An Unconventional Convention

I was looking forward to watching the Berlin Philharmonic and my daughter Isolde in a performance of Sibelius' violin concerto, scheduled on the Public Television Network. (Commercial TV does not carry this stuff.) I was, then, mightily upset when I found out that the performance had been pre-empted by the Republican National Convention. This was akin to expecting a filet Mignon steak and getting hamburger helper.

Worse, I got hooked for a bit in listening to some of the speakers at the convention, amazed at their ability to hold two ideas directly opposite to each other, and somehow bring them forward as a unified whole. Let me explain.

Now I well realize that to hold two conflicting ideas at the same time is possible -- religious leaders do it all the time, as they acknowledge (begrudgingly) scientific reason while maintaining the validity of their particular superstition. Yet politics is supposed to be the art of the possible, and I was flabbergasted to hear speaker after speaker hold forth on two such opposing ideas.

The first idea propounded by the speakers was that government is far too large, and must be cut back severely, almost to the point of emasculation. The second idea was that leadership of this government was all-important, and that Mitt Romney would be the one to lead such a renewal. But to lead...what?  The government being proposed was to be a shell of its former self, and surely the hallmark of  leadership is to strengthen, not to weaken, forces at his command. Or hers, but it will be some before Republicans go down this particular road again. Step forward, Sarah Palin.

This awkward dichotomy extended to the audience, where two delegates sat side by side. One hoisted a sign from time to time that stated "WE NEED LESS GOVERNMENT PROGRAMS!" The other raised a sign exclaiming "DON'T YOU TAKE MY MEDICARE!" But Medicare is a government program, and hence.....oh, forget it. Finally, there was an unrelenting attack on taxes, with frequent reference to the 'fact" that this was God's will, and that such tax cutting would lead to some sort of fiscal heaven. My comment here is that Republicans appear very keen on the 'what', but not so hot on the 'how'.

I had had enough. Yet I was still in the mood for some TV, and then a happy thought occurred. There was a show that I always PVR, and turn to when I want to hear people who really know what they're talking about.

I refer, of course, to The Antique Road Show.

May all have a lovely week.

Critiquing Criticism

My eldest daughter, Isolde, called me from St Petersburg in a rage. She is a top-ranked violinist, and had just read a scathing review of her work in some state-owned press organ.

"Mum, the reviewer thought I was playing Brahms. It was a Bartok concerto, for God's sake! You'd think the clown would have at least read the program!"

How did the audience receive it?"

"I...er...got a standing ovation", she stated in a more subdued voice.

"Then that's your critical review. Now stop whining and move on."

She did so, but I was curious. Russians can be incompetent at many things -- legal transparency comes to mind, along with throwing female rockers into prison for praying to the Virgin Mary -- but they do know their music. What was this all about? After a few strategic phone calls to some friends in St Petersburg I had met over the years, the picture became clear. Apparently a crony of Putin, who previously had managed an extensive pig farm, was getting on in years. A sinecure was found for him at a St. Petersburg state-owned paper, and it seemed the only position vacant was one of music critic. Enough said.

Still, the whole incident got me thinking about critics and criticism, and evolving one iron clad rule: KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. Northrup Frye, in his Anatomy of Criticism, makes this point well when he writes: "When a critic meets St. George the Redcross Knight in Spenser, bearing a red cross on a white ground, he has some idea what to do with this figure. When he meets a female in Henry James' The Other House called Rose Arminger with a white dress and a red parasol, he is, in the current slang, clueless."

Now I have a background in English Literature, and Frye's comment is spot on. The reverse of the medal would be me criticizing an economic proposal to deal with stabilizing the European bond market. My take on economics is a simple one: always ensure there's more money coming in than is going out. Yet things are a great deal more complicated than that, what with collateralized debt options, derivatives, swaps, and the complexity of futures trading. To say nothing of the LIBOR mess. For this area, I turn to my financial advisor, WDM, who does know what he's talking about. It's something I (and my sugar beets) have never regretted.

Now I well realize that there is a key difference between formal criticism and the expressing of an opinion. Just imagine a dinner party under the conversational stricture of knowing what you are talking about. The silence would be deafening. It is for this reason that the weather is such a popular topic. No one really understands it, and meteorologists have been known to throw up their hands when a hurricane unexpectedly veers into an area where no one thought it would go, or a normal little rainfall turns into a raging flood, with people screaming, "Why weren't we told!" To this end, weather predictors turn for help to a Latino and a Latina ocean current,  El Nino and El Nina respectively. As Marshall McLuhan well knew, naming is numbing, and everyone feels better. Mind you, this bringing forth of figures that ease one's mind doesn't always help, as the writings of Joseph Smith and a semi-insane Arab merchant well attest. But I digress.

It is, of course, not easy being a critic. But if you know your stuff, you can elucidate and even illuminate the piece being criticized so that greater understanding emerges. In film, for example, critics such as Pauline Kael, Jason Alexander and Roger Ebert do their job well, and in literature, well, it's hard to top old Northrop. Of course, few accolades are ever tossed a critic's way, and I conclude with these words from the composer Jean Sibelius: "Always remember, there is no city in the world which has created a statue to a critic."

Lauding The Laconic

My daughter Victoria was spending a few days with me at the Manor. She needed time to recover from receiving a number of bumps and bruises from her various roles as a 'stunt victim' in a number of films and TV shows. She is also a first rate historian, but this is not a highly paid profession, and she does like her Guccis and Louis Vuittons. Hence the (considerable) supplementary income.

One of the bruises, on her left forearm, was particularly nasty.

"And that one," I said, pointing to her arm, "just how --"

"Oh, that happened on a cool British show called 'Strike Back'. It was a mistake."

"No kidding."

"Really," Victoria replied, and took a moment to gather her thoughts.

"You see," she began, "I was tied to a chair for an interrogation, the thumbscrews were ready, when one of the soldiers -- real SAS guys helping out -- accidentally tipped the chair over. I fell on my arm, it hurt like blazes, and I screamed bloody blue murder. Everyone was apologetic as hell, and the director immediately offered a $10,000 bonus. Said it was one of the best shots he had ever filmed. And the soldier felt so bad he took me to dinner that night at the Savoy. It was a great night out -- who's Bella Abzug?"

Victoria had noticed an article I had been reading.

"Bella Abzug," I explained, "was a fine New York Congresswoman who expressed herself in very brief but incisive manner, in a laconic way, if you will. She also had a way with hats, maybe not quite the paragon that the late Queen Mum was, but not bad at all."

Victoria ignored the comment about hats, but was curious about my use of the words 'brief' and 'incisive'.

"I'll give you an example," I said. "Ms Abzug had no use for the term 'housewife'."

"Why ever not?"

"Because she said it implies that there's another wife or wives somewhere else."

"Hmmm. Pretty laconic," said Victoria. "And somewhat coincidental."

"How so?"

"Turns out that I am currently co-authoring a paper on Sparta's role in the Peloponnisian Wars. Another name for Sparta was Lakedaemon, and their use of terse, to the point writing gives us the word 'laconic'. So we have the memorial at Thermopolae where Xerxes' Persians were held up long enough that Greece could get its act together. All it states is 'Go stranger and to Lakedaemon tell, / That here, obeying her behest, we fell.'"

"Your point is made," I stated. Girl did know her history.

"Oh, I can do better than that," said Victoria. I remember reading somewhere** that Phillip of Macedon sent a threatening letter to the city officials, the ephors, of Sparta, which stated 'If I enter Lakedaemon, I shall raze it.' The ephors sent a one word reply, an 'if'." Can't beat that, Mum."

No you can't.

** Victoria really must have been bounced around a bit. She usually is very accurate in naming her sources. The "if" example is cited in Norman Davies' fine text Europe, Oxford University Press, (London, 1996) p. 133. -- ed.

Of This And That

Last night saw the arrival of the Compte de Rienville, who had had quite enough of overseeing French security at the London Olympics. After a fine dinner a small party occurred, involving the Compte, my minder Irving, his computer whiz colleague Rachel, and yours truly. For some reason, all felt like a sing-song, so nothing would do but gather round the piano and let loose with a number of oldies and goldies from the Spanish Civil War.

This choice had come about with the Compte's observation that corruption still was too much in evidence at the Olympics. I made the point that it was at least better that when old Juan Samaranch was in charge, the man who insisted on being called "His Excellency". I mean, really. And this was the guy who was Education Minister under Franco -- hence the draw of the Spanish Civil War.

Later in the evening, the Compte having noticed that I was somewhat subdued, I admitted that my two daughters weren't on good terms with me at present. Both Victoria and Isolde had somehow obtained tickets to various Olympic events. Earlier in the day they had called me, expressing outrage about some goings on at a soccer match, and an insane (their term) result of a boxing bout. They sought my opinion, looking for support.

They didn't get it.

I explained that I don't watch any event that involves interpretation on the part of judges or referees. I also avoid like the plague anything that has the word 'synchronization' in it. I stick to timed events, and am quite content watching swimming races (but not diving) and all activities related to track and field. These allow an athlete to compete as themselves, without some incompetent (or worse, corrupt) official throwing a spanner into the works. Yes, timed events have supervisors, but these people are there to ensure fairness-- starts, sticking to the prescribed lane, or measuring the distance of a throw or jump. In other words, such officials ensure a level playing field. Referees and judges too often tilt the field itself.

The girls did not accept my stance on this issue, wanting me to join them in some heartfelt wailing and bemoaning at whatever injustice had affected them. This to me was getting close to whining, something that I will not countenance under any circumstances. The call then ended abruptly, and I was left feeling not a little remorse.

Irving had listened to all this, and was spurred to remark, "You know, Simone, this will happen again and again."

"Well, that's comforting," I responded gloomily. "And just how do you know this?"

"The Talmud."

"Oh, of course. The Talmud. And just how does that ancient text speak to this issue?

"Very well," replied Irving. "Quite simply, it states, 'Do not attempt to understand your children. They were born in a different time.'"

I will have to ponder that for a bit, but it was in a way.......comforting.

Olympic Oddities

I didn't expect to be writing on the 2012 London Olympics -- why add to what amounts to a verbal torrent of prose --  but then certain things stood out that irritated me enough to  alter my purpose. These are as follows:

The Shameful. Aside from the Opening Ceremonies, where the main stadium was packed, all venues, including the main stadium, featured large gaps where no one was seated.  Those who wanted a ticket were told that all were sold out. Turns out that these huge 'seating gaps' were reserved for and had been distributed to, Olympic VIP's (read: Various Idiotic Prats). Obviously, such VIPs had much more important things to attend to then actually watch an Olympic event. As I say, shameful.

The Bizarre. We go now to fencing, where a young South Korean girl was in a close match. As the clock wound down, she scored a go-ahead point, but with one second remaining, THE TIMER STOPPED. No big deal, you might say. I mean, all the girl had to do was back up on the ramp (or piste, as it is termed) and she would advance. Hell, even a non-fencer would succeed in such a case. But, oh no. The officials hemmed and hawed over the machine, a process that took some 25 minutes, with a now crying athlete forced to stay on the piste when all this was occurring. Finally, these paragons of athletic justice made their decision. The timer was re-set, and the match began all over again. Needless to say, the South Korean girl, now an emotional wreck, lost the match. This, then, a lovely example of common sense being trumped by bureaucratic paranoia.

The Gutsy. The bone-jarring, sinew-straining sport of badminton now comes to our attention. Owing to a somewhat insane of match grouping, it can and did result in teams finding it more profitable to lose a match, in order to face a weaker opponent later on. Badminton itself is wildly popular in South-East Asia, where most of the officials come from. As two matches of this ilk took place, the crowds in attendance (minus, of course, those VIPs referred to earlier) rained down their disapproval. I fully expected their displeasure to be ignored. After all, the teams, from China, South Korea, and Indonesia were from the "home" area, as it were. Lo and behold, however, badminton officials, as did Lady Macbeth, "put their courage to the sticking place" and turfed the teams right out of the competition. As well, they vowed that from this point on, there would be blind cross matches to ensure that such a thing never happens again. Well bowled, guys!

The Ridiculous. I will give the Saudis some credit for allowing two women to participate in the Games (although not without some severe arm-twisting by Olympic chief Jacques Rogge). I will give them no credit at all for insisting that one of the women, entered in the Judo competition, wear her hijab. At no point, of course, did we hear her views on the matter. When the appropriate Judo officials indicated wearing a hijab was forbidden for safety reasons, something the Saudis would have known in advance, they objected, and threatened to withdraw their women from the Games. Unlike the badminton officials referred to above, these officials caved, and the woman was allowed to wear a 'specially-designed' covering. Now I know from experience that Judo is a fabric-gripping sport, and wearing any kind of fabric around the head or neck make strangulation a very real possibility. This appeared to worry the Saudis not at all. I mean, we are talking about a woman here......

The Petty. Some of the VIPs have let it be known that the opening ceremonies went on too long. All those countries joyously marching in and all. You'd think that the athletes were the most important aspect of the Games. Silly thought.

The Awkward. The Olympic motto is citius, altius, fortius -- fastest, highest, strongest. There seems, however, to be a recent addition to these three: the prettiest. In some events, it is not just that you have performed an athletic feat, but how good you looked while doing it. Synchronized swimming is perhaps the best example, but gymnastics and platform diving also fall under this rubric. Thus we move from a performance per se to an interpretation of that performance. I wonder what Baron de Coubertin would have thought about all this?

So there. And I will now make myself a martini, a drink that, in a certain competition some years ago, I received my very own gold medal from the bartenders at the old Gollywog Lounge at New York's Taft Hotel. Have a nice weekend.

On The Unpredictable

At the request of Sir Harry, I had been asked to review the security arrangements for the London Olympics. After a rather intensive review, I signalled that all seemed to work, save for the completely unexpected. Sir Harry, in his usual gruff way, asked just what the hell I meant.

So I told him.

I indicated that the problem had been best put by Donald Rumsfeld, in one of the few statements he had made that made sense: his reference to "unknown knowns and unknown unknowns". It is here, in my opinion, that the real security issue lies, and we have good evidence for the premise.

To wit: Marc Lepine, who took it upon himself to murder fourteen women at Montreal's Ecole Polytechnique. No one saw this coming, and it was only through later research that his hatred of women came to light. Before the act, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Thus King Duncan's observation in Macbeth about the betrayal of the Thane of Cawdor (and something instinctively known by every successful poker player): "There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face / He was a gentleman upon whom I placed an absolute trust." And at this point Macbeth enters....but I digress.

To wit: The attack on the World Trade Center. Here things get a bit complex. The attack was certainly unexpected, but unlike the Lepine situation,  there were some clues, not the least of which was the pilot training programs that the 9 / 11 Saudis enrolled in. Their only interest was in learning take offs and mid-air flying -- landing was of no interest whatsoever. This was noticed by several FBI field agents, and the warnings forwarded to their superiors in Washington. Of course, given that such information was sent by lowly field agents, the 'experienced' superiors ignored these warnings. (I have often wondered what happened to these agents. Probably counting ice worms in Barrow, Alaska, or hunting down gator poachers in The Everglades. We should be told.)

To wit: The massacre in Aurora, Colorado at the theatre showing the new Batman film. It is this type of situation that should worry Sir Harry and all others in charge of security at public events. No indications whatsoever were given. The perpetrator, one James Holmes, was an 'A' student in the field of neuroscience, and seen as industrious, clean-cut, and an all round good guy.

The only tip off would have been the number of guns he had purchased, but this raises no flags in the land of the free and home of the brave. So aided and abetted by five justices of the U.S. Supreme Court, who could not get their pointy heads around the ablative absolute embedded in the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution ** (to say nothing of the pernicious effect of the National Rifle Association lobby) Mr. Holmes road to carnage was open.

It is only now that we are finding out that not all was as it seemed, given Mr. Holmes relationship with a psychiatrist. This, of course, is typical, and, if security is your profession, the stuff of nightmares.

And what of James Holmes now? Well, if you compare his 'before' pictures with those taken after the shooting, it's hard to believe they're the same person. A good looking young man is now a haggard shell, and brings to mind a statement upon which I will conclude: If you dance with the devil, the devil won't change.

But you will.

** The Amendment gives the right to bear arms only to the militia (now the armed forces and the states' National Guard.) This was crystal clear to the Founders, who knew their Latin, but not clear at all to the majority of Americans, who don't.

The War On Drugs. Not

My friend from the CIA, Matilda Hatt, got in touch the other day, and relayed an interesting anecdote. Apparently Tilly was given the task of delivering a package to a source in Mexico, in Ciudad Juarez to be exact. Just what the package contained was none of my business, and I refrained from asking. Professional courtesy, you understand.

The drop off was not far from the border at El Paso, so Tilly decided to walk back. Reaching a small city square, she espied a fruit stand. The peaches looked particularly good, and Tilly decided she wanted one. As she was paying the rather scruffy fruit stand attendant, she became conscious that all had gone very quiet. She heard the attendant mutter some curse, and saw him withdraw an AK 47 from underneath the stand. Then a shot rang out, and the attendant fell forward, shot through the head.

Tilly next saw four men approaching, armed to the teeth, with one brandishing a machete. Tilly, being not exactly unaware of these things, assumed the machete was to enable beheading, the classic calling card of the Zeta drug gang. Well, thought Tilly, not this time.

She grabbed the AK 47, checked that it was loaded, and as the men neared poked the weapon out from behind some cantaloupes and opened fire. The machete bearer went down, followed by two other gang members. The fourth, seeing his compatriots writhing on the ground, ran away, instantly realizing that he had other things to do, other places to be, and other people to see.

Tilly also decided that it would be best to get the hell out of there, her actions being a tad off the CIA reservation. She wiped the rifle clear of her prints, dropped it by the (late) fruit stand attendant, and took off. She did, however, remember to grab a peach, which she later informed me was delicious.

All this caused me to think of the phrase 'War on Drugs' as a massive misnomer. I mean, you declare war on a group, a country, a nation -- entities that are at least animate. The phrase could even be stretched a bit to include malarial mosquitoes or the elm bark beetle. (Torontonians, I know, would dearly love to have a war against raccoons officially sanctioned).  Calling something a war on drugs, however, is akin to declaring war on flagpoles, catch basins, buttons, or whatever.

Furthermore, it a strange war indeed where the ones at war are the very people giving enormous sustenance to the enemy. In North America, the biggest market for drugs is the U.S.A., who came up with the "War on Drugs' phrase in the first place. This is madness.

The way out of this morass is, of course, legalization, something only brave little Uruguay is seriously considering. In my view, I would start with marijuana, then, if this approach is successful, work up to heroin and cocaine (although not the crack variety). Amphetamines, ecstasy and other chemical concoctions would, however, be a bridge too far. Besides, law enforcement personnel have to be left with something to do. No point in swelling the unemployment rolls.

The current drug gangs could actually form a real cartel, along the lines of OPEC. I would also encourage the drug producers to consider IPO's and list on the world's stock exchanges. Thus public reports would become the norm, and if there were any hostile takeovers, these would occur in the boardroom using legal writs rather than bullets in the town square. Thus I can envision investing in such entities as The Zeta Corporation, or Guzman and Sons, or MaryJane Unlimited. It's all good.

As for profits, governments should tax heavily as done with alcohol and cigarettes, with the proceeds broken down as follows: 30% to general revenue; 30% to deficit reduction; 30% to rehab sites; 10% to administration.

Yet as long as the drug trade remains illegal, and as long as the U.S. and other countries remain heavily addicted, the carnage will continue, not the least of which occurs in Mexico. In this regard, the words of a former President of Mexico, Porfirio Diaz, are worth citing: "Poor Mexico. So far from God and so close to the United States."

Well bespoke, Porfirio.

Southern Exposure

My daughter Victoria loomed large this week.this week.

Now Vicky is a first class historian and supplements her income by acting as the occasional 'victim' in various and sundry horror films. She was in the town of Belmont in North Carolina, and had been asked to give a lecture on some aspects of North Carolina history to the local Rotary Club. This was odd, and I could only surmise that there was some member of the Rotary Club that had caught her fancy. This proved to be the case -- "Oh, Mum, he's gorgeous!" -- and I was gratified to know that my mother's instincts in this type of situation still rang true.

Vicky's lecture topic had been well chosen: 'North Carolina Regiments in the Civil War: A Synonym for Bravery'. When all the graduates of American high schools had figured out the meaning of 'synonym', they surged to the lecture hall, and the event was a huge success. All this was good to know, but what was really interesting was what occurred when Vicky made her way back to her hotel, the Hampton Inn.

There she ran into a host of police, including a fully-kitted out SWAT team. Apparently a man had barricaded himself in his room, threatening to shoot anyone who tried to remove him. The SWAT team were negotiating, and were fully aware that the man might be heavily armed, given the U.S. Supreme Court's inability to discern the ablative absolute used in the Second Amendment to the American Constitution. They had reached a point in the negotiation where the man was making demands.

He wanted a pizza, which was at least a somewhat reasonable request, and encouraged the negotiator that a solution might be found. This approach, however, was blown out of the water when they received his second request -- that Paris Hilton be brought to him so that they could be married. This immediately indicated that the man was mentally unbalanced on a number of levels, not the least of which was his choice of bride. The negotiator threw up his hands, out came the pepper spray, and shortly after that the man, one Fredrick Denny, 61, was apprehended and sent off to jail and a much needed mental evaluation.

I thought Vicky's account of what happened was a bit cruel to Paris Hilton, who to my knowledge has never threatened to shoot anybody, but then young women in this regard resemble Arabs; they profess solidarity, then invade Kuwait.

Have a nice week.

Arma Higgsque Cano

I was happily plowing through Virgil's Aeneid when my physicist son Mark called from Switzerland, all agog about determining the existence of the Higgs Bosun. Hence the title of this report -- the 'arma' will become clear in a moment.**

I congratulated him and the other scientists at CERN, while at the same time a memory suddenly flooded into my mind. After he had rung off, still all excited, I recalled one of the first times the search for this elusive particle had focused my attention.

Now Peter Higgs had hypothesized the existence of this particle in 1964, on the grounds that if it didn't exist, there would be no mass to any other particle, hence no electrons, no atoms, no us. This approach to the universe is known as the Standard Model, and the Higgs Bosun is absolutely critical to its being taken seriously. All of which was in a sense germane to what happened in Mississippi about a decade ago.

Matilda Hatt of the CIA had asked for my help in uncovering an arms ring operating in Mississippi, and Sir Harry, my immediate boss in MI 6, had sanctioned this (wonder what he got in return?) so I was off to the Deep South. Now the CIA cannot operate within the U.S.A., and therefore Tilly had been seconded to the FBI for this operation. How this came about Tilly would dearly love to know to this day -- the two organizations operate within a Hatfield / McCoy context -- although she has her suspicions. Apparently there were rumours of sexual shenanigans in the CIA, and the FBI had found out some of the details. But she isn't sure, and after all, rumour is a bloodstain on silk.

A venue had been identified as a hangout of some of the perpetrators, a rather seedy bar on the outskirts of Biloxi. We needed some of the bar patrons to open up about the logistics of the arms operation. Tilly had rented a semi, with 'Tara Cotton Inc.' emblazoned on the side. We wore jean shorts and had on our T-shirts with the message 'Truckers For Christ'  prominently displayed. Tilly eased the big rig into the parking lot, and we entered the dimness of the bar, confident that we would be welcomed.

This proved the case, and the guys were generous in buying us several what they termed 'B and B's', to wit: local beer with a shot of bourbon. Both Tilly and I knew how to appear to drink without actually doing so, and no, not possible to relay the specifics -- the technique is still in use today in The Trade.

There was a TV set over the bar, and that's when a news item mentioned Peter Higgs, CERN and the search for the Higgs bosun. Elmer, one of our bar mates, asked the barkeep to turn the volume up, but the  news item had gone, to be replaced on the latest pork belly prices.

"I knew him, you see," said Elmer in words that were somewhat slurred.

"Knew who?" I asked.

"Billy Bob Craig," he replied. "He was the boatswain on the U.S.S. Higgs. I wonder why he, the Higgs bos'un, made the news?"

Tilly and I were dumbfounded, but let it pass. We still had work to do. When we had found out what we needed to know, we left, but the incident sticks in my mind. Oh, and shortly after, the FBI conducted a very successful raid, putting paid to the whole arms ring.

As for the Higgs bosun, I note that another name for it is 'the God Particle', and again I fail to understand that when anything that is of scientific interest, religion has to stick its barnacle-encrusted oar into it. On the other hand, the particle conceivably have links to existence itself, and I recall from my days at Oxford a quote from one of the Dons:

"I exist!" the man exclaimed to the universe.

And the universe replied, "Well, I'm sorry, but I don't feel any sense of obligation."

Rimshot.

** The Lady's title is a play on the opening line of the Aeneid, Arma virumque cano -- 'I sing of arms and the man.' --ed.

MY Nobel Nominations

An interesting contretemps occurred during a trip to the airport (of which more later) that got me thinking of those processes that contribute mightily to making life easier, processes that I think that I think the Nobel Committee should give more consideration to. I am not so much concerned with a specific inventions here, although there's no denying that inventions such as zippers, can openers, intermittent windshield wipers and the like have facilitated things no end. Rather I was thinking of processes that do much to enhance social life.

Two instances come to mind.

1) The Nobel Committee should have sought out the person, group or organization who first conceived the 'one queue leading to many'. Now it has been many years since I have lined up at a bank (I mean, why else have staff?) but I can remember when I wore a younger woman's clothes never failing to pick the one line that never seemed to move. Others advanced well, but not mine, as a senior citizen simply had to discuss with the teller the trials of her Aunt Maud and those pesky bunions. Now, however, and given a similar situation, what I call the 'Prime Line' feeds into a number of secondary lines. To be sure, one line will be slow, but not all will, and life can go on. This process also has made airport baggage check-in easier, although its efficiency has been trumped by security examinations that edge on the pornographic.

2) The Committee should also unearth whoever saw the efficacy of adding a left hand turn lane to an intersection. Prior to this, one person making a left turn (or right turn in the UK) had it in his or her power to hold up everyone. Now the left-turners simply slide into their own lane while the non-turners can continue on their way. Good stuff, and a great diminisher of road rage.

Speaking of road rage, this was prominent in the incident that started this train of thought in the first place. I was in the backseat of the Bentley, Ahmad my driver was in charge, and we were in a long line of traffic leading to an up ramp to the expressway. To our right was a lane that was clearly marked, and had been from a fair distance, indicating that this was for right turns only, with no access to the ramp, and led to a street that went north from the up ramp.

We were close to the ramp, patiently waiting for the light to change. It did, and the line started forward. At this point, two cars, a Jaguar and BMW to be exact, had cheated by zooming along the near empty right hand lane and now made an effort to insert themselves into the ramp line. This enraged all those that had been patiently waiting in the line, and they were denied. The Jag came to an abrupt halt, and the BMW careened into it, although from my point of view no damage to either car was caused. Instantly two persons, best described as 'ladies who lunch', got out and began screaming at each other. This little scene brought everything to a halt, along with not a few comments from now trapped drivers along the lines of "You go, girls!"

I wasn't overly worried about violence with these two -- their hair-dos looked way too expensive to be put at risk, and their make-up was 'just so', although it looked like it had been put on by power tools. The invective continued, and was growing stronger. Maybe things would get nasty after all. Then the cops arrived, and attempted to establish order out of chaos. They weren't happy about this, and the expression on their faces indicated that perhaps they should have just done a FIDO.**

Soon all got straightened away, and the cars were directed up the street, which is where they should have gone in the first place. All of which told me that another 'process' was needed. It would, for instance, be entirely possible delineate the lane in question (via a prominent flashing light) by constructing a concrete barrier, a kind of Herman Kahn approach, if you will. This would make it impossible to turn in any direction but right. To be sure, this would cause pain when one realized that the ramp was not viable, but pain leads to learning, a Good Thing. (All we learn from pleasure is the principle of repeatability).

Or, in the words of Hermann Hesse, "Experience is a good school, but the fees are high."

** The good Lady again assumes too much. FIDO is cop-speak for "Fuck it. Drive on." -Ed.

Sympathizing With Svetlana

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

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

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

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

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

"The cronies of Viktor Yanukovych."

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

"And....?"

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

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

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

"And pigs will fly," I interrupted.

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

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

"You have it."

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

Bastien Schweinsteiger.

Auf Weidersehen.

Conversing With A Colleague

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hearty"

And so they were.

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

Brouhaha At Bilderberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair enough.

Better Living Through Technology

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What things?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, she was right about that.

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

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

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

"Really!"

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

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

After all, what are friends for?

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

A New Cryptology

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I had sent went as follows:

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

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

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

Too true, and a necessary first step.

Let's take others.

The Nature of Opera

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much like current Government.

Not Rushing A Russian Encounter

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

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

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

"Please inform him that Tinkerbell is here."

The man just stared, flummoxed.

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

Soothing The Sisters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Discuss among yourselves.

Managing Management

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All for now.

Hyping Holiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Needed Reunion

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

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

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

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

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

It was the Compte. On crutches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now THAT I must think about.

Reflections

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There. I feel much better now.

Credo

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

"The ribs acting up again?" I queried.

"No. This times it's teeth."

"What?"

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

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

"And you know this...how?"

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

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

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

"Precisely."

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

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

Here it is.

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

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

3) Get as much happiness as possible.

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

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

Enough. Discuss among yourselves.

It's All Greek To Me

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

"So we're all better then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You have feelings?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Point taken.

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

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

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

Sounds about right.

* 'The Betrothed'

To Lose Is To Win

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

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

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

"Jenny got them."

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

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

This got me to thinking.

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

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

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

You see what I mean.

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

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

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

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

Both deal in tragedy.

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

South Of The Border, Down Washington Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he did.

Two Equities

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

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

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

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

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

"Then who did win best actor?"

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

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

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

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

Equity of Opportunity

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

Equity of Outcome

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

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

Whither The Weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salad Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the salad really was very good.