Game Of Drones

Sir Harry was on the secure line, requesting my thoughts on drones. I was happy to respond.

I informed him that I was delighted that at least one senior level of government was taking the decline of bees seriously. Cross-pollination of crops was suffering and in severe decline; I suspected that the drones in the hive could be part of the problem. "You see," I stated,  "the drones are responsible for mating with the queen when the incumbent dies or is superseded. During the nuptial flight --"

"Shut up. That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Oh. You mean those drones."

"Just get on with it." And Sir Harry rang off.

So it was that I turned to the issue of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, or, as they are termed, U.A.V's. Now while all manner of these UAV's exist, two categories predominate: those used for reconnaissance and surveillance, and those that are armed with  missiles and bombs. The latter have appropriate names, to wit, "REAPER" and "PREDATOR"; a missile for the drones is called "HELLFIRE".*

The drones are controlled from afar, and one station for certain is the USAF base just outside Las Vegas, bringing new meaning to the blackjack phrase, "hit me." They are prominent in Afghanistan, Iraq and the tribal areas of Waziristan, much to the chagrin of Pakistan.

Possibly the most successful strike occurred in Yemen, near the Saudi Arabia border. This resulted in the death of Anwar al-Awlaki, Al Qaeda's chief propagandist and strategist, and the man at the top of the CIA's most wanted list since the demise of Osama bin Laden. Also killed was Samir Jhan, the editor of an online jihadist magazine.

Both were Americans.

This segues into the problem of identifying and attacking one's own citizens. Research is being done on the use of drones to enhance domestic surveillance, including the monitoring of individual conversations. A bit frightening, but not entirely -- people yap a lot, and you would need thousands of monitors to sift through all the verbiage, even after computers had sorted out key words such as destroy, kill, bomb, etc. etc., words that could just as well relate to a sporting event or even a rocky marriage rather than a possible terrorist attack.

Still, as I pointed out to Sir Harry, the area is an important one, and worth watching. I also stressed the far greater importance of bee decline, but that plea probably fell on stony ground.

T'was ever thus.

* Who dreams up these names? They are either off their meds, or really should be seeking professional help. I must, however, confess that most of the good names have been taken. For example, "ROSEBUD."

Crossing A Line

Took some time recently to catch up on what was going on in my home province, Ontario, and saw instantly that this was a Bad Decision. A new budget has been proposed by the Liberals, and likely supported by the socialists of the New Democratic Party,  that will continue the death spiral of over-spending financed by a slew of new "revenue tools", or, as any normal person would call them, taxes. And nary a word about any cost saving measures. Greece, here we come. Poor Ontario.

This got me to thinking. What is it that happens when a normally sane individual gets elected to political office, and immediately forgets all about household frugality and sound budgeting and starts spending as if there's no tomorrow? Is it something in the air? Tainted water at the Legislature? Or is it the fact that they are not spending THEIR money, but OURS. Whatever the reason, it occurs.

Now I exempt from this little diatribe those who are under the sway of ideology (or worse, religion) or are deeply into fraud and sleaze. If the electorate sees fit to elect such creatures, then it is the electorate that will duly pay a price. In Ontario, that price is massive -- think e-health, medical helicopters, or the two gas plants that "moved". All this bothered the ideologues or sleaze artists not one whit.

Not so for at least one other individual, although here I must speculate a little bit. I am thinking, of course, about our former Premier, Dalton McGuinty.

Now Mr. McGuinty strikes me as being what my late husband, Lord Strunsky, would call "a good bloke" and one who truly fell among thieves. As time went on, and things went from bad to worse, with Ontario's debt rising ferociously, poor Dalton finally became overwhelmed, and acted as did W.H. Auden's figure in his poem "The Average":

So here he was without maps or supplies,
A hundred miles from any decent town:
The desert glared into his blood-shot eyes;

The silence roared displeasure: looking down,
He saw the shadow of an Average Man
Attempting the exceptional, and ran.

He sure did.

Looking On The Bright Side

Whilst still in London, after that magnificent funeral for Lady Thatcher, I took the opportunity to lunch with my CIA colleague, Matilda Hatt. Tilly recently, and much to her chagrin, had been given a senior desk job at the CIA's London Station. When we last had chatted, Tilly had sounded morose, and I was bent on cheering her up.

We met at The Grill at the Dorchester. Tilly had just arrived when I entered. I was humming "Always look on the bright side of life" from Monty Python's Life of Brian. Wanted to set a mood, as it were.

Turned out, I didn't have to. Tilly was in really good humour, and was taking immense satisfaction in the fact of the sentencing that day of three would-be jihadists, Irfan Naseer, Irfan Khalid and Ashik Ali. This unholy trio had been previously convicted of 12 counts of committing acts in preparation for terrorism. Tilly had  been instrumental in uncovering the plot, and when she successfully located eight "rucksack" bombs, along with notes that Al Qaeda had instructed said bombs were to be used in crowded areas of London, well, the whole ungodly plan came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

"Your lot," Tilly said, "also achieved a definite plus. As I have it, the curtain has come down on Raed and Chiheb show."

Tilly was referring to the just uncovered Al Qaeda plot to derail a train going from Toronto to New York, with one Raed Jaser and Chiheb Esseghaier being the "masterminds" behind the scheme. I put the term 'mastermind' in quotes because these two were anything but. They had been identified very early on, and recounting this opened up a whole avenue of similar actions and therefore achieved the objective of looking on the bright side of things.

To wit: The 2007 Glasgow Airport attack  where the car bombers had not foreseen the security posts, the botched Times Square bombing, and several instances of suicide bombers in Afghanistan who have prematurely blown themselves up while sharing a last, tender embrace. No doubt it is this sort of thing that really, really irritates senior Al Qaeda operatives.

I weep for them. Not.

All in all, a successful luncheon. Tilly had also inquired about the health of my editor -- her sources of information were still working well -- and I brought her up to date. When I informed her that he had recently somehow managed to twist a back muscle, and therefore was spending a lot of time lying down, Tilly said that the editor was also in need of cheering up, although seeking expensive medical help was not always the best route to take. As she put it, "I mean it's a known fact that the least costly treatment for any illness is lethal injection."

I said that would undoubtedly cheer him up immensely.*

*It didn't. --Ed.

To London To Honour A Queen

At the request of Sir Harry, I consented to accompany him to the funeral of Baroness Thatcher, who I have always regarded as a kind of queen of self-reliance. Mind you, there was an actual queen in attendance, Elizabeth II, who had not appeared at a Prime Minister's funeral since that of Winston Churchill. A small indication, if you will, of the high regard Margaret Thatcher was held in.

To be sure, there were detractors. If I had to encapsulate one aphorism that would sum up Lady Thatcher's philosophy, it would be along the lines of the following: "If it's to be, it's up to me." Not sure where that little saying comes from,*  but her detractors would alter this to "If it's to be, the government must give it to me." Such a philosophy, when taken up by a government, leads by a short route to chaos. Step forward, Greece, Step forward, Cyprus. Step forward, Canadian First Nations. Indeed, step forward any group that wants something and offers nothing in return.

Lady Thatcher was having none of it. A green grocer's daughter from Grantham, she knew the value of hard work. Her opinion of government was to ensure a level and fair playing field, and provide as many opportunities as possible for those who were prepared to work hard to enjoy success. Such thinking, of course, provoked howls of outrage on the part of those who to that point had been coddled and soothed by the state, not the least of which was one Arthur Skargill and the National Union of Mines (NUM).

The NUM was large and powerful -- this little female snippet from Grantham would be dealt with easily -- and the NUM could could continue to hold Britain to ransom. In short, Skargill would turn her.

But as Margaret would actually say, in a different context,** "The lady's not for turning." She stood firm, and faced down the NUM. Skargill realized, too late, that this woman was not a cream puff, but made of sterner stuff, to wit: IRON. (Later, General Galtieri of Argentina would come to a similar realization). Any 'turning' that took place was in Britain itself, where the country began to stabilize, to grow in terms of economics, and to once again look at itself with pride.

Truly, an Iron Lady. She will be sorely missed, and in this regard Marc Antony's words on Caesar seem appropriate: "When comes such another?"

When indeed.

*From Ben Bova's science fiction novel, Moonrise. --Ed.

** The phrase, playing on Christopher Fry's play, The Lady's Not For Burning, was used at the 1981 Conservative Conference when Lady Thatcher was asked to make a U-turn in terms of a policy already in place. -- Ed.

Survival

Yes, I've skipped a week, but there is just cause. My editor went temporarily on the fritz, and while I rail occasionally at his changes, they play a useful role in terms of logic and clarity.

Now by my editor, I don't mean the electronic one that comes with my word processing software, and that I trust as adders fanged. No, I am referring to the real one, who during the course of a week-and-a-half endured three types of 'crashes'. First, his computer crashed. Then someone crashed into the side of his parked car, creating a significant dent. Finally, he himself crashed.

This final crash was almost, well, final. In fact, he has informed me that one of the thoughts that went skittering through his mind during this 'crash' was the hope that someone would remember what he had requested be engraved on his tombstone, to wit: "He died, somewhat with a sense of relief."

He didn't.

It is not my role here to give a blow by blow description of what precisely occurred. Suffice it to say that a minor heart attack caused an extreme shortness of breath. This took the doctors involved some time to figure out, in that there was no chest pain whatsoever. A battery of tests, however, established that my editor's lungs had been abetted by his heart, a kind of medical version of Robert Frost's 'way leading on to way'*

It was this Frostian approach that turned a 40 minute angiogram into an angioplasty and then to a blood clot removal (the real culprit behind it all) and the insertion of two stents, stretching that 40 minutes into three-and-a-half hours. The procedure was a total success, and apparently the patient has recovered nicely, and, I might add, in much better health than before. That grumpy German Nietzsche got it right: "What does not kill you makes you stronger."**

So there you are, and a more 'regular' report will follow next week.

* Nice to be back. The line is from his poem The Road Not Taken. -- Ed.

** She WILL not hunt down her sources. This is from Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols. (It's still good to be back). -- Ed.

Euchred by Euphues

At the firm request of my editor, I have been instructed to begin with a caveat that applies to what follows. Hence I state the following -- we must be ever mindful that political correctness at its silliest has never done one fiftieth the harm as the reverse.

That said, I will put forward the position that Euphues has a lot to answer for. But who is Euphues?

This figure is the protagonist in John Lyly's Elizabethan novel The Anatomy of Wit, written in 1578. The character goes to some length to avoid any phraseology that could be construed as crude or stark, and opts continually for the graceful, the florid, the pretty. That approach led us to the term "euphemism", a usage that has become all too common in the world today.

As I am sure Lyly knew, the word stems from the Greek euphemizein, meaning "to speak with fair words." To the ancient Greeks, this was rather important. Gods could listen to human conversations, and if they overheard a slander or a disparaging term, the speaker could be in for a very rough ride. It was therefore wise, to use the phrase common today, to be politically correct.

In the world of ancient Greece, this made some sense. In today's world, I am not sure that NOT calling a spade a spade makes any sense at all.

Some instances might help one grasp the nettle. So to speak.

Were Euphues with us today, he would state that criminals are "unsavory characters"; one who is bald is "comb-free"; censorship becomes "selective speech" and a crime rate described as a "street activity index."

This tendency reaches a sort of apotheosis when the word "rape" rises its ugly head. This unspeakable act is now, in law, subsumed under the term "sexual assault", and can include any number of sexual crimes up to and including bestiality and incest. The term "rape" gets lost in the shuffle. It has even affected agriculture, where, at least in North America, "rapeseed" has morphed into "canola".

And there has been an alteration since the Roman first coined the term. The word "rape" derives from the Latin rapere, meaning to abduct (usually for the purpose of marriage, a la the Sabine women). And at no point can I find reference in Latin writings to women, by their actions or clothing, being responsible for a sexual attack upon them. In Islam, however....but this would be a digression too far.

Ultimately, of course, euphemisms fail. Everyone knows very well what lies beyond the term being prettified. So Gertrude Stein -- a rose is a rose is a rose. So Simone -- rape is rape is rape.

I am not, however, as polemic on the subject as, say Andrea Dworkin, and conclude this little missive with the thought that the only difference between rape and rapture, and this difference is crucial, is.....consent.

Enough, or too much.

The Past -- Teacher Or Tyrant?

The writer William Faulkner wrote somewhere  that "The past is never dead. It's not even past".* These words came to mind as I was in the process of reviewing a paper received from my daughter Victoria, a history professor currently at Cambridge University. The piece was designed for publication in some journal or other, and my views were sought.

Of course, she needed my opinion about as much as she needed a hole in the head, but this was, for Vicky, a kind of peace offering. We recently had had a rather nasty dust-up over her habit of appearing as a constant victim in films of the 'slasher' variety, something I think she should bring to a halt. She countered with the fact that she was well-remunerated for these appearances, to which I responded that there was a name for acts where money was given for certain behaviours, and things escalated from there.

I have learned since that she has become involved with an archaeologist connected with Oxford University who takes a similar view to my own, and to which (apparently) Vicky is paying attention. I live in hope.

Her paper was, as usual, well-written and well-researched. Its thesis could be seen as a doubled-edged sword; that is, the past can be both beneficial or harmful, depending on how that past is perceived.

Over some forty pages, she stresses what she terms the 'twin fulcrums' of history: evidence and dogma.

Where evidence is concerned, the past can be useful, and has much to teach us, particularly in the realm of science.** If, for instance, past practice suggests one way of doing something yet is not congruent with newly-found supporting evidence, then that practice can be built upon and if necessary, altered. She stresses the term 'built upon', in that the previous practice was itself founded on evidence available at the time. The past as teacher, if you will, and she gives a number of examples drawn advances in medicine, mathematics, and -- a section I particularly liked -- art.

The downside occurs when evidence is ignored and dogma holds sway. Such dogma depends mightily on events that happened well in the past, and are held to be absolute truth. This is a particular horror story in the area of religion, but also causes problems in the political arena as well, and both are all too evident today in the mess that so characterizes the Middle East today. In such a context, the past as Faulkner so well put it is certainly not past.

Vicky had also requested a quote upon which she could end her paper as she put it, "With a flourish." I drew on Michael Steen's fine book, The Great Composers:

"An important event which had significant effect on the thought processes of intelligent people was the Lisbon earthquake and fire of November 1, 1755. This killed 30-40,000 people and reduced the city to rubble. It caused the French king's mistress, Madame de Pompadour, to give up rouge for a week. The English, having attributed the disaster to the wrath of God, banned masquerades for a year."

I rest my case.

* Requiem for a Nun --Ed.

** With respect to science, the satirist Bill Maher has observed, "When did the phrase 'I believe in science' become fighting words?'"

Habemus Papem Franciscum

So there we are -- the Catholic world has a new Pope, Francis I. Argentina has now no reason to cry.*

What intrigues me is the choice of the name, a first in a long list of Papal names. Jorge Mario Bergoglio didn't choose John, nor Gregory, nor Benedict. He chose Francis.

This would not have been selected at random. The Papacy is heavily fixated on symbols -- the cross, the shepherd's crook, the fish that recalled the first calling of the apostles -- and these symbols have great meaning for a Catholic audience. What symbol, then, lies behind the selection of the name Francis?

Before getting into that, it is worth looking at the seminal role symbols play in today's world. At their most crass, they aid and abet a cause, whether that cause is political (the hammer and sickle of Communism, the elephant of the U.S. Republican party, the bulldog of Great Britain) or stress an economic view of the world, the 'bulls' and 'bears' of the stockmarket. At their most powerful, symbols radiate through a literary work, or even a film.

The best example of the above is Yann Martel's brilliant novel, The Life of Pi, recently made into wonderful film by Ang Lee. Here symbols rule. The inner 'monster' that Pi has to come to terms with owes much to Blake's 'Tyger, Tyger burning bright', and throughout there are echoes of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, not so much in terms of the atonement theme prominent in Coleridge but more in terms of the self-awareness that the mariner must acknowledge.**

So the power of symbols.

So......Francis.

The name instantly recalls St. Francis of Assissi (1182-1226), who created the Franciscan Order, and is noted for his deep regard for all natural creatures, particularly birds. An admirer of St. Francis was Ignatius Loyola, (1491-1556) who founded the Society of Jesus, the Jesuit Order to which Francis I belonged. In my opinion this is fitting, it being the first time a Jesuit has held the Papacy.

There is, however, a wrinkle. The Jesuits are the intellectual arm of the Church, and value discipline and doctrinal adherence. Yet Francis I, as priest, bishop and cardinal, eschewed a cerebral life for work among the poor and less fortunate, as did St. Francis. No limos for him -- he rode a bicycle hither and yon through the streets of Buenos Airies. At the same time, the man is a confirmed conservative, and has spoken out against abortion, same-sex marriage, and would be extremely unlikely to countenance women in the priesthood.

Instead, Francis wants to focus the attention of Catholics back to the precepts of the original Founder, and it will be interesting to note what Francis will say when considering Jesus Christ vis-a-vis the Vatican Bank.

As an atheist, I will watch with interest, and where the Church comforts, it will have my support; where it harms, well, the pen can be mightier than the sword.

Selah.

*Except, perhaps, when The Falklands are considered.

** Simone went on for some length on literary symbols, including a completely uncalled for interpretation of Spenser's Faerie Queene. Risking her wrath, I deleted the section. She threw a vase at me (from IKEA, not the Ming) and stormed out. She has calmed down since, albeit her eyes remain somewhat frosty. --Ed.

Payment For Idiocy

Every so often I find it useful to review my financial holdings with my Chief Financial Officer, W.D.M. I am happy to report that all is well, a result of my determination to always have more money coming in than goes out. Would that the majority of the world's governments could say the same.

Over a well-deserved lunch, W.D.M. referenced a number of global financial issues that he laid squarely on government incompetence, and which have been documented ad nauseum -- Greece, American "free" mortgages, regulations you could drive a truck through -- well, the list goes on.

"And while Canada avoided much of this," he continued, "it by no means a paragon of financial probity. particularly when you look at the provinces. In Ontario, for instance, there is that ridiculous e-health mess, along with the fiasco of the medical helicopters, to say nothing of that ghastly political decision to move those gas plants so that certain members of the Liberal party could get elected. Taken together, I estimate that over a billion taxpayer dollars was mis-spent.

"Then there is Alberta, which had to shut down XL Foods because of an E-coli breakout, when just six months before the firm had received a $1.3 million contribution to upgrade its meat processing facilities. In Quebec the Mafia --"

"Enough!" I interjected. "Surely there is a lighter side to all this? It can't all be doom and gloom."

W.D.M. thought for a minute, then proffered the following.

"Well there is the matter of the sausages."

"What?"

"You see, Agriculture Canada sent $826,000 to Ontario's Cardinal Meat Specialists Ltd. to assist research that would prevent a sausage from bursting open when cooked. No word on the results, but the government communique on the subject indicated that a less explosive sausage 'was critical to the government's focus on jobs, growth and long term prosperity.' I am not making this up."

"Shades of the European Economic Community and the brouhaha over the Euro sausage."

But W.D.M. was not finished. "Then there is the Department of Defence and its purchase, to the tune of $438,385, for branded sports memorabilia, seen as essential for recruiting and peacekeeping efforts. Over the past four years, the Department has spent $176,000 on hockey pucks alone. In the words of a government spokesman, this would be of enormous help 'in contributing to international peace and security.'"

"Don't doubt it for a minute,' I said. "But all these examples point to government largess that is completely out of hand. I was hoping for more examples of what I would call 'slips' or small errors of judgement."

"For instance?"

"For instance, the Duchess of Cambridge. When she received the gift of a teddy bear, Kate mentioned that she would give it to her 'd'. So now we know that the expected baby will be a girl, the 'd' being 'daughter'. Now that's a slip.*

W.D.M. could but agree.

*I have the fortune to be married to an absolutely brilliant woman, who, in considering the possible faux pas on the part of the Duchess, didn't believe it for a minute. In her opinion, "daughter" would not have come trippingly off the tongue, as would terms such as "baby" or "little girl". What would come trippingly off the tongue would be her pet------dog. ...Ed.

Of Rosemary and Time

At the request of Sir Harry, I was asked to receive a visitor. When I requested more background, all I got was that the person was involved in a small research project, and that my cooperation would be appreciated.

"How appreciated?" I inquired.

"I'll think of something."

"You do that."

I was also informed that this personage went by the name of Rosemary, and that I could expect her around 3:pm two days hence.

At precisely this time a limo pulled up to the Manor, and shortly after my minder Irving brought the visitor to the solarium where I was about to have tea. I beheld a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a functional blouse, jacket and skirt, white hair neatly tied back in a bun. "Good to meet you, My Lady," she said. "Sir Harry speaks of you with respect."

Hah, I thought. Never shows any to me.

"And that's a lovely outfit. Your son's, I suspect."

This caught me by surprise. True, I was wearing one of Sebastian's sheath dresses, but for this Rosemary woman to suss this out so fast indicated that she had been well and truly briefed. Just what was going on here?

"I was just about to have some tea," I said. "You'll join me?"

"Delighted to," Rosemary replied.

With perfect timing, my cook Henri wheeled in a cart containing the tea, a selection of jams, and a plateful of scones that were bound to break down any conversational barriers that might arise. Indeed, any possible barriers quickly disappeared when I learned of the particular research Rosemary was doing.

"Time," she stated. "We are interested in time."

I was going to press her on just who 'we' were, but let it go. If she was employed by Sir Harry, the enquiry would go nowhere fast.

"You see," Rosemary continued, "given your particular...skill...it has been noted that you were always able to wait a considerable time, and never losing focus, before...implementing... that skill."

"You mean shooting someone at a distance." (Rosemary kept skirting around the issue. I don't skirt around anything -- except maybe with the Compte de Rienville, and in this context he was not an issue.)

"Yes. In short, how do you manage to wait, sometimes for a long period, before conditions are, how shall I put it, favourable."

An interesting question, and I thought a bit before responding.

"Rosemary, this might sound a bit odd, but if I'm in for a lengthy wait, I think of time itself. I begin with the second. Do you know the definition?"

"No."

"Well, the General Conference on Weights and Measures in 1967 defined a second as 9.192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium
133 atom. Working all that out can take about two hours."

Rosemary stared at me, then said, "Sir Harry did mention that you have a doctorate from M.I.T. So thinking about time compresses time for you?"

"To be sure. And of course there is Montaigne."

"Of course there is. And what has the good Michel to say on the topic?"

"If memory serves, Montaigne wrote 'Time is a thing of movement, appearing like a shadow....To Time belong the words before and after, has been and shall be, words that show at a glance that Time is evidently not a thing which IS. For it would be a great silliness and manifest falsehood to say that something IS which has not yet come into being or has already ceased to be.'  Now exploring all that is good for half a day."

Rosemary looked at me, then said with some conviction, "This is really good information. I and Sir Harry thank you."

"It's always nice to have Sir Harry a bit in debt."

The rest of the session was spent in pleasantries, but before she left, Rosemary made a rather significant point. She obviously knew well my ability with the long gun, and hence got in a critical and very true last word where time is concerned.

She stated crisply, "I remember reading in a novel, possibly one of Nelson de Mille's, the following: 'There is a time to sow and a time to reap. Miss either of these times and you're fucked."

Interesting lady, Rosemary.

Untoward Ideology

Over the years, I have developed a high regard for a number of people, and delight in their company every now and then. (Over a similar number of years, I have developed a disdain for a number of idiots, but why dwell on the inane?)

I was, therefore, happy to share a luncheon at the Manor with a good friend , Cecil George, who had spent most of his career in the provincial civil service. He was now retired, and  described his time in government as going from total oblivion to relative obscurity. This was a tad too twee -- Cecil had made a major contribution in the areas of education and economics, and had received a number of plaudits from various Ministers of the Crown.

He had taken early retirement, but not without regret. I wondered about this, but will let him speak as to why.

"Time was, my Lady, that the work of the civil servant consisted in giving a particular Minister the best advice you could. The Minister didn't have to take that advice, of course, and this was as it should be. Ministers are publicly accountable, and you are not. For a long time, even when the advice was not to a Minister's liking, you did get credit for pointing out sundry pitfalls and traps that might occur in pushing forward a given policy.

"Then everything changed.

"Suddenly, you were being asked to support a given policy, even to the extent of writing speeches outlining  how brilliant that policy was. Ideology was corrupting what should have been a critique of a proposed policy. This extended to all political parties. It was as if the government Ministers could no longer tolerate any criticism of their thinking, and only sought support. Time to get out."

Cecil's point was a good one. Politicians driven by ideology forget that not all of the electorate voted for them, and indeed, in a first past- the- post system, there are often more votes cast against the winning candidate in term of percentages. This would be acceptable if the successful candidate was aware of this, and came to the common sense conclusion that he or she represented ALL votes cast.

Sadly, this is not the case. Wrapped in ideology, whether right or left, all too many politicians seem unable to break free and look at the whole, rather than just a part. The result is a kind of disenfranchisement, where one side only gets to romp in the sun, while any other point of view remains in outer darkness.

And when ideology is really pernicious, a ghastly deadlock can ensue. The best example here is perhaps the U.S. Congress, as the long suffering American people know well. They have rated Congress below cockroaches, root canals and colonostomies, and it is difficult to argue with that perception.

A good poring over Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics is called for on the part of today's politicians, but I suspect that is a call made in vain.

At which point Cecil and I opened a second Veuve Clicquot.

Of China and St. Valentine

A bit late with this, due to an unexpected trip to Ottawa and an extremely interesting session at the Chinese Embassy. Lasted two days, an unusually long time, and an indication that the issue under discussion was Important.

You see, from time to time, the Chinese and I have been known to share, well, let's just say, 'diplomatic pleasantries' that have proved useful to both sides. To say more would be telling, although what I can say is that the Socialist Paradise of North Korea is becoming a Problem. Indeed, China has moved beyond just feeling 'edgy' about the situation to something verging on alarm. All this because the current Kim likes to play with nuclear toys -- a far more dangerous habit than that of his father, who restricted himself, for the most part, to Barbie Dolls.

China finds it cannot pin this nuclear tinkering on America or Japan, its usual 'default' nations when things go awry.* It might even have to take some form of, wait for it, ACTION. Hence the extended meeting.

I made some suggestions. They commented. We will see what happens.

One cannot, however, dwell forever in the world of realpolitik -- unless you are Henry Kissinger. I am not he, and in that the Chinese dialogue occurred mostly on February 14th, I think it only fitting that I at least pay some homage to that day's patron -- St. Valentine.

As far as I can tell from some cursory research, there were two such saints.

One surfaces in Rome, where he devoted his time and energy to assisting Christians to not go to prison.  For this, in due course, he himself was imprisoned. While thus incarcerated, he apparently restored the sight of his jailor's daughter, but in 270 AD was clubbed to death. (It is unclear if the two events are related).

The other St. Valentine was the Bishop of Terni, was martyred a few years later.

Surprisingly, neither saint has anything to do with choosing Valentines to confess regard for another. This custom originates in the Roman Lupercalia, where gifts were given to celebrate the coming of Spring and associated with the mating of birds. Those gifts have now been reduced to cards containing some of the worst poetry ever written.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.

* In this 'default' arena, the leader by far is Israel. All Arab nations will automatically blame Israel for any and all things that occur that are not to their liking, ranging from droughts to floods, any outbreak of disease, any death that is somewhat suspicious, up to and including being responsible for the attack on the World Trade Center. Where is the Old Testament God when we need him?

Of Twitter, Tweets and Twits

I was only fourteen years old when I first encountered the word "tweet". By this time I had left my home (such as it was, in a backstreet in Naples) to go to England.. The move was made possible by winning a bountiful scholarship from the Manzoni Foundation for an essay on Alessandro's Manzoni's seminal novel, I Promessi Sposi* which apparently unearthed a new insight that no one else had spotted -- the fractured relationship between Griso and Fra Cristoforo. But I digress.

In any event, the word "tweet' swam into my ken through cartoons featuring a small chick with a lisp who was convinced he had seen a pussy cat. (I later realized that the word "chick" could have quite another meaning, but that's neither here nor there). Here, however, we are concerned with the word tweet, and a meaning some distance removed from -- Hah! I just remembered! -- an entity called Tweety Bird.

Today, the word is part and parcel of something called Twitter, a communication network that allows instant messaging between various electronic mobile devices. One plus is that these messages, or 'tweets', are restricted to 140 characters, definitely a Good Thing, and supported by the phrase, found in Hamlet: "brevity is the soul of wit."

In reading various tweets, however,one quickly discovers that wit is sadly lacking, and all manner of embarrassing situations have come to light, much to the chagrin of a number of politicians and celebrities, two types that exhibit just how damaging ego can be when it is out of control. In other words, twits.

Yet, to draw on Matthew Arnold for a moment, one must "see life steadily and see it whole." Hence this instant messaging has had a powerful impact on those societies that have made strenuous efforts to pretend that their citizens are mushrooms and always kept in the dark, usually by religious or political ideologues. The 'Arab Spring' would not have erupted so quickly without such communication, and China's leaders are continually being forced to address injustices brought to light and circulated to millions. And the latest and widely circulated outcry in India about an absolutely heinous gang rape has stirred an entire country to action.

Perhaps.

I say "perhaps" because of the inordinate difficulty of penetrating religious or cultural biases. These are firmly rooted, and those in charge are loathe to give up power. Indeed, some jurisdictions go to extreme length to curtail the use of communication mechanisms such as Twitter. Step forward, North Korea. Step forward, the tribal areas of Waziristan. Step forward any area dominated by the Taliban.

Yet I have hope, for things are progressing rapidly. As I believe Geraldine Ferraro in her run for the U.S. Vice-Presidency once stated: "It was not that long ago that people thought semiconductors were part-time orchestra conductors and that microchips were very small snack foods."

So let us progress, keeping in mind the adage, 'everyone is in favour of progress, it's the changes they don't like.'

* "The Betrothed", although I suspect most readers had figured this out. The work is regarded as the Great Italian Novel, and is found in any Italian school curriculum worthy of the name. --Ed.

Of Arms And The U.S. Senate

To Washington, accompanied by Sir Peter Crapp, to take in the Senate hearing on gun control.

The previous evening Sir Peter and I had attended  the Canadian Opera Company's presentation of Wagner's Tristan Und Isolde. It was, in a word, stupendous. I had the opportunity to compliment the Director, Peter Sellers on a brilliant imagining of the piece and it was in my mind to devote this entry to a review that would brim with intelligence and remarkable insight. Time, however, does not permit.*

So to the Senate Hearing, and the pleas of many who were appalled at the availability of handguns and assault rifles that could be purchased by just about anyone swanning about in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Now I am very familiar with guns, being in The Trade, and am well aware of just how dangerous they can be, and how scarce their availability should be.

The session included many pleas to the Senators to take action on curtailing gun availability and ensuring deep background checks on prospective purchasers. The hearing also included a halting speech by Gabrielle Giffords,  the Arizona State 8th District Representative who had been shot in the face by an unhinged male. It was painful to watch, and if one did not know better, you would think that this was a discourse given by a ten-year-old.

Surely the impact would be telling, but no such luck -- gun control remains firmly embraced by the National Rifle Association (NRA) and under the aegis of the (wrongly interpreted) Second Amendment, something I have occasionally written about in past entries.** The "august" Senators won't, or cannot, get free of the lobby funds shunted their way by the NRA, and live in fear of being excoriated if they break ranks. All very sad.

Yet it is not easy to break free of violence. All nations are afflicted, and the reason has been well described by anthropologist Walter Burkert in his seminal text, Homo Necans.*** Thus Burkert writes:

"Man can virtually be defined as the 'hunting ape'....This statement leads to a second indisputable fact, that the age of the hunter, the Paleolithic,  comprises by far the the largest part of human history. No matter that estimates range between 95 and 99 percent: it is clear that man's biological evolution was accomplished during this time. By comparison, the period since the invention of agriculture -- 10,000 years, at most -- is a drop in the bucket. From this perspective, then, we can understand man's terrifying violence as deriving from the behaviour of the predatory animal, whose characteristics he came to acquire in the course of becoming man."

Knowing this, you would think that we could at least limit the availability of death-dealing weapons, as most civilized countries do.

Not in the opinion of the NRA, and as the New York Times reports, on the same day Gabrielle Giffords was testifying, the NRA was promoting a magazine for children entitled  "Junior Shooters". The stated aim is to get children involved in the recreational use of firearms, and one of the illustrations shows a smiling 15 year old girl clutching a semi-automatic rifle. The caption? "Who knows? Maybe you'll find a Bushmaster AR-15 under your tree some frosty Christmas morning!"

At this point I took a leaf from the "Beyond The Fringe Revue", headed for the toilet, and suddenly, and very violently, vomited..

* For which readers should be grateful -- Ed.

** Actually, ad nauseum. -- Ed..

*** For those not fluent in The Imperial Tongue, "Man The Killer."

A Thousand Shades Of Grey

From time to time I like to explore a word or concept in some depth, and then throw the concept out for further discussion. This is one of those times.

There is a word that modern media tosses around with something approaching gay abandon. You read or hear that a person, movement or an action is truly 'evil', the implication being that the situation borders on the hopeless, and one must immediately take up arms and oppose.

Rubbish.

I can think of nothing in reality that is 100% evil. Rather, things seem to be a thousand shades of grey. And I hasten to add that this is not a reference to that very badly-written and banal book, Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James. After three pages, I stopped reading. After all, when you have given a dissertation at Oxford on De Sade's Justine, or lectured on Pauline Reage's Story Of O at the Sorbonne, getting involved with the James' text would be akin to saying "After you've seen Paree, why would you want to visit Don Mills?"

In truth, I can think of only one person that exhibits total evil, and that reference comes from literature, to wit: Shakespeare's portrait of Iago in Othello. Even Iago himself has trouble determining just why he acts the way he does, and his attempt to find a rationale has been brilliantly described by Coleridge as "The motive hunting of a motiveless malignity."

All others, whether in the arts or life, appear (at least to me) to fall into a 'more or less' category. A few examples come to mind.

One nominee for pure evil would be Satan in Milton's Paradise Lost. But hold on a minute. Satan was, in Milton's view, one of God's favourites, but was overcome by an overweening ambition and made the decision that it was better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. Unlike Iago, there is a cause for the action.

So also with many other fictional examples deemed 'pure evil'. The idea of the serial killer is all too prominent in books, TV and movies, yet in all cases there are references to a ghastly upbringing or some early traumatic event. Again, a cause.

Of course, in real life serial killers also exist, but I believe my argument holds -- there always exists an underlying cause. But what of the likes of Pol Pot, Hitler? Osama bin Laden? Or even that model for Dracula, Vlad the Impaler? Well, let's have a look.

In the cases of Hitler and Pol Pot, I would posit that both were consumed by ideology, the former by Fascism compounded by Anti-Semitism,  the latter by Communism. As for Osama bin Laden, his belief in a lunatic version of Islam is all too evident. Evil men, to be sure, but not exemplars of 'pure' evil -- the causes are too prominent.

As for old Vlad (whose deeds appalled Europe in the 15th century, which took some doing, given the age) we should remember that as a young boy he was sent as hostage to the court of the Ottoman Sultan, Murad II, who delighted in elaborate cruelty and vicious child abuse.

Mind you, the examples given above are definitely into the dark side of the 'evil' spectrum, but not of the 100%  Iago type. As for the rest of us, we fall somewhere on that spectrum -- a thousand shades of grey.

Against this spectrum, we can but throw ethics, and must guard against attacks that stem from a variety of causes, including laws themselves. As John Frederick Gibson has noted in his fine little book, A Small And Charming Place, "In the course of time, legislation and regulation become more important than ethics, and at that point we are lost."

Definitely stuff for discussion here.

Coming Of Age

To the Carisma restaurant, for the best ravioli in Toronto. There I was to meet my CIA colleague in The Trade, Matilda Hatt. I had ordered two martinis, and had just taken my first sip when Tilly stormed in,  her face contorted in fury. She plunked herself down, grabbed the martini in front of her, and swallowed the whole thing in a gulp.

Whatever was bothering her, it was serious.

"I," she announced dramatically, "have been re-assigned. To a desk job! Me! The best field operative they've got. This is unbelievable.!"

After ordering her another martini, I heard her tale of woe, and the words Giuseppe di Lamedusa wrote in his fine novel The Leopard flashed into my mind: "If we want things to stay the way they are, things will have to change."

It turns out that Tilly had been promoted to head up field operations emanating from the UK, and was to liaise with Sir Harry to boot. This irritated her no end.

"The man's an outright curmudgeon," she stated. "Once called me a shrieking banshee! I mean, really."

"A shrieking Banshee?" I responded. "Well, I can certainly agree that Sir Harry is guilty of redundancy."

"I don't know what you mean. And look. They want me to wear this kind of an outfit from now on. It is all too much."

What Tilly was wearing was a dark blue woolen A-line dress, and I know an Armani when I see one. Truth be told, she looked smashing. Admittedly, this was a far cry from Tilly's usual apparel, which tended to be jeans that had seen better days, and a tattered sweater that resembled something that might have been worn on Mao's Long March. (This was not totally improbable -- Tilly had spent a great deal of time in China, meeting any number of Politburo members.)

At this point,  I decided that a greater perspective was needed, and over the course of a (very fine) lunch proceeded to unload a few truths, truths which applied to me as well as to her. Physically, we were still in good working order, but -- and here's the thing I explained -- not what we once were. Secondly, I got her to admit that on the shooting range her groupings were not as tight as they should be, nor was she as fast in reloading. Thirdly, what her superiors had recognized via the new appointment was an ability not determined by age -- her knack of imaginative planning and tactics.

"I mean," I said, "just look at how we got out of Libya with that physicist. I still don't know how you arranged that boat."

""Yeah," she stated, "but that got you shot in the ass. The whole thing could have gone better."

I shot back, "Nonsense. Just took one for the team. Doesn't take away from my point, that as we age, our abilities alter, and we have to adjust. So Matilda Hatt should also adjust. Think of it as a coming of age."

"I'll think about it. Don't have to like it, though."

"To my knowledge, no one does. But so it goes."

So there we left it.

Now a final word on a situation I have been harping on recently, the First Nations 'Idle No More'* movement. It amazes me that no commentator has drawn a parallel with Sophocles Oedipus Rex. In the play, Oedipus, King of a plague-ridden Thebes, tries to ascertain the cause of the plague, without realizing that the cause is he himself.

Admittedly, the parallel is not perfect; Oedipus truly doesn't know what his precise sin encompasses -- the murder of his father and marriage to his mother -- until it is revealed. In the case of the Idle No More thingy, a number of chiefs, and certainly Chief Theresa Spence,** know exactly the sins they have committed, condemning the band members under their charge to poverty, alcoholism, drugs, and ghastly living conditions. Their followers, however, may be truly wearing the shoes of Oedipus in not being aware that the solution lies within themselves. Let us hope that at some point awareness will dawn.

* The 'Idle No More' title seems oddly ill-suited to the initiative. It implies that prior to this, all First Nations were idlers, something history attests was certainly not the case. Now if all the protesters were to take a year off and do some reading....

** Theresa Spence. Idol no more.

Two Women

No, not a critique of the well-crafted Vittorio De Sica film, nor an account of the face-off between Mary, Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I*, rather a behavioural review of two women currently in the news. What intrigued me was the staggering difference between the two. I turn now to the first lady, who really was a First Lady.

Hillary Rodham Clinton

After a very hard fought campaign for the American presidency, Hillary lost to Barack Obama. If she had at that point turned her back on America, and gone into a Great Sulk, people would not have applauded such an action, but they would have understood it. Hillary did nothing of the kind, graciously acceding defeat, and offering to help the new President in any capacity that he sought fit. Obama  (to the surprise of many) offered her the position of Secretary of State, a post which she accepted.

In this position, Hillary was enormously successful, and became respected by all of the world's leaders, or at least those who count. She logged a gazillion miles, kept a ferocious working schedule, yet still found time to support her colleagues at Foggy Bottom -- something not always done. She followed Obama's direction to the letter, and supported his policy positions with cogent arguments and convincing details. At the end of her time at State, she was regarded in polls as the most popular American politician in either party.

Well done, Hillary. Well done indeed.  And now I turn to the reverse of the medal

Theresa Spence

I have a great degree of admiration for certain Native North Americans. Here I think of the perseverance of Sitting Bull, the tactical brilliance of Tecumseh, or the leadership of Chief Dan George.

I do not think of Theresa Spence in these terms.

Spence is the Band Chief at the northern Attawapiskat Reserve, and to my mind is a poster child for all that can go wrong on a reserve. Millions of dollars have come her way, in order to provide adequate housing, education, and sound infrastructure for her band members. The monies arrived, but then disappeared, as determined by a recent Federal audit. No receipts, no paper trail, and certainly no evidence that these monies went to meet the priorities cited above.

Chief Spence lives well, making a six figure salary, and managing to achieve a stock market holding of some $200,000. Her house, unlike many on the reserve, is well equipped, up to and including a flat screen TV. Her cronies also do well, and her partner and "consultant", Clayton Kennedy, is on the payroll and garners $850 a day.

All of which apparently is not enough, so the Chief embarked on a "hunger strike"** which would only stop when a meeting with the Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, could be arranged. This occurred, at which point Chief Spence withdrew the request, stating that the Governor General had to be at the meeting as well, representing the Queen. I believe at this point the whole thing degenerated into farce, with one of her assistants firing off a letter to Buckingham Palace.

A number of chiefs support her, probably because they exhibit similar fiscal chicanery, but not all do. In fact, there are an equal number who doubt the efficacy Spence's approach. Shawn Atleo, the national chief of the Assembly of First Nations, is one, and while he is conscious of the serious problems on many reserves, is willing to work with the Prime Minister to resolve them, up to and including a hard look at the Indian Act itself. One can only hope.

As for Theresa Spence, and thinking of the band members she has kept in penury, these words from the last act in Macbeth well sum up what could await her:: "And that which should accompany old age, as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have. In their stead, curses, not loud but deep, mouth honour, breath which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not."

Says it all, really.

* Not so much a 'face-off' as a 'head-off''

** This may be the only recorded hunger strike where the perpetrator gains, rather than loses, weight. I suspect more than a few Big Macs were smuggled in.

I, Like MacArthur, Have Returned

Back from cavorting with the family in the South Pacific, tired, but still in one piece. A good time was had by all, well, sort of.

There were, I must report, one broken toe on the part of my son Mark, the result of an over-energetic beach volleyball game, and two screaming matches involving my daughters. Indeed, Victoria and Isolde are currently not speaking to one another. This wont last -- they are polar opposites and need each other as sounding boards. Isolde has always thought Vicky's film roles to, as she put it, "supporting female victim hood in a way that bordered on the pornographic." Vicky returned with the observation that Isolde was just jealous that she didn't have a part in the TV series, "The Game of Thrones". On the other hand, I suspect Vicky herself was envious of Isolde's remarkable ability with the violin, and underlined this with her Christmas gift, bequeathing her a kazoo.

But it is not my purpose to go into details of the internecine warfare families often exhibit. For this, readers are directed to stuff written by Tennessee Williams, Harold Pinter, Anton Chekhov, or that patron saint of Wingham, Alice Munro.

The Compte de Rienville was also present (hurrah!) and added immeasurably to my enjoyment. Sadly he had to leave abruptly, however, muttering something about more Hollandaise sauce, but before he did, we had a most interesting encounter at the hotel bar with one Henry Threadneedle.

I would have thought, with that surname, that Henry was a banker, and indeed the man was a fount of information on finance. In actual fact, however, he was a first rate mathematician who had been in charge of the balance sheet at a Vegas casino. Apparently some monies had gone astray -- not Henry's fault -- and despairing of ever being given the chance to explain what he thought had occurred, decided to take flight before getting his head blown off by whatever Mafia outfit was running things.

He was also the thinnest man I'd ever encountered, and at times, when turning sideways, you'd think he disappeared. This prompted the Compte to venture the opinion that he thought there was a good chance that Henry Threadneedle had been raised by eels. In my opinion, this toying with invisibility would be a real asset in The Trade, and made a mental note to mention this to Sir Harry.

Henry's most interesting comments, however, focused on the current fiscal mess confronting much of the world, a condition he described as a very simple, very complex, problem. Simple, because the answer was patently obvious: a country, as well as an individual, should always ensure that if  obligations are undertaken, you should have the wherewithal to pay for them. Complex, because when the fiscal situation is severely out of whack, there are really only two means of addressing the imbalance -- raising taxes and curtailing spending. The former, politicians find to be easy; the latter, extraordinarily difficult, in that what the citizenry have come to expect in terms of entitlements will be reduced, or, in some cases, taken away entirely. This can result in a sure loss in the next election, lots of pots and pans on the street, and given an America armed to the teeth courtesy of the National Rifle Association, maybe something more ominous in the streets than kitchenware. Obama has his work cut out.

But let us not end on a sour note. I am happy to inform you that, in London, Ontario, Canada has won gold on the ice! Not our junior team (we wont go there) but our under 19 girls, who have captured the gold medal by defeating, and thereby dethroning, Finland by a score of 6 --2.

In Ringette.

So there.

Kidnapped!

From The Editor:

The good Lady had just returned to the Manor, having enjoyed what she termed a spectacular Christmas lunch with the Emp, Bohdan and her CFO, WDM. No fights, no carping (well, a little) and all parted in a sea of serenity. Then she disappeared.

I learned shortly thereafter that her progeny, or, as she is wont to term them, "her brats", had bundled her into a car, headed for the airport, and linked up with the Compte de Rienville and his private jet. The kids had apparently decided to give the Lady a break from hosting Christmas, enlisted the Compte's willing assistance, and took off. Not completely sure of the destination, but I do know that the Compte has holdings in the South Pacific -- Papeete to be exact.

A little note from the eldest child, Isolde, indicated a return in early January, along with the Lady's sincere wishes to her readers for a fun-filled and merry Christmas. I am happy to second such a motion.

Where We Went Wrong

I was delighted by a surprise visit by the Compte de Rienville, who dropped in to the Manor all upset, and stating a need for comfort and understanding. Providing the comfort was not a problem -- I needed some myself -- but the understanding took a bit longer.

To wit:

The Compte had actually left France in a huff, having had a number of his ideas on addressing France's fiscal problems shot down and smothered in what he termed Hollandaise sauce.

"Hollandaise sauce? Oh, that's droll." (Francois Hollande is the President of France).

But the Compte was not seeking praise. "It can't go on", he stated. "There are just too many living off an ever declining tax base. Mon Dieu, are we Greece? And the President, who acknowledges the problem, is taking caution into a kind of art form, where little if any action is forthcoming."

"Well," I put in, "M. Hollande is putting in a tax of 75% on the rich --'

"Which is, or will, cause a mass exodus, and therefore any tax revenues raised will be paltry. And the public sector unions, instead of grappling with the problem, are asking for more. As Jean val Jean states in Les Miserables, "Comment faire?"*

"I believe," I said, "that you have put your finger on the problem. The public sector unions."

Thus began a long discussion, the gist of which is as follows.

Remembering some thoughts on this subject from the late Lord Strunsky, I told the Compte that at an earlier point of time, joining the public service involved a trade-off. You agreed to a lower pay scale than that offered by the private sector, in return for stability and job security. Hence, if you lusted to be the next Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, the public service was not for you. This approach had the advantage of providing a sound, but not dramatic, public service -- a Good Thing. You don't want buccaneers with access to the public purse, while also allowing some brakes to be put on the wilder schemes of politicians that surfaced from time to time.

When, however, public servants became unionists, things changed, and not for the better, as members strove to match or exceed private sector salaries while still holding out for iron-clad job security.

 An even uglier side to this question is noted in the New York Times in an article by James Sherk: "When government unions strike, they strike against taxpayers. Franklin Delano Roosevelt (of all people) considered this 'unthinkable and intolerable'".

I mean, it is one thing to strike against the ACME Widget Corporation where, unless it is a company town, few are affected and even fewer notice. (The Compte interjected here that those with a widget fetish would certainly notice, but let's not go there). Yet when public service workers go on strike,  innocent taxpayers are held to ransom. Even schoolteachers have abandoned what was an honourable and esteemed profession, joined a union,  and now use children as hostages to fortune (theirs).

All I have to say is that when the Scots sent Edward of England back "to think again", it is high time to do something similar to public service unions.

* The Compte, of course, quotes from the original French version, literally, "What to do?" The English phrase is quite different -- "Who am I?" -- but it all works. -- Ed.

Marijuana Mystery

Of late, I have been perhaps too engrossed in the idiocy that marks municipal politics, and a mayor who, while attempting to balance the books, too often resembled a bull in a china shop. Although it must be noted that the china artifacts he smashed were Spode tea cups and Royal Doulton figurines that were made in China.

Time to take a broader view, and look at what's been going on in the world at large.

Not much better. Personal debt in Canada is still too high. The economy of Greece is still an issue, and the Euro appears on life support, with the IV drip being supplied by Germany. (Leads to the observation that what was beyond the capability of the Wehrmacht is not beyond the capability of German fiscal policy). China -- well, see comment above -- and as for the U.S., a 'fiscal cliff' looms. So all is not well, although the answer to the American cliff thingy lies in the amended Liberty Bond Act of 1917. To explore the impact of that legislation, however, would take some time, and is best left for another day.

It is not rocket science to acknowledge that the answer to the problems listed above involve a combination of higher tax revenues and less government spending on entitlements. Yet a third strategy could, I think, be profitably explored, that would go some distance to alleviating these financial conundrums.

Marijuana. Or at least, its legalization and subsequent taxation.

This is not as bizarre as it sounds. A number of American states have legalized the drug for medicinal purposes, and the state of Washington has allowed it for recreational use. If you put marijuana side by side with alcohol, the comparison is startling. Alcohol is an extremely dangerous drug, as a myriad of road deaths illustrate, to say nothing of crimes and personal violence committed while under its influence. It was, in fact prohibited for a time in America, under the Volstead Act in 1919. This didn't work --the steady growth of organized crime, with no taxes coming in whatsoever, led to its repeal in 1933.

Marijuana, however, has quite a different effect on human behaviour, producing feelings of happiness and calmness, and which might produce a more congenial and grateful electorate. And another thing. Unlike heroin or cocaine, NO ONE TO MY KNOWLEDGE HAS EVER DIED FROM AN OVERDOSE OF MARIJUANA. 

Now I know that law enforcement has a huge investment in personnel and resources involved in the so-called 'War on Drugs', but the hard drugs are still there, along with crystal meth and, for that matter, Oxycontin. So there is still a great deal of work for the cops.

What baffles me is why government is so loathe to legalize marijuana. Goodness knows the revenue is needed, and the present grow-ops and gangs currently involved in its growth and manufacture could quickly become business enterprises (also subject to taxation) and bring forward a number of interesting Initial Public Offerings, doing wonders for a number of stock exchanges as well as benefiting shareholders.

I mean, where's the down side in all this?

Mayors Behaving Badly

The number of mayors in the last two weeks that have crashed and burned astounds. What is it about political power that, Circe-like, leads such men to Bad Ends? (No women mayors seem so afflicted).

Here is a brief re-cap:

City:       Montreal.
Mayor: Gerard Tremblay
Issue:   Graft and corruption
Result:   Dismissal, public enquiry, criminal charges possibly pending
Cost to taxpayers: $Millions

City:   Laval
Mayor: Gilles Vaillancourt
Issue:  Bribery,
Result: Dismissal, criminal charges possibly pending.
Cost to taxpayers: $Thousands

City: London*
Mayor: Joe Fontana
Issue: Taxpayer dollars used to fund son's wedding
Result: Mayor hanging on, but barely.
Cost to taxpayers: $15,000.

City: Toronto
Mayor: Rob Ford
Issue: Improper legal procedure with respect to conflict of interest.
Result: Dismissal pending
Cost to taxpayers: $Zero

Yes, a sorry tale. The first three can rightly be accused of squandering a ton of taxpayer dollars. As for the forth, we are more in the arena of bull-headed stupidity than graft and corruption. All Mayor Ford had to do was recuse himself when Council was determining if the Mayor should pay back funds solicited on official letterhead for an economically-disadvantaged football team.** The amount was some $3150.00, none of which came from the City budget. Indeed, Council, by a significant majority, decided in favour of the Mayor and there the matter would have rested. Indeed, should have rested -- the optics alone would have been severe enough.

Enter The Left.

Furrier Paul Magdar, with lawyer Clayton Ruby in tow, launched a conflict of interest lawsuit against Ford, calling for his dismissal. The suit was successful, delighting the left wing of Council. On the other hand, the action did prompt this comment from, of all newspapers, Quebec's La Presse, in which columnist Yves Boisvert writes on November 27: "Great minds in the Toronto media, too happy to get rid of this right-wing firebrand, seem to have easily forgotten a principle of universal justice: The punishment needs to fit the crime. In the Toronto mayor's case, we are applying a professional death penalty for a minor breach."

Says it all, really, and now Toronto faces a very real possibility of the Left taking control, and bringing back the fiscal madness that had bedevilled Toronto during the previous administration. Mayor Ford had tried, and was succeeding, in correcting this fiscal imbalance. Now, however, a death spiral looms as the Left looks to Greece as its fiscal model.

Poor Toronto.

*For my UK readers, I refer to London, Ontario, not London, England. Boris Johnson seems to be doing just fine.

** Don Bosco, a Catholic secondary school. Goodness, if some funds were needed, you would think the Vatican could sell a painting or two.

Believe It Or Not

No, this is not a discussion on the work of Robert Ripley, but rather an examination of a philosophical  phrase that startled me, as did the identity of the author. Now where philosophy is concerned, I tend to the classics, drawing on such works as Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics, Plato's Republic, or even The Biblical Ten Commandments, which all by themselves outline an ethical path. (the rest is commentary).

The phrase in question? "Seeing is believing puts the horse before the cart."* The author? Stephen King, of all people, he who writes all that hairy stuff about worlds that lie just beyond our present veil of existence. Great for escapism, and therefore I was surprised to be confronted with a truth that has nothing to do with fantasy but everything to do with day-to-day reality.

Certainly King would not leap to the mind as a deep-thinking philosopher, or at least not to my mind. Yet his horse-cart analogy bears some looking into.

The argument here is the proposition that what we see is determined by what we believe. In classical times, belief held that the world was flat, and  maps from that era indicate this, along with fuzzy edges that are highlighted by the phrase "Here Be Dragons." Yes, Thales of Miletus sometime around 620 BCE predicted an eclipse, but then, there have always been outliers, who had a different belief than the belief currently in vogue. Think Galileo. Think Copernicus. Think Einstein. Think Heisenberg. Or Rachel Carson and her Silent Spring. (I was determined to get a woman 'outlier' in there somewhere). All these departed from the prevailing belief and hence put forward another way to view the world and, indeed, the cosmos.

Thus it does no harm, before putting forward a point of view, to seek out the underlying belief that structures that point of view. Much of organized religion falls under such a rubric, and a great deal of nationalism, the twin causes of reprehensible actions that are all too evident in today's world. The belief that a certain way of viewing the world is the ONLY way to view the world is horribly counter-productive, particularly when that belief is juiced up to allow for killing anyone that does not succumb to that belief. All of which would indicate that the belief in question deserves a close, very close, examination, and if the belief is found wanting, alter it to one that allows for progression rather than stasis. So William Blake: "The cut worm forgives the plow."

Ample food for thought here.

* Stephen King, Duma Key, 'How to Draw a Picture' (VII)

A Seedy Tale

I was dealing with one problem when, out of the blue, another surfaced. The initial problem, in response to a request by Sir Harry, was to somehow to come to grips with the Hamas attack upon Israel -- in particular, the viciousness of locating their rocket launchers in close proximity to schools and hospitals -- and to develop an appropriate response strategy. For  Hamas, this was a nasty step forward and deeper into the Dark Side, and I suspected that the purveyors of said rocket launchers (Iran) lurked at the bottom of it all.

Then came the second problem.

Bohdan, who manages my sugar beet plantation in Ukraine, called, alerting me to a serious attack on my holdings. Through some reliable sources, Bohdan had learned that Viktor Yanukovych, the President of Ukraine and no friend of mine, had seen fit to lease an adjoining property to Monsanto. The aim here would be to genetically modify sugar beets, and plant them so that the wind-borne seeds would then contaminate my own crop. This would spark two actions: Monsanto would sue, stating that I had contaminated their crop. And secondly, any European sales would be at risk, Europe being very risk averse when it came to genetically-altered produce. Germany, of course, would be aghast at having their beloved Zuckerruben-Sirup so infected. Monsanto really is evil, and in pursuing such a course, showed themselves to be a true member of the Dark Side.

What to do?

I was well aware that Monsanto had tried similar cases in court, and had won.* Pursuing a strictly legal solution would, then, be unsuccessful, case law being what it is. So another measure was called for.

Now I also have friends on the Dark Side, and placed a call to Don Guido.

"Bella! Always good to hear from you. And you will be pleased to know that I have purchased your figlia's CD featuring the Sibelius Violin Concerto. The fair Victoria does a superb job. You must be proud."

"I am. I will let her know you approve." Don Guido was especially fond of Victoria, and I knew for a fact that he watched over her as she trundled around the globe. Don Guido beats travel insurance every time.

We continued briefly this little exchange of pleasantries, but I soon came to the heart of the matter.

"Don Guido, I don't suppose you have any contacts in Ukraine?"

"Not many, but enough to buttress a small but profitable enterprise. Why do you ask?"

I then explained my problem, indicating that Yanukovych was behind it all. I needed to persuade him that the Monsanto purchase was a non-starter, and that perhaps (to use a trite phrase) an offer could be made that Yanukovych could not refuse.

"This isn't your campaign to get that woman, Julie or Julia, out of prison, is it? Can't do anything there. The action stems from Putin himself, and I'd rather not irritate the man right now. Appears to be going through some kind of mid-life crisis, and hence any annoyance...well...could be bad for business."

"No, Yuliya Tymoshenko isn't at issue here, more's the pity. It's the deal Yanukovych has struck with Monsanto. If that could be, er, annulled in some way...."

Don Guido thhought for a moment, then said, "I understand that our Viktor is very fond of chinchillas. Keeps a sizeable pen of them, in fact. Perhaps if he awoke one morning and found in his bed six or seven slaughtered -- "

"I don't need the details. What is this going to cost me?"

"You have two coastal properties in Greece, Lots 107665 and 107666. I would like to purchase Lot 107666."

Now Lot 107665 I have designs on for a possible seaside resort, but Lot 107666?

"I am agreeable" I told Don Guido. "But the lot you requested  has a shoreline comprised of nothing but a path leading through a sheer rock face. In order to get one lot, I had to take them both. Why would you want -- "

"But that lot has an excellent and deep harbour. Is it a deal?"

"It is. I will have the necessary papers drawn up." I decided not to enquire about Don Guido's reasons for wanting a harbour in Greece. It is one reason why we get along so well.

Shortly after, I learned from Bohdan that Monsanto had withdrawn its offer to purchase the adjoining acreage. I also felt it  incumbent to make a hefty donation to the World Wildlife Foundation, to be directed to the preservation of the habitat of the Andean chinchillan population. After all, when one incurs a debt, it is only fair that one pays.

*Cf. Monsanto Canada v. Schmeiser, Docket T.1593 -- 98. This case went all the way to Canada's Supreme Court, where Monsanto prevailed in a 5-4 decision. It is unfortunate that not enough of the Justices could see the obvious solution, as sung by Bob Dylan: "The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind."

A House Divided

Well, there you have it. The American Presidential Election finally occurred -- some 5 billion dollars spent to achieve the same congressional gridlock that previously existed. Not exactly a harbinger of hope, if things remain as they were.

Here I will go out on a limb, and state that there will be change.

One change immediately noticeable is the disappearance of references to the Deity in Republican comments on the election result. Not surprising, given that to the Tea Party evangelicals Mitt Romney was chosen by God to lead the U.S.A. out of the financial wilderness. This didn't work out so well: God apparently overlooked the role of the 'swing states' upon the Electoral College.

Of course, this is not the first time there has been some Republican religious backsliding. I recall, early in the Presidency of George W. Bush, that he would be guided by the precept,  'What would Jesus do?' This was hastily forgotten shortly after, it being highly improbable that Jesus would have authorized the invasion of Iraq. I remember calling Laura on the matter, suggesting that George look more to the Old Testament for models, where, to use a phrase, 'there's a whole lotta smiting goin' on' (apologies to Jerry Lee Lewis here).

There is, however, a change in tone from the Republicans -- or at least from the Leader of the House, John Boehner. He is still averse to raising taxes, but is willing to discuss other ways and means whereby cooperation might be achieved. This does not surprise, given the necessity of some clever mountaineering on the 'fiscal cliff' that must be dealt with prior to January 1, 2013.

This is no small matter. If there is no congressional action, the following occurs. The combination of higher taxes and spending cuts would reduce the deficit by an estimated 560 billion, roughly cutting it in half. The Congressional Budget Office estimates that gross domestic product (GDP) would be go down by four percentage points in 2013, sending the economy into recession. Unemployment would rise by close to a full percentage point, involving the loss of some 2 million jobs. The word 'unacceptable' doesn't begin to cover the effect.

Congress, however, does have two other options. Some or all of the scheduled tax cuts and spending cuts can be cancelled, ensuring that the debt will continue to grow. Step forward, Greece. Or a middle course can be adopted, one that would address the budget issues to a limited extent, but also would have a more modest effect on growth.

So over to you, Congress, but keep in mind Lincoln's words upon accepting the Senate nomination from the Illinois Republican Party in 1858: "A House divided against itself cannot stand." And let's not forget hope, and here I turn to -- who else? -- the Rolling Stones: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you get what you need."

Try, people.

Act of God

The storm known as 'Sandy' tore through Toronto yesterday, and did some damage, although nothing to compare to what occurred at the Jersey Shore (wonder if Snooki remained safe?) and inundated New York City. That phrase 'some damage' included a tree falling on the roof of a colleague's house, barely missing Code Barry and his wife, who were asleep at the time. I am informed that the insurance company will step up to the plate under the 'Act of God' rubric. Good on them -- this is not always the case, and even cursory research into this type of tort indicates that assured coverage is by no means a sure thing.*

I ruminated a bit on the phrase 'Act of God'.

In paleolithic times, the words made sense. Earthquakes, tornadoes, floods, volcanic eruptions -- all were attributed to various gods and goddesses. (If nothing else, the Stone Age at least supported a kind of gender equality.) Later, lightning bolts were hurled by Zeus; a typhoon or tsunami was Poseidon feeling a bit testy; an overwhelming passion was the fault of Aphrodite and a raging forest fire was Loki losing it. Out of all this sprang organized religion, and my own research points to the entire Judaic edifice springing from a minor desert storm god.

These 'divine' figures were given very human attributes, and one was never entirely sure which side they were on or just who would be supported. This was captured well by Shakespeare (are we surprised?) in King Lear when Gloucester states, "As flies to wanton boys are we to th'gods / They kill us for their sport." Again, this made a sort of sense; the world was fraught with the unknown, and having a number of supernatural deities to blame for misfortune, or to credit when one's lot improved, made an existence bearable, particularly when that existence, to use Thomas Hobbes' phrase, was "nasty, brutish and short."

As science advanced, however, gods came into question. Tidal waves, tsunamis and earthquakes owed their formation, not to the actions of a god, but to the clash of the earth's tectonic plates. Lightning caused forest fires, and a violent thunderstorm was the result of hot and cold air masses coming together in a manner far removed from a tender embrace.

All these advances, of course, were fought tooth and nail by those with an interest (and prosperous livelihood) in maintaining their status as guardians of God -- priests, bishops, imams, mullahs -- the list goes on and on. Eventually, of course, the whole hoax will come crashing down. I mean, one can but hope. Perhaps this would be the finest, and final, Act of God.

As for my own belief, it is simply this: GOD IS A PLACEHOLDER FOR WHAT WE DON'T AS YET UNDERSTAND.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

*In fact, it is a mess. Insurance companies hate the phrase 'Act of God', and much prefer dealing with terms such as 'perils' and 'exclusions from these perils'. No doubt.

Three Times A Charm

To London, and my suite at the Dorchester. I was looking forward to a dinner at The Grill and their excellent Cornish scallops, but my dinner companion was Sir Harry, and his presence was more likely to lead to indigestion rather than a fine dining experience.

My feelings were mis-placed. Sir Harry was, for him, in a state of elation. I knew this because every so often a trace of a smile flitted across his face, something completely out of character. What had exercised him was the success of what he termed "blow back". Apparently, in Afghanistan, when the Ungodly fires three mortar shells at a British army encampment, this action provides enough time to track the trajectory of the hostile round and fire a retaliatory shot to precisely the spot where the original shells were fired. Poof! No more mortar fire, and those doing the firing were sent post haste into their Islamic Paradise, 72 virgins et al. (Question for self: why 72? I will look into this and report at some future date.)

So....an enjoyable dinner. We even waxed philosophical for a time, exploring the nature of the number three, with the 'three' acting as a kind of lynch pin countering the action of the previous 'two'. In folk tales, for instance, the third sister is all-important. Think Cinderella. Shakespeare himself draws on this tradition as well in King Lear (Cordelia) and The Merchant of Venice (the third casket containing lead and Portia's portrait).

Baseball has its three strike rule, and, in a completely inappropriate adaptation of the 'rule of three', the state of California has (via an ill-thought out referendum) enacted a three strike rule in terms of prison sentencing. If it's your third court appearance, and the verdict is guilty, you are gone for ten years, even if the charge is a relatively minor one. I guess this pleases some people, but in my mind's eye all I can conjure up is  Les Miserables and Inspector Javert.

Sir Harry made the point that in many cases involving three of whatever, competition of some sort is at the fore. He went on to state, quoting Lord knows whom,* that "neither the devil nor God wants competition. That's why we humans end up in our lonely no-man's-land." I couldn't quite follow his argument, other than The Trade often hurls you into a no-mans-land, but the statement certainly prompts thought. I also noticed that this particular insight had restored Sir Harry to his usual state of gruffness, and it was time to bring this somewhat odd meeting to an end. Unless the man would spring for dessert.

He wouldn't.

*From Henning Mankell's brilliant and disturbing novel, Kennedy's Brain -- Ed.

Indian Love Call --- Not.

I should state right at the outset that I admire a number of First Nations leaders, such as Sitting Bull, Cochise, Tecumseh, or, more recently, Chief Dan George. Then there are former chiefs Terry Nelson and Dennis Pashe, and admiration is about the last thing I would give these two.

My interest in them was piqued by an item on the website of the Canadian Broadcasting System, (CBC) something that surprised. The article was not laudatory, as the CBC usually treats First Nations, but was a condemnation, The article was of course quickly removed, but not before it had appeared in the Canadian version of the Huffington Post, and from there trickled into (where else?) The Toronto Sun. The situation borders upon disbelief, and I thought it wise to give my sources prior to relating what is a very sorry tale.

It appears that Nelson, former chief of Manitoba's Roseau River Anishinabe, and Pashe, former chief of the Dakota Tipi First Nation in Manitoba, had hared off to another country to air their human rights grievances against Canada. That country?

That bastion of human rights, Iran.

In fact, Nelson and Pashe were on Iranian Press TV in Tehran on Sunday, October 7, describing First Nations reservations and stating unequivocally that "The reservations were originally more or less concentration camps." He also drew a parallel with Iran, saying that First Nations peoples were also subject to "economic sanctions".  Pashe went even further, stating "It's part of the ongoing effort by the Canadian government to exterminate us."

It was at this point that I recalled Dana Carvey's portrayal of the Church Lady on Saturday Night Live and her acid observation: "Well, isn't that precious!"

Now a word about chief Terry Nelson. An independent audit of the Roseau River Reserve found that between 2003 through to 2005, while being administered by a federal manager, the band was in surplus. When Nelson took over, however, from 2006 to 2008, the Reserve managed to accumulate a deficit of $!.5 million. Moreover, as Lorne Gunter of The Toronto Sun Reports,* "The auditor had also questioned about $567,000 in loans and advances made to six current and former employees that were not recorded in the financial statements, including money that went allegedly to Nelson's daughter for a gas station she operated on the reserve."

In 2011, he was removed as chief by his band's council, by a 9 - 1 vote. As Council spokeswoman Linda Roberts put it, the Council was concerned about Nelson's "failure to accept requests to update the Council on finances, activities, and other band governance issues."

I'll bet they were concerned. And to think that the Canadian Federal Government gives every man, woman and child upon reserves some $35,000 to $45,000 per year, as well as monies to be devoted to infrastructure, schools and housing. Where does all the money go to? Not to the women and children, that's for sure.

Mind you, those two clowns Nelson and Pashe were right about one thing -- the reserves for the most part are a total mess,** particularly in the North. They really should go, along with the Indian Act itself. To go into just how this might be accomplished is beyond the scope of this particular post, although allowing property rights would be a good start.

And one final observation. How did these two get to Iran? In that Iran itself is enduring heavy economic sanctions, I cannot see the lunatic religious leaders presently in power paying to bring infidels to come and visit. I strongly suspect that once again Federal dollars have been used to make the trip possible.

As readers will know, I am not of a religious bent, but here I sum up my feelings with the shortest verse in the Bible, John 11:35:

"Jesus wept."

*The Toronto Sun, October 12, 2012, p. 21

** Not all reserves fail. The Gibson Reserve in Muskoka, for instance, serves its populace well through their cranberry franchise. Less healthy, perhaps, but still economically viable, is the casino on the Rama reserve.

Real Terror

The Compte de Rienville was staying at the Manor for a few days, and in between bouts of ...well, never mind...we had some good conversations. One in particular stands out.

After an excellent dinner, we were enjoying some warmed Brie on Henri's fantastic home-baked crackers while sipping a forty-year-old Port brought from the Compte's cellar in his Chateau. For some reason, we were discussing what really terrifies people. I, for instance, am frightened of people with 'Causes'; I mean, if you argue with a reformer, you are always wrong. The Compte confessed to a fear of a world without electricity, and he has a point. Were the global grid to collapse suddenly, well, just imagine, and a marketable skill in such a world would be how good you were with a bow and arrow.

This was proving an interesting subject, and we thought of a number of groups, and just what they would be most frightened of. At some point, I mentioned the Taliban, and we both realized that one thing that terrified that ghastly lot were fourteen-year-old schoolgirls such as Pakistan's Malala Yousafzai. She had been shot by a member of the Taliban, and was, at the time of this writing, in critical condition in a hospital in Peshawar. The Compte put forward a thesis as to why the Taliban had acted so savagely.

In his view, the Taliban were adamant that no girls should receive any education other than a home reading of the Qu'ran, and then only appropriate suras. Girls are, after all, chattel, and what's the point of teaching chattel? It would like training a goat to sing. It can't be done, and more importantly, it would annoy the goat.* Girls are there to serve the patriarchy, and follow the precepts of vani.

"The what?" I asked at this point.

"Vani. This is the custom by which girls are handed over as child brides to settle blood feuds. In fact, just last month in Pakistan's Balochistan province 13 girls aged 4 to 16 were so used by a tribal council to settle a conflict between two clans of a major tribe over the murder of a man."

"How the hell did you know that?"

"I was there. So was your colleague Matilda Hatt. We got three of the girls out, not one of our more successful missions. Difficult to work in that area. But you would know that."

I nodded. The Compte went on to explain that a girl, once even partially educated, became extremely difficult to manage, and in at least a few incidents, had either killed their husbands -- or, as the girls state, their owners -- or killed themselves. Education of girls, then, has to be nipped in the bud. Hence that attack on the unfortunate Malala.

The Compte said, "There is, however, a bright spot in all this. For perhaps the first time, there were nationwide protests across Pakistan, denouncing the barbarity of the act. Admittedly, these were held by women. The men seem to only protest silly film footage or Danish cartoons. But it is a start."

All this was getting pretty heavy, and a change of topic was in order. So we both helped ourselves to more Brie, crackers and Port, and began to discuss who REALLY got married at the Biblical feast of Cana.

* De Rienville is, I think, referring to a remark once made by NFL quarterback Ken Stabler, who referenced a pig in this regard. The Compte well realized that a goat would be a better exemplar than a pig -- a observant Muslim wouldn't go near such a creature. --ed.

The Annual Transportation of Wood

Very late with this posting, but this sort of thing happens when you go off to the Emp's estate on a Haliburton lake. A fine group gathered to aid in the transportation of firewood from the mainland to the island, an annual and much looked forward annual event. All present contributed in various ways -- I commemorate the event in poetry -- and the job was done.

The group is an eclectic one. Bohdan, the manager of my sugar beet holdings, was there, and was looking well even if his job was a constant struggle against various and sundry bureaucratic attacks against my plantation launched by that fuckwit Viktor Yanukovych. (I refuse to talk to him until he releases Yuliya Tymoshenko from prison. Asshole). Also attending was Sir Peter Crapp, who indicated that his boss (and mine), Sir Harry of MI6, was trying to get in touch with me about a (very quiet) deal I had made with Bibi Netanyahu involving a number of Syrian farmers who had fled to Israel and, at my suggestion, assumed the identity of displaced American tourists. I will tell Sir Harry that when a thing is working well, it's best not to fix it.

Also attending was the Earl of Murphy, whose geographic knowledge of the world is considerable. Indeed, his nickname is 'World'. A later arrival was my Chief Financial Officer, WDM, who ensures that the financial gains from both the late Lord Strunsky's estate and the sugar beet enterprise do not go amiss. And they don't, although he does comment that my donations to the atheistic nuns, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain, are a bit of a drag on profits. I counter with the fact that the money is well spent, particularly in the number of women rescued from domestic abuse, and certainly those from Muslim or Hindu homes that are fundamentalist in nature. Which may account for the large number of fatwas against yours truly, but if you walk in the woods, you must feed mosquitoes.

So the logs all found a home on the island, and the mission was completed. The Emp was pleased, and all were glad. His hospitality was a wonderment, with superb food, fine wine, and sparkling conversation. Also, the Emp's ability to find chinks in one's psychological armour (he is very good at this) was much less evident, a kinder, gentler approach if you will. Not completely, mind you; one always had to be on guard for an unexpected verbal jab or poke. But this is part of the Emp's charm.

A culmination of sorts was an impressive bonfire in the fire pit, something dear to the heart of WDM. Yes, he is a brilliant financier, but underneath that exterior lurks a pyromaniac. (I hasten to add that the fire danger in the area was low). I acted as supervisor, an acknowledgement of my delicate and fragile condition,* and scanned the skies seeking out any water bombers from the Ministry of Natural Resources that might suddenly appear.

The only lacuna in the whole thing was a somewhat unaccountable lack of reference to the fair sex. I mean, all are getting on, but still.....As Marvell put it in his poem, 'To His Coy Mistress', "The grave's a fine and private place / But none I think do there embrace."

Too true, and it is a very good thing the Compte de Rienvelle is shortly expected at the Manor. Can't happen soon enough.

All for now.

*This is rubbish. It was not that long ago when Simone had a wee tussle with an Al Qaeda operative on the north face of the Eiger. Later, the body was found in a deep crevasse. This was initially thought to be a mountain climbing accident until the bullet hole in the forehead came into view, setting off an Interpol investigation in three Alpine countries, and gave Sir Harry a severe headache.. Delicate and fragile? As I said, rubbish. --Ed.