Truth Or Consequences

Having arranged for Ahmed to drive Ayaan Hirsi Ali to the airport, I had time to reflect upon one of her statements. She had indicated that those women who had received death sentences from whatever crazed mullah or imam that had made them were all accused of denying 'The Truth of Islam'. It occurred to me that Christianity had gone through a similar phase in the Middle Ages, where a good auto de fe provided entertainment for all (except, of course, the convicted heretic).

The key word here is 'truth'.

During my Oxford days, I remember an all night, rather wild discussion with my classmates on the nature of truth. A lot was said, from the Churchillian "Truth is so precious she need to be accompanied by a bodyguard of lies" to John Stuart Mill: "It is a piece of idle sentimentality that truth, merely a truth, has any inherent power denied to error of prevailing against the dungeon or the stake." Now my classmates were bright people, and could quote relevant authorities at the drop of a hat. I had had enough, and piped up "It seems to me that Robert Browning has resolved the question once and for all."

"Robert Browning?" said someone. "Simone, you've got to be kidding. When on earth did he ever address anything to do with truth? "

"Hear me out," I said, and began to explain. The argument is a bit protracted, but what follows is the gist of the thing.

Browning had written a number of dramatic monologues that had been well received by the Victorian public. One thinks here of My Last Duchess, Pippa Passes, Andrea del Sarto and the like. Certain critics, however, had taken him to task that all this was 'made-up' stuff, not real, and above all, not true. Wounded in his self-esteem, Browning decided to fight back.

He did this in his (rather savage) extended poem, The Ring and the Book, a work that involves all manner of people and events. The thing encompasses a child bride, an older and rather nasty groom, a disguised priest, a triple murder, four hangings and a beheading. And all of this was FACTUALLY TRUE.

"Finally!" said the critics. "The man has seen the light."

Browning replied, (I paraphrase here a bit) "Idiots! Would it have been any less true if the whole thing were a fiction of my mind?"

That shut everyone up, including my classmates.

And before everyone rushes off to purchase The Collected Works of Robert Browning (a worthy purchase in any event) I leave the last word on this thorny topic to the 16th century writer and philosopher, Francis Bacon. In his essay, Of Truth, Bacon writes "'What is truth?' said jesting Pilate and would not stay for an answer."

Well he wouldn't, would he.

Employing Empowerment Part Two

"This...is impressive Simone."

So said Ayaan Hirsi Ali on first glimpsing Camp Can Do from the air. We were circling the grounds in my Sikorsky S 76 helicopter, piloted by my good friend Hank Grimsby. Hank had just returned from a stint in Afghanistan, and I was delighted to have him back. Even when flying first class , airport security is such that the whole experience too often turns into a nightmare of poking and probing through my stuff, and I have already lost one Cartier watch and a Givenchy leather belt that somehow disappeared during the examination process. Staff at these check points appear to be all from deepest India, and any complaint immediately results in a charge of racism. A pox on them all.

I lease a Lear jet, but don't really trust anyone other than Hank to fly it. So welcome back Hank, and goodbye to all those airport personnel overly afflicted with office. He is also, as you may have gathered, familiar with helicopters. I should mention that after Black Hawks, he considers the Sikorsky a bit of a toy, but the machine can carry 14 people and reach 200 mph. Suits my needs perfectly.

We landed, and Ms Hirsi Ali -- whom I just call Ali -- stared about her, taking in the main building, several smaller structures, the lake at the front and the oval race track running around the water's edge. The exact location must remain a mystery (for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that five of these women are, or were, Muslims, and face a death sentence for wanting to be human beings.) Allah the Merciful again. The others have fled abusive relationships, having realized that court restraining orders weren't worth the paper they're printed on. Suffice it to say that the location involves an investment in a cranberry enterprise run by a First Nations Reserve, a generous leasing price, and a first class scholarship program. The BCR (Band Council Resolution) passed with lightning speed.

At this moment the front door of the main building opened, and 10 women of various ages and sizes emerged. Two were Somalis, who immediately recognized Ali, and were soon rabbiting on in their incomprehensible (to me) language. The others clamored to show me what they had learned.

A third figure emerged from the main house -- the instructor. This was a gentleman by the name of Judd Banger. I had encountered Judd some years before, when he was a leader of the New York branch of the Hell's Angels. We had a difference of opinion. This was resolved at the expense of a broken leg (his) and a bloody nose (mine). Thus we became friends. I presented certain options, one was accepted, and here he was, guiding very timid women into controlling very powerful Harley-Davidsons and doing something useful with his life.

Ali broke free from her Somali compatriots, and as the women went off to get their machines, Ali stated that she had never seen such confidence. "And this from a culture" she continued, "that won't even let the men watch the Soccer World Cup. They have to study Qu'ran. Ridiculous."

I replied, "That's not a Somali thing, Ali, but the religious maniacs in Al Shabaab. This you know."

She nodded ruefully, and then was startled by the roar of five Harleys entering the oval, with two riders on each. The five sped up, and began to circle the track, expertly leaning against the torque of the curves.

"Took some time," said Judd gruffly. "Took some time. Especially the taking apart and re-assembling. But in the end -- well, just watch this."

The cycles, now at full bore, began to weave in an out, and incredibly began to do wheelies.

Ali just stared in amazement.

"And Ali," I said, "do you think that a woman who can control that sort of power is ever going to be put down again? I think not."

"But there are so many --"

"TTT, Ali. Things take time."

Ali was silent for a time, watching the cycles weave and swerve. Then she touched my blouse.

"Simone, do you think..."

"Do I think what?"

"Do you think I could ride one? Just for a bit."

I was caught unawares by the request. Judd wasn't, and asked Ali to come with him. Shortly after, there was Ayaan Hirsi Ali herself, helmeted, clutching Judd for dear life, yet with shining eyes and laughter that rang right round the oval.

Occasionally, you win one.

Employing Empowerment Part One

Now back at the Manor, and delighted to receive and talk to a very special visitor. This was Ayaan Hirsi Ali, the courageous Somali woman who had fled Somalia, thereby freeing herself from the vicious tentacles of fundamentalist Islam. From Somalia, she had gone to the Netherlands, and shortly after, got elected to the Dutch Parliament. But her championing of liberal values resulted in numerous fatwas from the criminally insane imams and mullahs who have hijacked Islam. Bluntly put, the fatwas guarantee a life in Paradise (wherever that is) if she could be caught, tortured, and killed. Indeed, one particularly nasty fatwa aimed directly at her was pinned by a dagger to the chest of murdered filmmaking colleague Theo van Gogh.

All Merciful Allah wins again.

Things getting rather hairy at this point, Ms Hirsi Ali fled to America, where she continues to lash out at the crazed jihadists that have done so much to wreck the Islam that in saner times had made enormous contributions to science, art, health care, mathematics and philosophy. Of course, she has minders, but then, so do I. When dealing with the insane, you must perforce expect the unexpected.

In any event, when Ms Hirsi Ali got in touch, and requested a meeting, I was glad to invite her to the Manor (it is very, very secure) and to learn what she is presently involved in.

She arrived in due course, accompanied by two men who appeared to know my butler and minder, Irving, really well. Interesting that Ms Hirsi Ali winds up being protected by two Mossad agents. But if you think about it for a moment, makes sense. However, speculation here is not what we're about, for she was particularly interested in Camp Can Do located in Northern Ontario.

This startled me, and indicated that this is a woman who does her homework. The camp is not well known (for reasons that will become clear in due course) and the administrators even less so. As readers will remember, I support a number of oddball charities, one of which is a woman's shelter run by the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain. The nuns involved are atheists, and Holy Mother Church would close the enterprise down in a heartbeat, save for certain information I possess with respect to Church finances and three missing paintings by Rubens. But I digress.

We quickly became Ali and Simone, and over tea and scones, Ali made her wishes clear. She wanted some background on the camp, and wondered if it was possible to visit. Over the next three days, both possibilities became fact.

I explained to her that the idea for the camp came from my own experience as a young girl growing up badly in the back streets of Naples. Fortunately, I encountered a mentor, of which I have only had three. This individual introduced me to the motorcycle. I was entranced, but until I could totally strip it and re-assemble the thing, riding it was prohibited. Took some time, but eventually, wow! I was in control of something that I understood. Maybe for the first time in my life I felt supremely confident.

"Who was this person?" asked Ali.

"A Canadian by the name of Ken Low. He had lost his government job after writing a Liberal Party progress report entitled 'We're Lost, But We're Making Good Time.' Bit too close to the truth, there."

Ali continued. "So this camp has motorcycles?"

"Oh, yes," I replied. Six 2009 Dyna Harley-Davidsons, V-Rods, 1250 cc and with a twin cam 88 engine. Powerful beasts."

Ali's eyes glazed over a bit at this.

"It will be better if I show you. Can you drop by tomorrow, by the helipad? And jeans and a tee shirt should serve." (A plan was forming in my mind, and the sari-like thing Ali was wearing would be rather inappropriate). I added, "Given your background, you will be intrigued."

"You really are passionate about this," Ali said.

"Certainly am. But I also remember my Benjamin Franklin, who thought driving passion was just fine provided reason held the reins. Now perhaps a short tour of the Manor?"

Ali agreed, and away we went. But stay tuned.

The Price of Admission

As suggested in my last note, I took Svetlana Marinskaya up on her offer to meet in Paris, if for no other reason to escape the endless whining from all those who felt that they had been hard done by during the recent G20 meeting in Toronto.

So there we were, in a small cafe in Montmartre, sipping kir and enjoying ourselves. At least I was until Svetlana said "About that G20 thing. Really. A few cop cars burned? Some lunatics arrested? Really, Simone. You call that a protest?"

"I don't call it anything except an absolutely wrong venue for such a meeting. Or any future ones, for that matter."

"Oh," said Svetlana, "then where would you schedule such meetings?"

"Several places come to mind," I replied. "Baffin Island would do nicely. Or somewhere near Cape Horn. Or Death Valley in July. Temperature there can get up to 46 degrees Celsius. Another kir?"

Svetlana nodded, and a waiter was instantly attentive. I should mention at this point that the temperature being on the warm side, we had both dressed accordingly, in Tee shirts and very short shorts. Dolce and Gabbana of course. This had an effect upon our garcon, ensuring prompt and thoughtful service. You work with what you have.

Svetlana would not let the topic go. "But this Toronto G20 thing --"

"Svetlana, enough of this. Look, the whole mess boils down to the fact that the police followed their orders magnificently. The fact that these orders were very ill thought out by the Powers That Be -- in this case the Mayor and the Premier -- is the reason any enquiry will be doomed. Those two will never admit to error of any kind."

"Not like your Agate Christie once wrote."

"Agatha, sweetie. And what on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, I remember from English class a book of hers featuring a Miss Mapples --"

"Marples."

"Whatever. Anyway, all the other characters were convinced that one man was guilty because he had admitted that he had been home alone and had no alibi. Miss Marples said that she rather trusted this man, because he admitted things."

"Like your countrymen. And women."

"Now what are you talking about?"

"The Great Spy Scandal. Now The Great Spy Swap. Lord, I haven't heard so much admission since reading St. Augustine's Confessions. There was old Igor Sutyagin and three others stating that yes, they had spied for the CIA. And there was the fair Anna Chapman and the other nine saying yes, they had spied for Russia. Although in the former case, real damage was done; in the latter, any 'secrets' that got passed on came from Google. I'd say the U.S. got the better of in this particular case."

"Agreed," Svelana admitted ruefully. "But as I said, the Kremlin just forgot that cell was operative. Putin and Medvedev are still beside themselves, and the whole thing will die a very quick death. Although rumour has it that Vladimir is quite taken with the redhead, and after some slapping around, wants to turn her into a honey trap."

"From her pictures, may be a short trip. Uh oh, got to go."

"Yes, where is the faithful Irving -- ah, I see him at that brasserie."

I inquired, "And where is your minder, if you care to, uh, admit."

She replied, with a little smirk, "He's the waiter, cherie."

We rose, and I touched her arm gently. "All well and good, my friend, but I find it useful to keep the following lines in mind. From La Rochefoucauld, I believe: 'If you're prepared to admit it, it's not the worst thing you ever did.' A la prochaine."

A Fish Rots From The Head

The Chief of Police called (we get along) all distraught about the way the media was portraying his actions regarding the recent G20 meeting in Toronto. I consoled him with these words from Chaucer, from the Prologue to his magnificent Canterbury Tales:

"And this figure he added eek thereto,
That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?"

Yes, it's Middle English. Deal with it.

What was disturbing the Chief was his receipt of conflicting orders from The Mayor, he of the strong socialist bent. On the first day of the G20 session, the Chief's orders were to 'facilitate' the marching of sundry protesters yelping at everything from First Nations land claims to outrage at the state of Israel having the temerity to defend itself. Thus the police were marshalled to do just that, and succeeded.

Unfortunately, this concentration provided a gap in coverage which was exploited by the vicious and mentally disturbed, who proceeded to trash and burn with gay abandon. The Mayor was horrified, and now ordered the police to stop all this. On the second day, the police did just that, retrieving many perpetrators from within the marching crowds and arresting them. No trashing was done that day, but the howls of outrage from various marchers who were swept up in the mayhem delighted the media, and the Chief was duly blamed.

I made the point to the Chief that he had fallen victim to rotten leadership, and asked him to remember such stellar examples as The Charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimean War, or, during the American Civil War, the actions of any Union general prior to the advent of Grant and Sherman. (In this context it is worth noting that Robert E. Lee killed more Americans than Hitler or Hirohito combined). I also referred him to Barbara Tuchman's fine book on ridiculous leadership, 'The March of Folly'.

The Chief was lighter in mood when he rang off, and I turned to another matter that sort of fits into this area -- the Great Russian Spy Scandal erupting south of the border. This was so bizarre that I called in a marker from a Russian colleague in The Trade, Svetlana Marinskaya. We had become good friends (when we weren't trying to kill each other.)

Svetlana, having determined that the phone connection to The Manor was secure, explained what was going on.

"You see, Simone, what happened is that The Kremlin SIMPLY FORGOT THAT THE SLEEPER CELL WAS STILL OPERATIVE. Vladimir and Dmitri were furious, and heads will roll. Those running the operation were all from the old KGB, and had a nice little earner on the boil. They had a suite of offices in the Kremlin basement, liberal funds for the operation, and of course some of the monies were diverted into several well-appointed dachas on the Black Sea. Stalin and Beria live again, as it were."

"So," I said, "now would not be a good time to call and offer sympathy?"

"Nyet. Definitely nyet. In fact, things are so bad here that a small vacation is in order. Perhaps you could join me? Paris? The Georges Cinq? In three days? And maybe that nice Compte de Rienville --"

"Svetlana, don't even think about it. Besides, he's in Beijing helping me win a sugar beet contract. But a French fling sounds just the ticket. See you there."

And so it transpired. I mean, Mark Twain was never more accurate when he recounted some dialog between a man and his wife, with the man saying, "And note dear, when one of us dies, I shall move to Paris.".

Would have worked better had the woman made the statement, but you can't have everything.

A Little Outing

These days, with a title like that, one might expect some unexpected revelation about the nature of one's sexuality. Not that this matters anymore -- we have come a long way from worrying about the love that dares not speak its name. Indeed, rather the opposite: now it won't shut up.

No, as diligent readers (and which of you are not) will recall, this outing has to do with a commitment made to the good Robert Gates to block a suspected attack on certain delegates to the G20 in Toronto. Actually, not in Toronto, but Niagara Falls.

Apparently several key delegates from a number of countries had expressed a wish to see the Falls. Canada was pleased to acquiesce to the request, and suggested a trip on The Maid of the Mist. From a security viewpoint, this was ill-advised -- a helicopter would have been just fine -- but a number of delegates were insistent, so there the argument ended.

Now for readers not familiar with the various attractions at the Falls, of which the Maid of the Mist is one, let me assure you that this is not Janet Leigh in a shower at the Bates Motel, or a documentary on gorillas and Dian Fossey, but a boat. Two of them, to be precise, with the descriptors VI and VII. (Canadians are nothing if not imaginative).

Each of the Maids are 80 feet long, and can carry up to 600 passengers. Also, a nice touch this, free raincoats are provided. The boats leave every 15 minutes from the Maid of the Mist Plaza (that Canadian imagination again) and go to the base of the American Falls, then into the basin of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls. And that's where trouble could be expected.

Matilda Hatt had been assigned by Gates to work with me on this, a very Good Thing. The night previous to the planned excursion Tilly joined me at The Manor. This provided the time to review the whole situation, and to agree on a strategy.

"There," said Tilly, pointing to a spot on a map of the Falls. "That's the only likely place."

"In the Basin?"

"Has to be. The currents are too powerful at the base of the American Falls. As it is, it's going to be tricky."

"Well," I stated, "you're the one that trained with the Navy Seals. And I agree -- there is no other possibility. Still, how good is the intel on all this?"

"I'm told it is first rate."

"Right. Let's do this thing."

We left early the next morning, and arrived at the Plaza in good time. I was introduced to the officials involved by my CSIS friend, CODE Barry, and after that explained just what the plan was.

"Really?" he said.

"Really."

I changed into a short-skirted waitress uniform, (to irritate the two Saudi delegates who would be coming) and began serving coffee, tea and sandwiches to those who had arrived early. Tilly had gone elsewhere, and, I assumed, had changed into a wet suit and equipping herself with some very nasty hand weapons. Soon all was ready, and we boarded Number VI, which had been commandeered for this particular occasion. My presence was explained as a reward for acting as hostess.

The trip was, in the words of some delegates afterwards, spectacular. I wouldn't know, because my eyes were focussed entirely on the delegates and crew. I was confident that both had been carefully vetted, but you never know in these situations. As we entered the Horseshoe Basin, I grew particularly tense. If we had guessed wrong....

Then I saw it, roiling up at the stern of the boat. A large and growing blood-red stain on the water. One of the delegates from China also noticed, and turned to me with a surprised expression on his face.

"Ah," I said authoritatively, "that's from the Canadian Red Inkfish. Our passage must have disturbed it. Happens all the time."

"I see," he said. "Interesting." He then turned away, but with the Chinese, you are never completely sure just what they are thinking.

We docked, and CODE Barry greeted me. "She's some distance away. One of our helicopters spotted her -- that current is probably vicious. I've arranged -- ah, here it is."

A patrol launch curved into where we were at the Plaza, and soon we were slowly going down the Niagara River, scanning the shore anxiously. Then I saw her, sitting complacently on a rock near the shoreline. "Bloody well took you're time," she shouted as we edged toward her. The she plunged in, and surfaced next to the boat where CODE Barry hauled her in. Her arm was gashed severely, and her wet suit had a big rip down the left leg.

"You look a mess," I said helpfully.

"You should see the other guy. And it wasn't Al Qaeda at all. It was a North Korean. I mean, really. They sink one boat, and then think they own everything maritime. Well, that's one who won't be owning anything Evermore. So the intel was both foul and fair, and I will have a little chat with Robert about that. Now you two can attend to me."

So we did.

A Dilemma Of Horns

The G8 and G20 meetings loom ever closer, and one result is that a number of colleagues in The Trade are in Toronto, fussing about security arrangements for various political masters. I took the opportunity to provide a haven for a selected few at The Manor, and the offer was well received.

A number were entranced by the South African World Cup of Soccer, and there tended to be a daily congregation in my home theatre room, complete with 70" HD television. I don't really follow The Beautiful Game, although I was quite taken by the German side in its 4 -- 0 trouncing of Australia. One of their competent midfield generals goes by the magnificent name of Bastian Schweinsteiger. How could they lose with a name like that? (Serbia knew how -- but that's getting more involved in the matches than I care to.)

I could not avoid, however, the Compte de Rienville's comments on the French team, who are playing like they don't belong. Turns out they don't -- something about an illegal hand ball that sunk Ireland, who should really be attending. The Compte proffered the opinion that the French players were all too conscious of this, and had expected the head of FIFA, Sett Blather -- sorry -- Blatter -- to overrule a terrible call by the referee. He didn't, and consciously or unconsciously they were going to stress the stupidity of that decision. Then he couldn't resist stating that England's play was no hell either, and they didn't even have France's excuse.

But I was far more interested in two controversies that had occurred.

First, the incident of the Dutch orange mini-dresses. What riveted me was that one of the girls was an extremely competent secret agent, (also a friend) and I had to give her full marks for venue access. And no, you can't have her name. The dresses apparently annoyed the hell out of FIFA, not because they were sexually alluring (which would have been understandable given the sheer hopelessness of any aged FIFA official ever effecting a liaison) but that they had a small tag near the hem promoting a brewery that had not been blessed by the FIFA gods. The horror! The horror!

Utter nonsense.

The second controversy brings me to the vuvuzela, that weird horn that is ubiquitous in the stadiums and on the streets. Vuvuzelas are longish in shape, being modelled on the horn of the Kudo antelope, and when blown in unison, create a deafening sound. Indeed, the various stadiums become giant bee hives. Yet I rather like the sound. The bee community is one of the few examples of a command economy that actually works, and besides, they produce honey.

FIFA's answer to the complaints of media broadcasters who felt that the dulcet tones of their commentators were being drowned out was slow in coming (that lot does blather a lot) but was not a bad one. They simply told the broadcasters to use their filters.

Stadium attendees, however, don't have filters. Or do they?

Now when I was on assignment in Western Africa, one often heard the saying 'WAWA' -- West Africa Wins Again. Well, we are a bit further south, but the adage holds. If a noise is bothersome, their are, lo and behold, ear plugs! These usually retail about $1.35, but Africans are no slouches at spotting an arbitrage opportunity, and the price jumped quickly to around $30.00. (I have converted Rands to Canadian dollars -- always helpful, I am). This did wonders for the local economy, something rather neglected in all the "big" projects.

Put another way, the problem of the vuvuzela was overcome by making the point that when on the horns of a dilemma, one can always throw sand in the bull's face.

WAWA.

Sanity and Summits

The Compte de Rienville was staying at the Manor for a time, so life is good. Very good. We were enjoying coffee, fruit and croissants at the pool, and the croissants were unbelievable. This deserves some explanation.

The Compte, at my request, had come with his cook, Marcel, along with the proviso that I not make Marcel an offer of employment, one that he couldn't refuse. I agreed, but after sampling the croissants, realized that I had been too hasty. My own cook, a Mongolian who went by the name of Gul, had been quite satisfactory until there the unfortunate incident involving a propane tank and a yak rump roast. Since this was the third tank Gul had blown up, and given the outright terror he induced in the other staff members, I had to let Gul go.

Oh, well. Shit happens.

At the pool, the Compte and I were having a lively discussion on the approaching G8 and G20 summits to take place in Huntsville and Toronto respectively. Indeed, that is why the Compte was here in the first place. He headed up the security team for the French, and wanted to review arrangements and be able to assure Nicolas Sarkozy that all would be well. This began a long discussion on summits, broken up at the half-way point when I introduced the Compte to a wonderful albeit somewhat acrobatic way to eat sliced peaches. But I digress.

We agreed wholeheartedly on an approach, and the gist of our conversation is as follows.

The gatherings were way too large. Both the Compte and I recalled the scene from the BBC's magnificent Yes, Minister series where the Minister, on a trip to the Middle east and being conscious of costs, asks Sir Humphrey that he hoped the delegation would be a small one. They were having this chat in an aircraft while awaiting takeoff.

"The delegation? Oh, pared to the bone, Minister. Pared to the bone!"

The Minister could not see from his viewpoint on the aircraft the impossibly long line of suits stretching from the plane across the tarmac to a terminal in the distance. Small, indeed.

And that's the problem. Too many people not germane to the purpose at hand. Yes, it is important for the leaders of the world's most influential countries to meet face to face, and come to know one another. Anyone who has played poker knows that. But all the hangers-on, the sycophants, the public relation types, et cetera and so on, well, in our opinion, NOT NEEDED. Better to have just three representatives from each country. The leader, plus a person whom that leader knows is smarter than he or she is, (in the men's case, usually his wife) and a minder who is adept at all things where security is an issue. Add this up: twenty countries, three from each, and you have a maximum of sixty people.

The host countries will therefore only be left with expenses for interpreters, plus safety measures. Moreover, those measures are far easier and a damn sight less expensive to provide for sixty than for six hundred.

This made sense to the Compte and me anyway.

Of course, meeting face to face might not be all it's cracked up to be. In this context, it is wise to remember Macbeth, and King Duncan's words on learning of his betrayal by the Thane of Cawder: "There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I placed an absolute trust."

Happens far too often these days.

Muddle in the Middle East

Curled up in the Study, I was totally engrossed in Stieg Larsson's magnificent Millenium trilogy and the adventures of Lisbeth Salander when I noticed my butler and minder Irving hovering at the door. (He knows when not to disturb me, so whatever this was, it was likely to be of some importance.) I looked up, annoyed.

"Well," I said. "This has better be --"

"Oh, it is. He's on the secure line. Asking for Ernestine. Irving handed me the phone.

"It's me," said a voice.

"Well who else would it be, Sir Harry? No one else has the number or knows the code name Ernestine. Slipping a bit, aren't you? And you are being inconvenient. Did you know that in Stieg Larsson's novels he is actually naming names? And peeling a number of dangerous Swedish onions? I am really beginning to think that his heart attack might have been --"

"Forget that. It's being looked into. Now, as per our agreement, I need an analysis of that Israeli cock-up in the Mediterranean, the Gaza Flotilla thing. Causing no end of trouble."

"I'll get on it." (I really had no choice after receiving a British diplomatic passport from Sir Harry. Just zip through airports, I do.)

"And with speed, Ernestine, with speed."

"Oh, all right." I cut the connection. and told Irving that now would be a good time for cocktails, and that I would appreciate any input he might have. He was, after all, ex-Mossad.

Later in the evening, I had done about all I could do short of interrogating all the players in a small room equipped with certain devices that 24's Jack Bauer would get all excited about. Not possible, of course, but I did the best I could.

I prefaced the report with an anecdote to illustrate the difficulty of any easy answers.

A Canadian was at a Muskoka beach one day, and spotted a weird looking bottle nestled among some rocks. Sitting down on an outcrop, he held it to the sun, and wondered what it had contained. He gave it a rub. Lo and behold a cloud emerged from the top, and a genie emerged.

"No shit!" said the Canadian. "Does this mean I get three wishes?"

"It does," replied the genie. "What is your first?"

"A beer would be nice. Dos Equos if you have it."

"I do." A bottle materialized in the Canadian's hand. "Your second wish?"

The Canadian was now giving this whole thing some deep thought. "A beautiful girl would be nice...."

Immediately a drop dead gorgeous blonde appeared beside him, looking ravishing in Dior, and murmured, "I think I can make you very happy."

The Canadian did not doubt this for a minute, but now was afflicted with a sense of guilt. (This happens a lot to Canadians.) "Well," he said to the genie, "So far I've just thought about myself. What about, say, peace in the Middle East?"

A large map of the Middle East suddenly appeared, and the genie studied it for some time. Finally he said sadly, "Your request is too difficult. But I can, however, grant you another wish."

"Oh," said the Canadian. "Very well then. How about that this year the Toronto Maple Leafs win the Stanley Cup?"

The genie thought for a long time, then said, "Let me see that map again."

All of which goes to show that the Middle East is a difficult nut to crack, and Israel is smack in the middle. The interrupted flotilla apparently was transporting sincere activists who were trying to better the position of Gaza citizens, but also a goodly amount of military hardware and people prepared to use it. This Israel would not allow, although the country had to be aware that in the court of world opinion, Israel is always presumed guilty and then is found guilty.

Irving and I hashed this out for some time. In his opinion, and I concurred, Israel desperately need a coalition of the Likud, Kadima and Labor parties, while marginalizing the radical, fringe groups who are only there because the Constitution says they must be. The three leaders in Irving's opinion have the competence that would enable Israel to regain its earlier, well-regarded standing in the world. As Irving put it, "When he was young, we loved him."

So my report to Sir Harry urged him (and any others he could co-opt) to pressure Netanyahu, Tzipi Livni and Simon Peres to, as the Nike ad goes, JUST DO IT. Go back to the 1967 borders, withdraw from those idiotic settlements, and duck under the covers with Saudi Arabia and Egypt. Won't solve it all -- reasonable, non-violent solutions are not what religious fanatics want, although such solutions do terrify them -- but it is taking a sad song, and making it a little better.

Right, Jude?

A Visitor From The Skies

It was Sir Harry on the secure line.

"Your assignment has changed. The Americans are worried about an aspect of the forthcoming G20 coffee klatsch in Toronto. You should know more very shortly. In fact, right...about...now."

I heard a thump, thump thump. Looking out my study window, I beheld a Black Hawk helicopter descending on the helipad next to the swimming pool. This action had several consequences.

"Irving!" I shouted.

"On it," he said.

I was also aware that Consuela and her cousin Maria were in the pool. Consuela was great with child, and because Toronto was enjoying a mini-heat wave, had taken refuge in the pool where she could move around with relative ease (on the ground, not so much.) I ran outside, cursing the American penchant for the dramatic and untoward.

The girls were terrified, and I could sense Maria's thoughts. She had been recently freed from the clutches of an Arizona gone slightly mad, and was now convinced that Arizona was now reaching out for her. This of course was nonsense -- Sheriff Joe Arpaio's reach had its limits -- but fear can be a very debilitating thing.

The copter had landed, and I made my way to it. The weather being what it was, I was wearing only shorts and a tank top, and was weaponless. I mean, where do you stash a Glock in an outfit like that? Not to worry -- I knew by this time that Irving was at the second floor window, an RPG locked and loaded. Just in case, although I was pretty certain that Al Qaeda or the Taliban couldn't commandeer a Black Hawk and fly it through a very secure air space, and then nicely land the thing. Al Qaeda doesn't land aircraft, they crash them into buildings.

A figure emerged, and jumped agilely to the ground. Immediately after, four soldiers also emerged, and formed a tight perimeter around the person. And now I knew who I was dealing with.

"Ah, Mr. Robert Gates, I believe," I said. "always interesting to receive a CIA visit. Now if you will excuse me a minute....." I went over to Consuela and Maria, and suggested some lemonade in the conservatory. "And Maria, everything's fine. This has nothing to do with you."

They scurried off, glad to be away from the hulking machine and its fearsome guards. I returned and stated, "Did you have to be this dramatic? A phone call..."

"We were checking out security, and this was one way to kill two birds with one stone. So to speak." He looked at me closely. "Hmm. Lady Simone Strunsky. Code name Ernestine. And they said you were a looker. De Rienville is a lucky man."

Bloody hell, but their files were up to date.

"I would also like to extend out appreciation to you," he continued.

"And why would that be?"

"For shutting up about the Bin Laden sanction. It nicely serves our purpose -- "

"I know what it serves," I interrupted somewhat testily. "Helps focus American minds on an understandable target. But just what is this little visit really about?"

"First, would you ask the Israeli to stop pointing that thing? I can see the reflection from here."

I waved at Irving, and he stood down. "Just being careful, Robert. May I call you Robert?"

"You can call me anything you like. Particularly if you agree to a small change in assignment. Oh, and not to worry. Sir Harry has been informed, and agreed."

I wondered what Sir Harry got in return. Probably the course of that Los Angeles class nuclear submarine he had lost track of. He suspected it was heading for North Korea, but wasn't sure. Well, not my concern. Yet.

I said, "What 'small change' are we talking about?"

"We want you to go to Niagara Falls."

"Ah," I said, thinking of Oscar Wilde. "The second greatest disappointment in the life of the American bride."

Gates' mouth twitched a bit at this, although his profession wasn't given much to humour.

"Apparently," he continued, "several of the delegates want to see the Falls, and have requested a trip on that misty boat, or whatever it's called."

"The Maid of the Mist."

"Whatever. But there is word --"

"There is always word."

"There is word," Gates continued determinedly, "from one of our operatives that security in that area has been penetrated. Now I doubt this very much, but this operative has rarely been wrong, although a bit of a loose cannon. She --"

"She?"

"She. In fact, it was this person that suggested that you be involved."

"Matilda bloody Hatt!" I exclaimed. "Might have known."

He seemed a bit shaken by this. Good. Humility is always to be treasured.

"So you want me to take a sniping position on the shore --"

"No. We want you on the boat. If you or our operative --"

"Tilly Hatt"

Yes, Miss Hatt," he said, getting right snappish now. Lord, how Americans love keeping everything all arcane and mysterious. "As I was going to say, if you see anything suspicious, you both are empowered to act." He looked me right in the eye, and I had no doubt what he meant. "And you must persevere, even to the extent of obstinacy."

"And He knows about this?

"He knows."

I must talk to Michelle more.

Good Lord, imagine being given such a carte blanche. After a few logistical details were discussed, he left, and I brooded for a bit on his terms. Perseverance. Obstinacy. Both problematical, as Lord Dundee knew, in that the difference between perseverance and obstinacy is that perseverance means a strong will and obstinacy means a strong won't.

Stay tuned.

Methinks The Protesters Do Protest too Much

It is not often that I disagree with Blake (William, not Hector Toe) but his adage, "If a fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise" fails when certain types of 'protesters' come under consideration. This thought surfaced when I was considering Sir Harry's request to 'keep an eye on' the British delegation' at the upcoming meetings of the G8 and G20 in Ontario. I agreed, but made the point that these meetings were almost impossible to control.

"Rubbish," replied Sir Harry. "You manage quite effectively to rein in Al Qaeda and Taliban operatives when required. Good God, woman, you nailed Osama bin Laden. What's so difficult about coping with operatives from some rather silly fringe groups?"

I explained that those concerned were not operatives in the sense mentioned, but rather deeply disturbed individuals who were incapable of learning from past experience. Many were scuttling along the edge of insanity, in that one definition of insane behaviour is repeating and repeating actions that continue to fail. (Hence my problem with the Blake quote.)

There were, of course, legitimate, non-violent groups who were rightly concerned that world finances were in a mess, wanted action to correct this mess, and were going to make that point vigorously and very, very loudly. Others were concerned about global warming, and thought that this should be more on the agenda than it was. Again, no problem, and if that's all the protests were about, all would be fine, with the added bonus that because the protest actions were handled with a certain amount of civility, they just might result in success.

But that's not what's likely to occur. Not by a long shot. Instead, various individuals will use the occasion to disrupt proceedings as violently as possible. These are people with "Causes", involving a host of concerns that have nothing whatsoever to do with the G20 discussions. (And many of these groups have been infiltrated by thugs, pure and simple.) Some slogans illustrate the 'causes':

"More hostels for the homeless!" (The homeless hate hostels, but the do-gooders are not into end-user surveys.)

"Troops into (______) now!" (Insert whatever country, state or area a recent immigrant sees as needing regime change.)

"Troops out of (_______) now! See above.

"God is watching!" (Perhaps, but He doesn't seem to do much else.)

"Save the (_______)! Insert favourite fish, bird, insect, flower or whatever.)

Well, you get my drift, and my concern expressed to Sir Harry stands. You cannot predict the behaviour of this lot with any degree of accuracy. All you can do is expect the unexpected, hope that those really over the top are few in number, and adopt a first class sniping position.

Sad, really. All these groups want something done for them, but are unwilling to do anything themselves. They have forgotten an often-stated but still valid truth: "IF IT'S TO BE, IT'S UP TO ME."

Here endeth the lesson.

A Litany Of Messes

"The world," wrote Wordsworth, "is too much with us." Well, he got that right. Outside the window in my study, the rain pelted down from a leaden sky, and the wind rattled about the manor like some moaning banshee upset at everything and everyone. This did nothing to improve my mood as I totted up all that was going awry on planet Earth.

First, that Icelandic volcano keeps spouting ash into the sky, causing airline disruption and irritating pilots, irritating passengers more, and really irritating airline owners and shareholders. Eyjafjallajakull it is called, a name that is unpronounceable unless your surname ends in 'son' or 'dottir', or you are an expert in Old Norse. (There are some.) And the eruption might go on for some time.

Then there was the car bomb in New York's Times Square. It had been contrived by one Faisal Shahzad al Rube Goldberg, and therefore failed. But in different hands....and thank goodness for the sharp eyes of, not Homeland Security, but a member of the Tee Shirt Vendor Guild, who alerted the NYPD to the suspicious vehicle. He was, interestingly enough, a Muslim, but this little factoid, given in the initial reports, was quickly dropped from subsequent reporting. After all, this would confuse a neat we/they dichotomy, and call for some thought. Can't have that.

Around the world, things are not much better. Thailand looks to be tearing itself apart, and the only good thing to come from that is renewed interest on Broadway on mounting a revival of 'The King And I'. Nashville, including the Grand Ole Opry, is currently under water, and West Virginia is recovering from a deadly coal mine explosion. The mine itself had been cited a gazillion times for safety irregularities, but these had surfaced during the Bush Administration, and as George would put it: "To err is human, to forgive, deregulation."

In Canada, the Opposition is bent on embarrassing the PM about turning some Taliban fighters over to the Afghan authorities, who might (God forbid!) mis-treat them. I continue to be baffled by the thinking of leftist politicians, who would do well to read up on the British Admiral John "Jacky" Fisher, who put it succinctly when he stated: "Moderation in war is imbecility." And make no mistake -- we are at war with these creeps.

One bright spot surfaced, however, a little shaft of sunlight to pierce the gloom. Britain has come to its senses. Gordon Brown did the right thing, and resigned, and one could say with confidence that nothing became his political life as the leaving of it. Bill Cameron and Nick Clegg take over, two young, bright lads who just might over time just turn things around. Might.

It will all depend on whether their wives get along.

Off To The Opera

My daughter Victoria was in town, she who supplements her income by playing dead people, or those shortly to be, but also has her doctorate in history, and was giving a series of lectures at the University of Toronto on the Medici popes, and their influence on European morals and mores. Good luck with that, I thought.

She was at loose ends one night, and I suggested the opera. Toronto has a new house that I had yet to visit, and the performance that evening was Donizetti's Maria Stuarda, which was (sort of) within the time framework of Vicky's lectures. A quick phone call to my friend and enemy Don Guido, and two tickets in the Grand Ring became available. What Don Guido got in return...well, never mind about that.

It was certainly time for a night out. Greece appears to be in free fall, Spain, Portugal and Italy are looking shaky, and the U.K. was no hell itself, given its arrival into clutches of a hung parliament. In this regard, I fired off a note to Billy Cameron, urging him to have a meeting as soon as possible with Stephen Harper, who is proving brilliant at minority government. On top of all this, the Taliban -- but enough. Donizetti beckons.

The new house was OK in the front, but inside was magnificent, IKEA on amphetamines if you will. The warm, rich wood gleamed, and the acoustics were spectacular. Toronto owes a great deal to architect Jack Diamond and the late Musical Director Richard Bradshaw, who is sorely missed.

As for the performance, the first half, dominated by the soprano singing Elizabeth, was magnificent. It was, however, the second half that intrigued me. At the original dress rehearsal, in 1834, the sopranos singing Elizabeth and Maria were severely at odds. When they confront each other, (something that never happened historically) Maria, succumbing to taunts from Elizabeth, screams at her "vil bastarda!". The tone in which this was given was apparently a bridge too far, and Elizabeth hurled herself upon Maria, and a grand fight began. On this night, however, all was serene.

Things did drag along somewhat in the second half, and at one point Vicky leaned over and hissed, sotto voce, "Oh, for all our sakes, woman, suck it up and put your head on the block!" It should be noted here that Vicky herself had been in this position about three times in Grade B slasher movies, so the remark is at least understandable.

The last five minutes, however, made up for everything, and all involved in the production received a standing ovation. Several, in fact. Every so often opera pulls it all together -- no mean feat -- and the experience is staggeringly beautiful. Doesn't happen a lot, but when it does, well, worth every penny.

Later, over some Grey Goose at a nearby hotel lounge, I queried Victoria on Elizabeth's reputation as an esteemed monarch. Victoria's position was that here was a strong, capable woman that was bent on success. "After all, Mum, it was you that told me the Damon Runyan thing."

"What Damon Runyan thing?"

"The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong -- but that's the way to bet."

Can't argue with that.

Appraising Arizona

After a lovely few days in Paris with the Compte de Rienville, I decided upon my return that some emphasis on my sugar beet enterprise was called for. So to my office, and a focus upon supply and demand, accompanied with a good dollop of VaR -- value at risk, something ignored by Lehman Brothers, among others. (But not by Goldman Sachs.)

All was well, save for a request from China inviting me to enter into a joint agreement. This negotiation had been going on for some time, the stumbling block being my insistence upon majority control, and the contract drawn up under Canadian legal principles. (These are no hell, but a damn sight better than those proffered by the Chinese, who really have no word for transparency.) They would not budge, nor would I, and this has led to a raft of super-polite correspondence that seems somewhat pointless, although in a weird way, rather enjoyable -- cuff and kiss in an artistic form, if you will. But I am determined not to be hustled by the East, and was pondering my latest rejoinder when Consuela, my gardener, burst into the office, her face blurry with tears.

"Maria has been arrested!" she blurted.

"Calm down, Connie, calm down. Just sit," I said, pointing to a chair. Goodness, the woman was eight months pregnant, and the last thing she needed was stress. "Now who is Maria?"

"My cousin. And it's not fair! She didn't do anything!"

I will summarize Consuela's very disjointed account of what particular pit the unfortunate Maria had fallen into. The woman lived in a small Arizona town in Pima county, where she worked as a waitress. Upon leaving her place of employment, a popular bar in the centre of town, and while waiting for a bus that was running late, she had been knocked to the ground and her purse snatched. Dazed, she looked around, then saw a passing police car. Two of Arizona's finest listened to her story, and asked for some identification. Since any relevant documents were in her purse, she was unable to produce any satisfactory I.D. So it was off to the jail, and given Arizona's latest insane policy of deporting any Latino or Latina at the drop of a hat, cousin Maria, born in Guatemala, was shortly to be whisked back to Mexico, a place to which she had never been, didn't want to go to, and which terrified her, the drug cartels being what they were.

What to do?

Then a thought occurred, and I got Matilda Hatt on the phone. Tilly, I knew, had in conjunction with the Drug Enforcement Agency made several forays along the Arizona / Mexican border, to the severe detriment of numerous drug smugglers and to the delight of the DEA. (It's amazing the effect of a hand grenade placed judiciously within the confines of a small room.) I apprised her of the situation, and indicated the need for some fast action.

"What county did all this happen in?" asked Tilly.

"Pima," I replied.

"She's a lucky girl. It could have been Maricopa."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Tilly went on to explain that the sheriff of Pima County, improbably named Clarence Dupnik, was a sane and respected official. Not, Tilly continued, the situation in Maricopa, where the sheriff was one Joe Arpaio. Now even I had heard stories about Sheriff Joe, and his penchant for jailing and deporting Mexicans with a verve and keenness worthy of Inspector Javert.

Tilly indicated that she would get in touch with 'her friend Clarence' and see if the situation could be resolved, although she added that now would be a good time for Maria to come and visit her cousin.

"Isn't Consuela great with child?", Tilly inquired.

"She is."

"Then Maria could help with the baby. I can make travel arrangements."

"It would be appreciated."

Tilly said, "But you owe me one. A little expedition to the Congo. Right?"

"Right," I sighed, once again acknowledging that no good deed goes unpunished.

And so it transpired. The good Clarence was reasonable, and as well seemed aware that Arizona's ridiculous immigration policy was likely afoul of the U.S. Constitution. He even put a successful effort into retrieving Maria's purse from the low-life that had taken it, not a difficult feat to accomplish in a small town whose only failing in this case were the actions of two over-zealous deputies.

Still, the whole Arizona thing is rather sad, and Lincoln's words echoed in my head: "A house divided against itself cannot stand." For goodness sakes, WAKE UP, AMERICA!

It's A Bird, It's A Plane, It's....

To London, the Icelandic volcano having subsided. (It's amazing how a 'piece of ash' can sometimes cause havoc -- think about it.) But Sir Harry really wanted my input on something so toxic that he didn't want to use the phone line, no matter how secure. I wouldn't have made the trip save for two things: he offered diplomatic immunity, allowing me to bypass all those customs people afflicted with office, and the Compte de Rienville had agreed to meet me there. The former was nice, the latter was nicer.

I got together with Sir Harry at his headquarters (undisclosed location) and quickly learned what this was all about. Sir Harry had no use for small talk.

"The Americans have launched something into space. What is it?"

"I haven't a clue."

"Rubbish. There's you're CIA contact. What does that Hatt woman have to say?"

"Tilly," I said, "is not in the loop on that one."

Sir Harry shifted his rather rotund bulk in his chair, and stated, "But she has her suspicions. Knowing you, you would also have suspicions. What are they?"

"Well, Sir Harry, I think Tilly is a little off base on this one. She thinks it's a guidance system for the Falcon."

Sir Harry's eyes widened. "You know about the Falcon program?"

"Not difficult to winkle out," I replied. "The Americans are shifting resources from big, fixed armies to smart missiles. In fact, I suspect we may have seen the last of large, pitched battles. That said, the current missiles, those drones so beloved by the Taliban and Al Qaeda in Waziristan, are too slow by half. The Falcon won't be."

Sir Harry settled back. "My thinking exactly."

"Yes", I said, "it's a good theory. But it's wrong."

"Oh. And how so?"

"Because the Falcon isn't even a prototype yet. Why on earth would you test a guidance system for something that hasn't even reached the drawing board? No, in my opinion, that piece of hardware is doing something different entirely."

Sir Harry shifted again, then growled, "I don't think I want to hear this, but I'd guess I'd better. What precisely is your opinion."

"There's nothing up there other than an over-sized tin can."

"Bollocks," sniffed Sir Harry. "The Americans spend God knows how much to put a big tin can into space. Really, Simone."

"Oh, I daresay there are some things being done. From what I hear, Google put up a goodly portion of the finance, and will now have a capability of blasting through any electronic jamming created by the Chinese, North Koreans and who knows who else. But that's about it. Now think for a bit. At the moment, a number of countries are setting aside considerable resources and busting a gut trying to determine just what that thing does. Of course, it doesn't do anything, and that's the beauty of the whole thing. Unlike his predecessor, this President is smart, and can create a diversion that will keep everyone occupied for some time. This will leave the world open for America to bustle in."

"Bustle indeed," said Sir Harry. "That's Shakespeare. Richard III."

"Oh, good on you, Sir Harry. Now I really must be off. I have an appointment for tea at Brown's."

"With that louche Frenchman, I suppose. I didn't think you wore that outfit for me."

"Now Sir Harry, let's not be catty. He did you a huge favour once."

Sir Harry ignored this, and waved me out of his quarters. As for the outfit, it was nothing special. A simple woolen, black dress. Mind you, it was an original Coco Chanel.

Outside, waiting for one of Sir Harry's drivers to pick me up, I pondered a bit. What I had said to Sir Harry was not exactly the truth, but there was enough to put him on the right track. There was a purpose to that mysterious launch, I knew what it was, and as for any further elaboration, well, not on.

After all, that would be telling.

Sallying Forth To See Sarah

It came to my attention that Sarah Palin was speaking in Southern Ontario (I can see Hamilton from my house!) and I decided to attend. Irving, who usually doesn't want me out of his sight, raised no objections. Apparently, according to his sources, (reliable) the Palin crowd is the least likely to come under attack by Al Qaeda or other such sub-human entities. He opined that at least someone in the opposition was aware of Napoleon's dictum that you never interrupt the enemy when he's making a mistake, and they must be delighted at the way Sarah's followers, to say nothing of Fox News, are disrupting America. So off I went.

I decided to dress down for this occasion, and stuck to a serviceable Armani pant suit. Entering the hall, I caught a glimpse of Palin, and was startled to note that she wore an identical outfit. Well, at least she, or more likely her P.A., had taste, and I had to admit she looked good in it. Hillary should be so lucky.

Sarah trotted out her message of the importance of God, guns and the least government possible, to the delight of the audience. Wonderful, I thought. I could just see this crowd working together to build roads, maintain an electricity grid, and quickly fix a ruptured sewer.

Not.

On the other hand, I begrudgingly had to give her credit. She connected superbly with her audience, and was fighting her own battle, not hiding behind some committee or other. She also in her remarks indicated a sense of humour, something lacking in the lackeys of Fox News. And she had in the past exhibited a certain degree of raw courage by having the guts to appear on Saturday Night Live with the brilliant Tina Fey. Which prompts a number of "if onlies" that I address to Sarah personally. I have no idea how far this little blog travels, so there is a possibility (admittedly remote) that you might just encounter the suggestions below, and (even more remote) act on them.

If only you read more. Your lack of historical knowledge, even that of your own country, is appalling, even by the standards of American public school education. So Sarah, instead of reciting the mantra of "Drill, baby, drill!" I would urge "Read, girl, read!"

If only you could grasp the fact that there are two sides to an issue. This is a grievous fault, and, like Caesar, grievously you must answer it. Constantly hammering only one point of view becomes self-defeating in a very short time. Consistent, yes, but that, as Emerson pointed out, in his essay Self-Reliance, (your credo, no less!) , "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."

If only you would travel. Worthwhile travel, that is, not just flitting among various hotels that are the same everywhere. Some time spent in the slums of Mumbai, or in a Doctors Without Borders outpost in the Congo, would do wonders for your zeitgeist, (look the term up -- it is a useful one) which right now is narrow to the extreme.

If only you could bridge the 'them' vs. 'us' gap. Sarah, we are all on the same planet, and stressing a split between 'we' and 'they' is akin to saying, "Your end of the boat is sinking." So stop it.

And finally, if only you would actually read the U. S. Constitution. I mean, stop trying to wrench this document into Christian dogma. There is nothing in the Constitution that even hints at organized religion, let alone argues for it. The founders were all too aware of the grim effects of organized religion upon a society, knowing in great detail the horror story of the Catholic / Protestant schism and its effect upon England, and would have none of it. Moreover, spend a moment -- actually several moments -- considering the nature of those countries where organized religion dominates: step forward, Saudi Arabia. Step forward, Iran. Sarah, is this what you really want for America?

Now if it should come about that you actually implement these suggestions, I can assure you that your followers would expand considerably, and might even bring about a favourable portrait in the New York Times. At which point all becomes possible. Just takes some willpower.

Might you succeed?

You betcha!

Britain Elects To Elect

To London, where my son Sebastian was opening a new clothing emporium on Bond Street. I was delighted to attend and support his endeavour, and drew his flair for skirts, dresses and blouses to the attention of appropriate people -- Kate, Sophie, Beatrice among others -- which would then obviate the need for Sebastian to spend any money on marketing. (Hello Hello!).

I was less delighted to hear from Sir Harry, with a request for some analysis of the upcoming British election, or in his terms, 'The running of the reptiles'. He was worried about the likelihood of what he termed 'a hung parliament'. The term bothered me for a bit until I realized that what he was referring to was a minority government. I explained that Canada was presently in that state, and that his worry was groundless. Canada was enjoying the best government it had had in years. Admittedly, the previous government headed by Jean Chretien set the bar exceedingly low, if not right out of existence. But still.

But what, he asked, of the contenders?

Nothing would do, I realized, but to sit down with each of them individually. Not difficult, when you are prepared to make a hefty campaign contribution. (I had hedged some sugar beet futures, and was, as they say, in funds.) Sir Harry, aided and abetted by my minder Irving, set up the arrangements. This involved posing as a British policewoman, and I was appalled when I got the uniform. I immediately shot over to Sebastian's and had it altered. The skirt hung like a drooping sail on some misbegotten sloop, and the buttons on the top were way too tight. And that bloody hat! An hour with Sebastian, however, and all was OK. Not Dior or Donna Karan, but it would do.

The two policewomen who accompanied me on this little side trip were impressed. Hah! I thought. This clothing upgrade might well surface as a bargaining chip as the next police union position was being formulated, and Sebastian might do really well. We will see.

The policewoman disguise worked like a charm, and avoided the tabloid exposure that would have resulted if I had met the contenders as myself. The headlines would have been grim, along the lines of 'Brown Sees Mistress?' 'Cameron's Love Interest?' or "Does Clegg Have A Concubine?' Believe me, the British tabloid press makes North American gossip look pale and wan in comparison, although TMZ does try.

The contenders were to be interviewed just prior to a campaign rally at various locations, and went off without tabloid mishap.

First, the PM, Gordon Brown. I found him to be quite nice, and found it hard to believe the stories of him as a quick-tempered bully. This demeanour began to break, however, when I was persistent in trying to find out his specific strategies for getting Britain out of its current fiscal mess (which he to some extent was responsible for). His eyes flashed, and I suddenly thought of defenestration, where I became an aide bearing bad news and was immediately tossed out the window. Things went somewhat downhill from there, and he began to resemble not so much a deer caught in the headlights as a woolly mammoth. My advice to him? LIGHTEN UP!

William Cameron was another thing entirely. Suave, urbane, with facts and figures at his fingertips. His philosophy, he stated, was grounded in Edmund Burke, to wit, 'Never exchange a certain good for a problematical perfect'. "And what we have now" he stated, "was not a certain good. Hence the need for change, for judicious belt-tightening, and a gradual decline in the national deficit." I questioned him at length on the how of all this, recalling Margaret Thatcher's remark to her Cabinet: "Don't tell me why. I know why. Tell me how!" Of course, I got nowhere with respect to specifics. But then, we are dealing with a politician.

Most impressive of all was Nick Clegg of the Liberal Democrats. He seemed to have a handle on all the issues, and had backed away from many of the earlier Lib-Dem shibboleths such as spending for good causes that were simply not affordable. If Britain was heading for Sir Harry's hung parliament, the "hung" part would be in good hands with Clegg.

Whether this helped Sir Harry or not is unknown -- feedback is not his strong suit -- but it will be the electorate, not myself or Sir Harry, that will determine the outcome. Although, in this regard, the words of Will Rogers bear repeating: "No matter who you vote for, the government gets in."

Too true.

Westward Ho

To Vancouver, there to cement a certain land purchase that had come to my attention in the Okanagon valley. Put simply, a winery had gone bust, but after some research I discovered that the terroir in question, while unsuitable for growing any grapes that would result in a potable wine, could support sugar beets perfectly. A sum of money was made available, and the acreage was mine.

This was of great relief to the previous owners, a nice couple who had high hopes of becoming world famous vintners only to have those hopes crushed by an unforgiving soil. Now, I was informed, they were going to take the money from the sale and invest in -- ginseng. I tried to explain that ginseng was a difficult thing to grow (it aims to commit suicide from the very moment the seed sprouts) but to no avail. Off they went, and Blake's words surfaced in my mind: "If the fool persists in his folly, he will become wise." One can but hope.

I got in touch with Bohdan, who supervises my largest sugar beet holding in Ukraine, and he agreed to take some time away and set up the Okanagon enterprise. "Besides," he said, "now that Yuliya was no longer in power, things are in the process of sorting themselves out with Victor, and this is slowing things down a bit. So a little break would be timely."

Hmm. I guess a trip to Ukraine will be necessary, and he was right about the fair Yuliya. My information had it that she had taken up with Vladimir Putin. Well, if anyone can get her to lose that silly braid, it will be him.

Then the Premier of British Columbia called.

Apparently news of this just-formed sugar beet holding was very well received, and the Premier would like to offer his congratulations. This did not surprise. The enterprise would employ a goodly number of people, and politicians are always attracted to good news that can possibly impress the electorate. Transparent government and all that. Unless the news is not so good, in which case transparency tends to be non-existent.

I found the Premier, Gordon Campbell, to be warm and accommodating. We got along well, and I complimented him, and also his province, for handling the Olympics so well.

"I particularly liked the closing ceremony," I said. "Took guts, that did."

His curiosity piqued, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Those idiotic beavers. The insane Canada geese. The lumberjacks. The whole thing was a hoot, and made me proud to be a Canadian. Not every country has the ability, or the will, to laugh at itself."

"Yes, although the RCMP were not exactly delighted. Those uniformed girls in mini-skirts, you know. Got a communication from the brass that this portrayal hurt the image of the force, as well as demeaned Canadian womanhood."

"Really. Bloody nonsense in my opinion." And I immediately made a mental note to send a blistering letter to the RCMP Commissioner. I'll give him Canadian womanhood in spades.

After a small toast to the wonders of the sugar beet, we parted good friends. As I left his office, I thought again of the closing ceremony, and recalled the words of a wise rabbi I had once known when stationed in Tel Aviv: "It may be to laugh in the face of death is courageous, but to laugh in the face of life is absolutely heroic."

Got that right.

Religion Off The Rails

Received a gift from Sir Harry the other day, a copy of the recent Man Booker novel, Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. A short note accompanied the present: 'I think you will enjoy this. There is much in Cromwell that is you, and not a little bit of More. Now send me your analysis of the Moscow subway debacle. And soon.'

First things first. The novel, which I enjoyed, deals with the relationships between and among Thomas Cromwell, Thomas More, Henry VIII, Catherine of Aragon, the Boleyn girls (Mary and Anne) and Sir Thomas More. It is well written, and over the years I have found that the Man Booker Award is worth paying attention to. You can, for instance, actually read the prize winners. This is in contrast to the Nobel Prize for Literature, which all too often awards writers who appear to specialize in obscurantism, and hail from places like Dagestan or Patagonia.

Since Sir Harry had linked me to Cromwell and More, I paid particular attention to the characters. I came to the opinion that Ms Mantel painted Cromwell as having morals that I doubt that he historically held, and that her portrait of More was too harsh. I will give her that he was an overly devout Christian, but his beliefs were common to the time. He was, however, not a sadist.

This brings me to Sir Harry's request, and what I sent him was along the lines of the following.

I confined my remarks to the 'People of the Book'; that is, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, and what can occur when the deranged manage to get a degree of power within these structures. (I avoided Hinduism and Buddhism, where there are like tendencies -- Hindus favouring sending ten-year-old girls to the marriage bed, Buddhists, in direct contradiction of Tantric Law, immolating themselves in public squares). The three aforementioned will suffice to make my point.

Extremism is dangerous in any form, but particularly venomous when parading around in the guise of a religion. Thus the two women who took it upon themselves to blow themselves to pieces in the Moscow subway system, taking all too numerous innocents with them, had no doubt been brainwashed by Machiavellian mullahs into seeing this as a direct way to Paradise. (Although it is interesting to note that said Mullahs were prepared to offer extra prayers to Allah in order that that the women be seen as holy martyrs. They were, after all, women.)

Now while Islam is particularly susceptible to this type of tragic nonsense, it is not alone. The fundamentalists in the Israeli Knesset want to continue to build settlements until there is nothing of Palestine that remains, and that paragon of Christian womanhood, Sarah Palin, talks little the kindness and mercy of the Founder, but on her Facebook would rather post rifle cross-hairs on the pictures of Democrats she wants to see defeated in the next election, along with the exhortation:"RELOAD!" And then there is the Pope...well, that matter is receiving the attention it deserves. It is to weep, and maybe old Nietzsche was right when he stated, "Two thousand years, and no new God."

Not much comfort for Sir Harry here, other than a suggestion I proffered that a certain percentage of financial resources that are currently going into heavy armaments (useless against suicide attacks) go to supporting the moderates in all three religions, with an emphasis on -- to the extent possible -- saturating the media with condemnations of any attack on innocent civilians, such condemnations to include banishing the perpetrators as apostates. This probably won't work, but can't do any harm, either.

Yet the problem is a thorny one, not subject to easy solution. As it's put in Wolf Hall, "Show me in the Bible, 'Purgatory'. Show me where it says relics, monks, nuns. Show me where it says 'Pope'".

Selah.

Let's Go To The Movies!

My daughter Victoria flounced into town, all excited about her acting career getting a bit of a boost. Usually she had been featured either writhing in agony -- Vicki was always a good writher -- or lying dead in some alley, covered in blood. Apparently she has been given a few lines of dialogue before being shot to pieces.

"Mum" she exclaimed, "this is HUGE."

"And just why would that be?"

"The pay scale rises. Big time."

When I peeled the onion on this, I found out that a non-speaking part in a movie was one thing; a speaking part was quite another, and much more remunerative. Aha, I thought. No wonder there are so many actors and actresses involved in kidnapping that are gagged. I might have known -- the almighty dollar wins again.

"Mind you," admitted Victoria, "it's only a few lines. But it's a start. I get to say, 'Stop it. please stop it! Then I scream.'"

"Not exactly Hamlet."

"Well," continued Victoria, "it beats what universities pay for history lectures. I worked on that Peloponnesian War paper for three months. All I got was $500 bucks. This latest film gig will get me $4000.00. Do the math."

This was inarguable, although I did think it was a waste of a fine mind. Well, I thought, she's not alone in that. Look at Ann Coulter.

"Now Mum," Victoria stated firmly, "I've got passes. We're going to the movies. I want to see Avatar."

"I don't think --"

"Oh, you'll like it. And it's in 3D. It' ll be awesome!"

No it won't, I thought, but from time to time I have thought it wise to humour the whims of my progeny. So off we went, accompanied by my minder and butler, Irving, who thought the whole thing insane. Theatres are public places, and, being necessarily dark, perfect for nastiness. Al Qaeda, he had said, will never forget that I offed Osama Bin Laden in Tora Bora. On the other hand, I have no wish to live like a hermit, so chances must now and then be taken.

In fact, nothing out of the ordinary occurred, other than my thinking that the time -- some three hours -- might have been more profitably spent. I tried to be enthusiastic for Victoria's sake.

"Well, Mum, what did you think?"

"It was...interesting."

"Weren't the visuals great in 3d?"

"They were...interesting."

"Right," stated Victoria, reaching a conclusion. "Now tell me what you really thought."

I put my courage to the sticking place and said, "The film really was a Western, and not a very good one at that. The Good Guys versus The Bad Guys, the White-Hatted Hero solving all. The plot has been much better done in Red River, The Good, The Bad And The Ugly, or even Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. Although I will admit the scenery was magnificent."

"Humph," muttered Victoria. Then she brightened. "But the 3D. Wasn't that impressive?"

"Actually, it was annoying. Those silly glasses irk. And when you take them off, the picture goes all blurry. Not good at all."

"Is there anything, O Wise One," asked Victoria, "that might have saved the film?"

I considered a bit, then spoke. "Actually, a different Director, and a different Hero. And they could be one and the same."

"Really," said Victoria. "I can't think of anyone who --"

"Try Clint Eastwood."

Enough said.

Life Is Choices

Consuela, my gardener, was now great with child. Ahmed, my driver, handyman and Consuela's husband, was also showing signs of expectation -- he had actually dented the Bentley when backing out of the garage, something he had never done before. Both were obviously losing focus (Consuela had lost track of where she had planted the tulip bulbs , and only found them after the squirrels had) and something had to be done.

I called them both into drawing room, determined to find out what was amiss. Something was at work that went beyond hormonal change.

"Now then you two," I said, "is everything OK?"

"Everything is fine," said Ahmed.

"Yes," put in Consuela, "the doctor is pleased with the progress. The ultrasound --"

"Good, good," I replied. No need, I thought, to go into every pre-natal detail. "Then what is it?"

"What is what?" asked Ahmed.

"Something is really bothering you two," I stated, "and your work is beginning to suffer. Now just what is going on?"

"Well," admitted Consuela, "we are having, er, discussions on how to handle the child's religious life."

Readers may recall that Ahmed is an observant Muslim, while Consuela is a devout Catholic. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity employer. And I now began to suss out just what was at issue.

"So", I said, "it is a matter of what religion the child will be exposed to."

Their silence confirmed agreement with this.

I leaned forward. "Might I offer some advice?"

They looked at each other, then nodded.

"Don't do anything. There are times in life where doing nothing is a wise course to follow. Like staying away from the junk bond market. Or not forwarding chain mail. Or, in this case, leaving the kid alone to make up his or her own mind."

"But Father Clipart said --"

"My Imam made the point --"

I cut them both short.

"Look. You are not as far apart as you might think. After all, you are, if I can use the present vernacular, two microchips soldered together on the motherboard of life. And it seems to be working well. That will have more effect on the child than any theology will."

The two of them remained silent, absorbing this, and I realized that the motherboard allusion was perhaps not the best illustration I could have used.

I continued. "Look. Both of the texts you adhere to, the Bible and the Qu'Ran, have beautiful, truthful passages in them. They also contain a great deal of rubbish. Emphasize the truthful ones, ignore the others."

"What," ventured Ahmed, "is wrong with the Qu'Ran?"

"Wrong may not be the term," I said. "Relevant is a better word. For instance, the Qu'ran is silent on cars."

"What?" exclaimed Ahmed.

"In Saudi Arabia, as I am sure you know, Ahmed, the Qu'Ran is cited as a authority that bans women from driving cars. This is pushing things a bit, don't you think?"

"But there is no Qu'Ranic reference," said Ahmed, "to women driving anything. Therefore --"

"Not entirely true. Women in the Ninth century often drove carts. Goodness, from time to time they are pictured dragging them. I always wondered where the guys were, but that's neither here nor there."

"The Bible," put in Consuela, "only speaks truth."

"Doubtful," I countered. "In an earlier time, perhaps. I do recall that the Bible urges that a witch should not be suffered to live. Today, I know some Wiccans that would have issues with that statement. So I would let the child simply be. Show him or her the best of your respective religions, and allow the child to determine his or her course in due time. There is a principle that I think spans both the Qu'Ran and the Bible that you might consider. Mens sano in corpore sano.

The both looked at me blankly. Modern education has a lot to answer for.

I sighed. "It's from the Roman writer, Juvenal. Literally, 'a healthy mind in a sound body.' Not the worst principle to remember when raising a child. Now back to work, you two. And for goodness sake, focus.

One can but hope.

Putting It To Putin

So there I was, re-reading Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, and musing about sending 100 copies to the United States Senate (where it was desperately needed) when Irving entered and said, "It's him. On the secure line."

"Sir Harry? But he's in Kabul right now."

"No. The other 'him'. Vladimir Putin."

"Oh, that 'him'. Good. Nice to keep my Russian up to date. I'll take it in the conservatory."

I sauntered downstairs, and soon was on the line.

"Vladimir. A pleasant surprise. How goes life in the Kremlin?"

"Where have you been?" he replied. "Medvedev wanted to discuss something with you, and you apparently had disappeared."

"I was...away. And let us hope that what Medvedev wanted to discuss was his earlier emphasis on law, transparency and rewarding merit. That apparently has disappeared as well. Really. No wonder Russia screwed up so badly in the Olympics. The old emphasis on who you know rather that what you know."

"I don't want to talk about that," he said curtly. "And I suppose you had nothing to do with that weird avalanche in North Waziristan that wiped out a certain jihadist training camp? Someone spotted you, or a clone, nearby. I'd be interested in just how and whatever team you were with managed that."

"I"ll just bet you would," I said sweetly. "But remember, Vladimir, each snowflake in an avalanche screams 'Not guilty!'" Now what are you actually calling about?"

"I hear your sugar beet enterprise in Ukraine is going well."

"Ah. Been talking to Yuliya, have we? I heard that you were comforting La Tymoshenko after she got turfed out of office. Personally, I blame it on her keeping that silly peasant braid she swans around in."

Putin hesitated, then said "She is...interesting. But that's neither here nor there. I would be interested in discussions leading to a similar enterprise in Russia."

This caught me a bit by surprise. "Really," I said. "Under the same arrangement? Twenty per cent to Russia, the rest to Strunsky Enterprises, who control policy, staffing, wages and benefits? Not exactly the way you run things there."

"I and Medvedev are prepared to give it a try. As a sort of... working model."

Goodness, things must be worse than I thought in Mother Russia. "Very well. I will bring the proposal up in front of the Board."

"You are the Board," he snapped.

"And I need something in return."

"And just what might that be?" His voice had returned to its normal smoothness. Negotiation he understood.

"Sanction the hell out of Iran. Religious idiots and nuclear bombs don't mix. "

"We're working on that."

"Work harder."

"Then there's the Chinese --"

"I have a little thing I am exploring with Premier Hu on that," I admitted. "Fruit not yet ripe for the picking. But I must commend your initiative on the sugar beet matter. Either that, or you are totally smitten by the fair Yuliya."

"So we can proceed?"

"As your position on Iran goes, so go the sugar beets. A happy mix, just as that with socialism with capitalism. In the West, socialism is what makes capitalism bearable."

"And in the East?" Putin asked.

"Capitalism is what makes socialism bearable."

"Neat, that. Bye, dorogaya."

Sweetheart indeed. Well, we will see.





















"N

Settling A Son

To Geneva with my son Mark and a look at the Large Hadron Collider where I hoped Mark could continue his work in theoretical physics, and lower downhill skiing on his priority list. At an earlier meeting in Davos, I had struck up an acquaintance with Dr. Rolf-Dieter Heuer, Director of the European Organization for Nuclear Research, better known by its French acronym, CERN. We had had an interesting conversation, with my point being that smashing things into smaller and smaller pieces would only result in, well, smaller and smaller pieces.

"Ah, but Dr. Strunsky, you forget the importance of the Higgs bosun."

Now a Higgs bosun to me is a likely character in a Patrick O'Brien novel. In physics, however, I admitted its presence is critical but its presence is also theoretical. It was this emphasis on the theoretical that I now stressed to Dr. Heuer, and showed some of Mark's work in that regard, particularly his speculations regarding Bell's Theorem, the work of Alain Aspect, and Einstein's comment: "Spooky action at a distance." (Look all this up -- these missives are not academic monographs.

Dr. Heuer took Mark's papers with him, and later that day stated that, should some extra research dollars be found, he was willing to act as Mark's thesis supervisor. "Perhaps", he said, "a small contribution from your rather impressive sugar beet holdings....?"

Does his homework, does Dr. Heuer.

I agreed, and when I informed Mark he had been accepted into the CERN team, I was glad to see some excitement cross his face. The last time he had expressed excitement was in the starting gate at Kitzbuhl. The work at CERN would be much less dangerous. Of course, this view is not shared by certain evangelicals in the American mid west, where they think that CERN is an embodiment of the Anti-Christ, and would create a black hole that would swallow the entire Earth. Not so much The Rapture as The Rupture. Again I turn to Schiller: "With stupidity, the gods themselves struggle in vain."

I had trouble booking a flight back to Toronto. My own pilot, Hank Grimsby, would normally handle this chore in his Lear, but Hank, damn him, was in Afghanistan flying in supplies to American military outposts. He had, however, let me know,through e-mail, that he had uncovered a very interesting sidelight to the whole mess. Apparently the Afghan National Army and the Taliban share the same (outdated) radio communications and have, as well, a few i-phones. They chatter incessantly to each other, arguing their viewpoints, but also share the odd picture. Hank stated that the Olympics were huge, with the Taliban apoplectic about women's figure skating. Apoplectic they may be, Hank continued, but the demand for these photos by the Taliban was huge: a picture of Joannie Frechette in mid-air was worth two AK 47's.

Don't these clowns realize that if they joined the human race they could actually attend the events in person? As for me, I will know that all is well with the world when skaters from Saudi Arabia win gold in the pairs competition. But as Piet Hein says,"T.T.T."

Things take time.

Out To The Olympics

To Vancouver, and the (almost non) Winter Olympics. I was travelling with my daughter Isolde, the violinist, who had been asked to give a concert for the Ukrainian athletes, and had accepted. Isolde would also have a chance to hook up with her lover Lolulu, or Luke as she was known. Luke was in The Trade as well, and was charged by me to keep Isolde safe. As for the Ukrainian thingy,I suspected my supervisor at my sugar beet plantation in Ukraine, Bohdan, had a hand in this. He is on good terms with the fair Yulia, she of the damnable braid, and might have swayed things a bit.

Once in Vancouver, I found rain gear, not parkas, to be the order of the day. This would undoubtedly please the global warming fanatics, save for the fact that the rest of the continent is freezing, along with much of Asia and all of Europe. This, however, is not what is on my mind at the moment.

My son Mark, the skier, was in need of consolation. He was an alternate on the Canadian ski team. At least, he was, until he sprained his ankle. Apparently, this occurred after some apres-ski event with some colleagues from Spain. They had been singing oldies and goldies from the Spanish Civil War, and things had gotten a little out of hand. Mark had lurched out the door, and gone over on his ankle. This caused me to be of two minds. As a mother, I had never really encouraged him to fly downhill at breakneck speed on two sticks, and was grateful that this possibility was now ruled out. Yet I felt his disappointment.

Seeking to alleviate his mood, I suggested that he re-consider the path that he had left behind. Mark had been half-way through his Ph.D in theoretical physics when the ski bug had taken hold, and left to pursue the sport full time. (He had always been a good recreational skier). I had some success here, as I managed to pique his interest in what was going on at CERN; that is, the Large Hadron Collider. More about this, and what happened when we got there, is fodder for a future missive.

Now to the Olympics. I had been asked (never mind by whom) to check out security arrangements, focussing on likely sniper locations. I thought this was a bit excessive. The opposition, particularly in its Al Qaeda form, prefers the mass slaughter of innocents rather than concentrating upon a pertinent and particular target. Still, one has obligations. They were honoured, and at the same time, this task provided an opportunity.

The opportunity was the chance to compare notes with a number of colleagues in The Trade. I and Luke would gather with others at a secure location, very upscale, and one that had escaped the notice of IOC Officials, who were no slouches at getting the best and most expensive digs available. But we have our ways...

Here one could compare notes, exchange information on weaponry, mourn those who had erred (an error in The Trade has a somewhat permanent result) and bitch at the short-sightedness of our political masters. My good friend Matilda Hatt, however, could not be with us. Tilly had been left to her own (and lethal) devices somewhere in Waziristan, and word was that six had gone, there were four more to go, and that the Mullahs were scattering like leaves before a wind devil. My heart goes out to them....

Isolde, in the meantime, had struck up an acquaintance with a Finnish biathlon athlete, and, being aware of some of her mother's activities, had asked me to give them an inspirational talk.

Now normally I would have hastily declined, but Isolde is Isolde, and hence I found myself discussing shooting techniques with some very avid listeners. It quickly became evident that what I do and what they do are entirely different things. Yes, some of the techniques are the same, but the differences are stark. They ski, they stop, they shoot, then ski again. The fastest through with the best shooting record wins. As a professional, I am amazed they can actually hit anything, let alone a thousand yard target. I mean, when I am setting up a shot, I want lots of time to assess wind direction, temperature, angle, and distance (at times over a kilometre).

Most biathlon athletes use a .22 calibre Anschu Fortner; I use a .308 calibre Erma SR 100 with a Burris Scope.

When asked if I would like to try my rifle out on the course, I said I would love to, but everyone of them would immediately be disqualified. You see, what would happen is that not only would the targets be hit, they would be blown to bits, bringing any competition to a sudden and abrupt halt. The IOC would take a very dim view of this. I did, however, offer the team one action they might consider.

The biathlon follows the Olympic credo of highest, strongest and fastest. I pointed out that they could take aim at a sport that also favours the prettiest, and suggested they bring their rifles and take up position right behind.... the ice-dancing judges.

Just a thought.