transpired is a bit hazy in spots, but I think I remember the gist. Lana had a great time bouncing around the various stadiums in Poland, but much less so in Ukraine, although she had visited my sugar beet plantation and was impressed. Not so much with the sugar beets, but more with my Ukrainian supervisor, Bohdan.

"He's kinda cute," she said. "And don't get me wrong," she stated. "Like Bohdan, the average Ukrainian was always very kind and helpful. There was, ...er....a spot of trouble occurred when I came into conflict with the elite."

"The cronies of Viktor Yanukovych."

"Precisely. Can you imagine? There I was, having paid top ruble for a seat in the Kiev stadium. Just before the game started, I was told to vacate the seat. Some nephew or other had suddenly decided to attend. I was escorted out of the stadium by two "government officials". Bloody thugs, actually. In the passageway leading out of the stadium, the two nodded in deference to the nephew who was just entering. I mean, REALLY. What was a girl to do?"

"And....?"

"The three of them wound up in some hospital or other, and are now tending to various broken arms and legs. At that point I decided to get the hell out. No point in joining poor Yuliya in some godforsaken prison."

"Speaking of Yuliya," I put in, "what I cannot understand is why Putin hasn't resolved that situation. After all, it was she who made that oil and gas deal with old Vladimir, from which Russia has profited handsomely."

"Ah," said Lana, a touch of sorrow in her voice, "Vladimir is not the man he was. He wants to be loved and adored by the people, and the fact that a slew of people are rather vehemently protesting his policies (or lack of them) well, it grates.  He is, in my opinion, beginning to choke. Just like the Russian soccer club did. Unless there is some kind of epiphany -- "

"And pigs will fly," I interrupted.

Lana stared. "What on earth do flying pigs have to do with it?"

We had been talking in Russian, save for that last bit. Lana's English wasn't bad, but idioms are tricky. I explained the reference, and, after thinking for a moment, declared, "So, as we would say, 'And the Volga will flow no more.'"

"You have it."

At this point Lana launched into a detailed description of the various soccer matches she had attended. All of this is ill remembered -- the Chardonnay -- but one thing stuck in my mind, the perfect name of a professional athlete. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Bastien Schweinsteiger.

Auf Weidersehen.

Conversing With A Colleague

Sir Peter Crapp dropped in to the Manor on his way back from Beijing, where he had been on assignment. He had yet to report his findings to Sir Harry, so I took it as a compliment to be in on the ground floor, so to speak. We hared off to one of my favourite pubs, The Libidinous Leek, and were soon ensconced with pints of Best Boddington and awaiting the arrival of sustenance. The pub's Ploughman's Lunch was, as I knew from past experience, excellent, and it came with a bowl of leek and Stilton soup that was simply superb. So Voltaire: "Apres tout, le monde est passable."

"And how," I began, "are things in The Forbidden Kingdom?"

"We'll get to that," Sir Peter replied, "but before I forget, Wei Ling sends her regards. She still feels much in your debt for your help in what we now call The North Korean Incident."

"Good Lord, that was six, no seven years ago. As you know, it was a bit of nip and tuck, but Miss Wei certainly did her part. Very good with a knife, as I recall. Do let her know that I appreciate the remembrance. I learned a lot from her."

"So did the North Koreans. They still have a contract out on both of you."

I shrugged. "Well, they'll just have to get in line. Now what really is going on there?"

"A number of issues," Sir Peter replied, "but two in particular stand out. First, the machinations and intrigues involved in the coming change in leadership are vicious, and totally shrouded in mystery. Even some of the highest officials are at a loss in terms of predicting a winning faction. Sir Harry will be displeased."

"Too bad. Sometimes the magic doesn't work. And the second issue?"

At that point the soup arrived, and conversation ceased. A good leek and Stilton soup will have that effect.

All too soon, all was consumed, and Sir Peter raised the second issue irritating those in Cathay.

"The ruling elite," he said, "are very, very upset with the West over the carnage in Syria. They are taking their lumps at the U.N. Security Council, and they think the West's position is not well thought out. To their mind, and given some Muslim difficulties on their northern border, it is the enemy killing the enemy, and the term 'collateral damage' doesn't signify. In addition, Chinese action in support of rebels against the authority of the state....well, do the math.

"That 'collateral damage' you mention involves a great many women and children."

"We are talking Chinese realpolitik here," Sir Peter countered. "Remember, they hold figures such as Metternich and Bismarck in high regard. Hell, they thought for a time that Henry Kissinger was one of them."

"So they will not likely sanction any armed intervention."

"That's what I will report to Sir Harry."

At this point I reached into my purse and withdrew a small book entitled From The Heart by someone with the improbable name of Bull Taco. "And will you also be reporting on this poetry book?"

"How did you....oh, never mind. Someone somewhere was going to make a connection. I should have guessed that you would be one of the first. Yes, the poems are mine and -- "

"And they're quite good, my friend. And the heart has reasons --"

"I know the quote.** But enough. Our plowman's lunches have arrived. I must say, they look really --"

"Hearty"

And so they were.

** These two are more widely read than is good for them. The quote is from Blaise Pascal's Pensees, and is as follows: The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing. Ed.

Brouhaha At Bilderberg

I had accepted an invitation to attend the Annual Conference of the Bilderberg Group, and, accompanied by my minder Irving, travelled to Chantilly in Virginia, where the Conference was being held that year. I arrived early and, given the town's name, went in search of some French lace. Greeted by storekeepers with blank stares, I gave up this quest, and retired to the hotel venue of the Conference, the Westfields Marriot.

This gathering of the great and the good was by invitation only, and it was a chance to exchange views with those people who had the power to actually do something if a situation warranted action. I had also been asked to present a paper on the current mess that is global finance, and suggest a possible way out. Since a solution to all this fiscal sturm und drang was (at least to me) glaringly obvious, I was pleased to comply.

My thesis was a simple one. I began by indicating that globally there was more than enough cash floating around to solve, not just the current crisis (Greece et al) but any others that might rear their dandruffy heads. Billions of Dollars, Euros, Yen, Pounds, Yuan, and numerous other currencies are in play. They are, however, locked in the frozen sea of nationalism, and hence extraction is difficult.

"Therefore gentlemen," (there were few ladies present) "I would posit that the next saviour of the world will not come from religion, but will come from that person or group that solves the problem of EQUITABLE DISTRIBUTION. Not easy, but given the excellence of the minds gathered here, a solution surely can be found."

This statement received a stony glare from two Divines that were present, but this was not the time or place to debate religion. The problem was a real one, and imaginary friends would be of little help.

"There will," I continued, "be several difficulties, not the least of which are the objections by people described by former Secretary of Labour,Willard Wirtz, as 'those who want by the yard, but try by the inch, should be kicked by the foot.' So," I said, looking right at the Divines, "along with prayer, there is effort."

"The second difficulty lies in perception. The world now is seen as a pastiche of separate entities. This is rubbish, as Marshall McLuhan well knew. It has become a global village, and must be dealt with as such. At present, what I am hearing all too often are voices screaming at each other, "Your end of the boat is sinking!"

"Finally, and I leave you with this conundrum, there is a monumental amount of work that needs doing, and yet we have unemployment on a ridiculous scale. Why the disconnect? A question for bright minds, and I would suggest that it is high time we get to answering that conundrum."

The address received only half-hearted applause. To be expected, I guess; after all, I was asking them to work for a better world, not profit from the existing one. Considering this, and to relay to readers that I don't hold religious belief in total contempt, I recall words from a Jesuit teacher who, after I had not done well at something or other, said, "Simone, God doesn't ask that you succeed. He simply asks that you try."

Fair enough.

Better Living Through Technology

My minder Irving had asked for three days leave, a request speedily granted. It would be churlish in the extreme to deny him, in that at least twice he had saved my life. So I was stuck at the Manor for the interval.

This was annoying, in that I had planned to attend a series of lectures given by my daughter Victoria, the historian, who had accepted an invitation proffered by  the University. She would be discussing and elaborating upon a thesis first put forward by Stephane Dion, that Canada works better in practice than in theory. Oh well, needs must, and I contented myself with needed practice on the gun range, listening to Mahler a lot, and  re-reading of Neal Stephenson's magnificent Baroque Trilogy.

In exactly three days Irving returned. He was not alone, and had Rachel in tow.

Readers will remember Rachel as the author of a piece of software, known as WRAITH. This particular software allows the take over other computers without the user being aware that someone else is now in control. Only five copies exist, with the U.S, Israel, and the UK having three; Rachel herself has one, and the last copy was given to me for safekeeping.It was some time before various governments and criminal organizations (they are somewhat similar) sussed this out, and in order to stop the infiltration had to delete all their material. This enraged them, and Rachel was forced to go to ground. This she did, being aided and abetted by Irving ( They became pals when in Mossad.)

I instantly noted that Rachel was deeply tanned, so at least wherever Rachel had fled to had lots of sunshine. In any event, I thought it better not to know. Of more importance, why had she come back here?

"My Lady, this is a safe place," she said. "Things now are a bit...difficult...and I would be greatly in your debt if I could just hang out for a week or two. Until things die down a bit."

"What things?"

Rachel was silent for a moment, but from the expression on her face, I could see she was debating just how much to tell. She looked at Irving, who gave a nod, and made a decision.

"Oh, the hell with it. Have you heard of this 'FLAME' virus?"

"Only that it alleged to have played havoc with a number of computer systems" I replied, " not the least of which are those that control Iran's nuclear program." Then I thought for a moment. "Good God, is that yours?"

"No, but WRAITH can counter its effects, as well as pointing to the perpetrator. All of which presents a dilemma."

"Well," I said brightly, "when on the horns of a dilemma, the best way to resolve the issue is to throw sand in the bull's face."

Long story short, Rachel's dilemma was as follows. She had developed the means to stop FLAME in its tracks. The solution had been put on five memory sticks. She, being of good heart, wished to get three of them to the three governments who had access to WRAITH, but was baffled as to the best method. She was not keen on advertising her whereabouts -- all three would dearly love to get their hands on her --  but sending memory sticks through the post struck her as a Bad Idea.

Well, she was right about that.

I said I could ensure that the U.S. and the U.K. would receive the material without ever knowing where it had come from, but I would have to leave Israel to her. Irving stepped in at this point, muttering something about a certain spot in the Negev, and Rachel relaxed. This left one question that remained unanswered.

I said, "Rachel, you mentioned you had suspicions about the perpetrator...."

"Yes," Rachel said, "but it is just a suspicion. On the memory sticks, I inserted some code that would point to Ukraine. It will cause them some difficulty. Actually, a lot of difficulty."

"Really!"

"No, but I remembered that you have little use for Viktor Yanukovych, and thought you wouldn't mind.."

"A great idea. Particularly the way old Viktor is treating Yulia Tymoshenko. I mean, she like Becky Sharp is no angel** but she doesn't deserve to be thrown into prison and then being beaten. Well done, Rachel! And feel free to stay as long as you like."

After all, what are friends for?

** The good Lady occasionally descends into the obscure. The reference is to the heroine in Thackeray's Vanity Fair. Ed.

A New Cryptology

Sir Harry called on the secure line, expressing his delight at my latest piece of analysis. This was so unusual that it warranted some further examination -- his usual response to my stuff was a guttural grunt.

"I am glad you are pleased," I said.  "Dare I ask why?"

"The way you forwarded the information. The Mongolian situation is tricky, and you framed the options for action rather well. We will, as you suggest, let it be for a time. And, I might add, our cryptologists were convinced that you were using a sophisticated coding mechanism. They have yet to break it."

"They won't. There is no code to break."

"And that's the beauty of it. Goodbye."

Sir Harry was like that -- abruptness carried to an art form.

What I had sent went as follows:

In that antique land where the wealth is underground, a choice needs to be made. Who will be selected to mine the wealth? The task will not be easy, a kind of Herculean Augean Stables situation if you will, and no Alpheus River at hand. Two firms are at loggerheads, resembling Scylla and Charybdis, and to enter this Strait of Messina now would be a mistake that could quickly compound into error. For a time, I think, it would be best to eat the Lotus.

Now anyone with a reasonable education can winkle all this out, but currently 'a reasonable education' is more of a chimera. Mythology, History, and knowledge of the great authors of East and West, the context in which Mathematics and Science should operate, has largely disappeared, replaced by a curriculum that tends to downgrade substance and emphasize 'caring'. I mean, Jack Handey had a really Deep Thought when he wrote, "Instead of having 'answers' on a math test, they should just call them 'impressions', and if you got a different 'impression', so what, can't we all be brothers?"

Hence we swim in Lethe, unaware of past knowledge. We really must remember, as the late Robert Jackson, former Director of the Ontario Institute of Education once urged: "It must never be forgotten that the child as learner is not only the centre of the educational system, but the very reason for its existence."

Too true, and a necessary first step.

Let's take others.

The Nature of Opera

Off to see the Canadian Opera Company's production of Verdi's Otello, at the request of my daughter Victoria, who had been asked to replace the first violinist on a temporary basis  He had come down with a stomach disorder -- a pound of anchovies will do that.

The performance was spectacular, with all components coming together. In opera, this doesn't happen often, and when it does, well, suffice it to say that the evening will remain memorable. During the intermission, I leaned over the sunken pit and chatted a bit with Victoria, and thanked her for urging me to come. The seat she had procured, in the Grand Ring, didn't hurt either. Less serendipitous was meeting Victoria's current flame, also in the orchestra, a tall, angular redhead whom I assumed would be playing one of the brass instruments. I had her linked to a tuba, but was taken aback to learn that she was a world-renowned piccolo player. So it goes....

Back at the Manor after the performance, and with a serious Laphroaig in hand, I pondered a question.

How is it that, at least for me, Shakespeare's Othello doesn't work, and Verdi's does?  Yes, Shakespeare's language is magnificent, but....

Shakespeare introduces us to Othello as this grand warrior, a general skilled in tactics and strategy, one who during the course of his many campaigns would have been deluged by mis-information both from the enemy and his own aides. Yet this man, with all this skill, falls into ruin over a mis-placed handkerchief? I don't think so.

The opposing argument, of course, springs from the influence of Iago upon Othello. Yet Iago, a personification of evil, had been with Othello for some time. I just can't get my head around the issue that Othello would have taken the man's measure long ago, and taken everything the man said with a grain of salt. As to why Iago goes after Othello, the answer is nebulous. Yes, Iago was passed over for promotion (another reason we can conclude that Othello knows his stuff when it comes to staffing) but this in itself would not be enough to unleash the havoc.

In fact, Shakespeare shows Iago himself  at a loss as to what drives him in his 'credo' speech. Coleridge termed this "the motive hunting of a motiveless malignity", a phrase that recalls Dick Cheney justifying the attack on Iraq to George W.

Verdi, in Otello, follows Shakespeare carefully, YET IT ALL WORKS.

Hence my proposition: You can get away with a lot more in opera that you can in a play. We seem to have a greater suspension of belief, aided and abetted by great music, brilliant singing, attractive costumes and sets. Plot just appears not as critical to success as it does in a play. Thus if you take away all that operatic surround, flaws stand out very quickly.

Much like current Government.

Not Rushing A Russian Encounter

I had come to Washington to deliver a message to the Russian Embassy on behalf of Sir Harry. What I found interesting was that more and more human couriers were being used to transport sensitive material rather than using electronics. Apparently hacking was becoming a real problem. Now a human being can be "hacked" in a sense, but torture is time-consuming, messy, unreliable and costly. Hence the use of agents to trundle information about.

At the Embassy, there was a spot of trouble. I went to the information desk, and requested to speak to the person Sir Harry had named, one Colonel Grigov.

"The Colonel is busy," came the reply from an official whose appearance reminded me of an emaciated grandee such as John of Gaunt.

"Please inform him that Tinkerbell is here."

The man just stared, flummoxed.

I switched to Russian, and raising my voice, said, "Unless you get the Colonel immediately, I will ensure that Putin and Medvedev are informed that the Embassy is employing an official who is not up to the job, and is in need of re-assignment. Somewhere deep within the Arctic Circle. Or perhaps Siberia, where you can become adept at animal husbandry."

A quick phone call was then made, and almost instantly the Colonel appeared. The man was tall, blond and imposing. In my opinion, he would be an excellent Vronsky in  a film of Anna Karenina. He took me to one side and said, "If the sun and moon would doubt."

"They'd immediately go out," I replied.

"Good. All is in order. And the message?"

"The brown cow is in the pasture." Now I hadn't a clue what freight that phrase carried, and didn't want to know. Suffice it to say that the Colonel paled visibly, but then gathered himself .  'Thank you, and relay to Sir Harry that I an somewhat in his debt. Although his code names need some more thought."

"What do you mean?"

"You are about as far from the figure of Tinkerbell as you can get."

This was unexpected. I was wearing a simple white cotton dress, splashed with polka dots, I hadn't given my appearance another thought, something I really pay attention to when linking up with the Compte de Rienville. He, sadly, was in Paris, coping with the change in government.

"I will bring the matter up with Sir Harry," I replied with a smile.

"Perhaps we will meet again," the Colonel said.

"Perhaps," I replied. "Given the reference to the cow, an 'udder' time then."

The colonel went blank for a moment, then laughed. "You may also tell Sir Harry that you know how to sugar coat a nasty pill."

I left, content that the exchange had gone well. Then my mood shifted as I recalled a passage from Phillip Howard's The Death Of Common Sense: "We have now circled back to the world where people argue, not about right or wrong, but about whether something was done the right way."

Ouch.

Soothing The Sisters

Off to the annual Board Meeting with the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain, a charitable convent which I and selected others support. The Sisters do excellent work in rehabilitating abused women, as well as tending to the bootless and unhorsed with kindness and compassion. The good Sisters are atheists, but they have found that this in no way works against their mission. In fact, they encourage religious belief when that belief provides comfort and solace. They themselves, however, find that a belief in an 'imaginary friend' acts as an impediment to their work. In any event, the Sisters often succeed where others fail. Hence my support.

The meeting was well-attended, and chaired by Sister Esther, Mother Superior. I got along well with her, and thought the name 'Esther' well-chosen. (It is the only Book in the Bible that does not mention God.)

Looking over the crowd, I noticed Father Martin in attendance. He was incognito, and I was not surprised. The convent was in his parish, and should really have been affiliated with his church, Our Lady of the Sorrowful Chains. And while Father Martin thought well of the Sisters, his Bishop did not, and was constantly looking for ways and means to get rid of the entire operation. Certain forces, however, had been brought to bear on HIS superior, the Archbishop of the diocese, and the threat of closure was a distant one.

The meeting got under way. The first item of business was addressed by Mother Superior herself. An outline of the year's activities was given, involving the number of women taken in, the types of programs used, and their outcome. This was all positive stuff, but one item mentioned stood out. According to Mother Superior, more and more Muslim women and girls were reporting to the convent, fleeing from abuse, arranged marriages, and running afoul of family  "honour", something that could, and indeed has, lead to death.

This latter situation, Mother Superior stated, was better addressed by the convent's outreach program, entitled "CAN DO," and she invited Sister Hera, who is in charge of that program, to give her report. This program involves teaching timid women to achieve success in martial arts, to strip motorcycles prior to becoming proficient at their use, to become adept at handling firearms, and to  learn to fly Cessnas. (Two had been purchased for precisely that purpose.).

This program was proving enormously successful, with the women emerging confident, self-assured, and ready to cope with whatever life had in store. So successful, Sister Hera stated in concluding her report, that two more Harley-Davidsons were needed, as well as five more Smith & Wesson J-Frames.

Well, I thought, at least they didn't want another Cessna.

The next report dealt with fiscal matters and was presented by Sister Athena, who acted as the convent's chief financial officer. Funds, she reported, were adequate for the convent's existing program, but some future needs had been identified. She referred to Sister Hera's request, and then went on to mention a request from an American convent whose members wished to become part of the program. Apparently the American sisters had been castigated by several bishops who said they were paying too much attention to the poor, and not enough to the real issues stressed by the Pope -- abortion and same-sex marriage.

Seems to me that Holy Mother Church was in danger of forgetting what The Founder was all about.

In any event, monies were found to enable the requests, aided and abetted by certain gains in the sugar beet market. So all ended well, the Americans will be welcome, and in this area, the best is good enough.

Discuss among yourselves.

Managing Management

My son Sebastian, who owns several clothing stores on three continents, called yesterday, all upset. Apparently he had to fire three people, and the process had upset him greatly. I told him that being a trifle upset was normal, but that letting a bad situation continue would make him even more upset. Weeding out thieves and downright criminals is not that difficult (and certainly not upsetting) but letting the simply incompetent go is never a pleasant activity.  Yet if you are managing something, it goes with the territory.

All of which is a little segue into Simone's Theory of Management.

First. Try not to get too big that you as manager lose sight of all that is, or might be, going on. A recent case of just this error is Wal-Mart, and the massive bribery that occurred in Mexico. Such a happening would have been impossible in a 50 or even 100 person operation -- senior management would have spotted the mess almost as soon as it occurred. Unless, of course, senior management was in on the whole thing. If this is the case, however, we are not talking management theory, but criminal behaviour, something a bit beyond our present topic.

Second. Keeping an enterprise small is good, but not really practical if you are serving a global market. Hence 'bigness' will be the business, and a single manager or Chief Operating Officer (CEO) will be unable to oversee and control all aspects of the enterprise. The solution in this case is still smallness, but here it applies to a management team charged with oversight of all operations. The key aspect above all others is the selection of the members. You as CEO must have absolute confidence in their ability, and the selection process must be as rigorous as possible. Even then, this approach is not foolproof, but the odds of your enterprise succeeding go up considerably. Beats nepotism every time.

Third. Here I draw on my own experience with my sugar beet plantations, and my firm belief that all workers should be encouraged to see themselves as critical to the success of the enterprise, AND BE PAID ACCORDINGLY. I mean, why are we in business in the first place? When a CEO is paid about 50 times what a secretary in the firm makes, something is seriously awry. And an added benefit to this approach is that a union becomes not only unnecessary, but irrelevant.

Finally, I sent Sebastian an e-mail containing an excellent paragraph on management. It originally was directed to the military, but serves a similar purpose where running an enterprise is concerned. I have mentioned this quotation before, but the piece can well stand repeating. It is taken from Lord Lovat's fine book, March Past, where he cites General von Hammerstein Egord:

Officers are divided into four categories. There are those who are brilliant and industrious; these are suitable for the highest staff appointments. Then there are those who can be brilliant but are lazy; these will rise to the highest level of command. Use can be made of officers who are stupid and lazy, but those who are stupid and industrious should be ruthlessly eliminated.

(Note to Stephen Harper: The last of von Egord's categories would seem to apply to Peter McKay and Bev Oda. Deal with it.)

All for now.

Hyping Holiness

Just back at the Manor, all refreshed from my (all too) short stay in Marseilles in the company of the Compte de Rienville. In catching up with what had been going on by reviewing various newspapers, I was stunned to come across the following.

 It appears that subway posters have entered the field of mythology -- er, sorry -- religion. Thus we read of one such poster, approved by the Toronto Transportation Commission (TTC) which goes as follows: "There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet." What disturbs here is that the poster originally included links to fundamentalist Islamists that were hell bent on the total destruction of non-Muslims, as well as any Muslims who, summoning their intelligence, made a decision to leave the religion entirely. After an outcry, these links were taken down, but still....

Not to be outdone, Christians have just submitted their own poster for approval. It states, "The way to the Father is through the Son, Jesus Christ." So much for Allah, although the tenor of the poster is the same; that is, there is only one road to salvation, all others being evil cul de sacs.

Where, I wondered, will this all end? I have since learned that the Hindus will be formulating their own poster. This will then encourage Sikhs to do the same thing, and might even spread as far as Judaism. In the latter case, I have the ideal example. I see a picture with Mount Sinai as backdrop, and a bearded Charlton Heston-like figure pointing at the viewer and shouting, "MOSES WANTS YOU!"

I then toyed with the idea of submitting my own poster stressing the benefits of resuming worship of the Olympian Gods. Adherents would be taught by Zeus how to handle a few of the smaller thunderbolts, Thor would give instructions on the proper use of his hammer, and Hades' advice would be invaluable in the area of home heating. I mean, what's not to like?

Mind you,  atheists were the first to use the poster as a means of communication, and I'm sure readers will r4ecall their simple message, to wit: "There probably is no God, so get on with it and enjoy life." Or words to that effect, stark in their simplicity and good sense.

And it is always wise to conclude on a sensible note.

A Needed Reunion

It had been three weeks since I had last been with the Compte de Rienville, with only two short phone calls received. Not satisfactory at all. The last call, however, lifted my spirits. The message was terse: "In Marseilles. The Radisson Blu. Come."

Well, I thought, if the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must come to the mountain. Of course these days Mohammed wouldn't go near the mountain, but would send any number of jihadists, bombs in tow, and blow the thing to smithereens. What a sad fate for a religion that gave us our alphabet, and stressed science, art, mathematics and medicine, to say nothing of giving their women far more rights than those offered by the 'Christian' regimes of the day. Alas, over time, all too many Imams and Mullahs fell into the power trap, thereby debasing all and relying upon the hate for others rather than tolerance for all. T'was ever thus with crazed lunatics -- [enough digression. Ed.]

So it was off to Marseilles, and the excellent Radisson Blu. The Compte was never one to pinch pennies, and upon my arrival found that he had booked a lovely suite in my name. All fine and dandy, but where was he?

Having had a good sleep courtesy Air France, and not being one to sit around and mope, I had a quick shower, changed into a black woolen sheath my son Sebastian had designed for me, and sauntered forth to see if this shining hour could be improved.

I went to the bar, where I was the only patron, and was soon enjoying a grey goose on the rocks. The bartender was a retired lawyer from Paris, and admitted that he enjoyed his present job at the bar far more than practicing at the bar. We became deeply engaged in discussing some legal niceties regarding the Dreyfus Case when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was the Compte. On crutches.

"What on earth happened to you?" I asked, after a prolonged and much needed kiss.

"A bad sprain," he replied. "I must also admit to an error. I forgot the truth of the saying, 'There are old agents, and there are bold agents. But there are no old, bold agents.'"

"Actually, I think that first applied to RAF fighter pilots, but I quibble. You going to tell me what really happened?"

"No, but I can tell you that a goodly number of jihadists are now with their beloved 72 virgins."

"Yes, and after the first four or five," I remarked, "they'll be screaming for a pro. But enough. Upstairs beckons."

I paid for my drink, along with a hefty tip -- the conversation with the lawyer/bartender had been enjoyable. As we approached the elevator, I said, "Good of you to admit the error. Admission is always a Good Thing."

The Compte replied, "Well, one must always keep the Duc De La Rochefoucauld in mind."

"And what did the good Duc have to say?"

"Only this: 'That if your prepared to admit it, it's not the worst thing you ever did.'"

Now THAT I must think about.

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.