The Power of a Sliver

I am not a fan of Twitter -- only 140 characters allowed. Not enough. Could you imagine Plato delivering The Republic as a series of tweets? But I do have an account, with the address known to a very select few. Thus I received the following tweet from Michelle Obama: "Barack worried about his health sliver. Any suggestions?"

What Michelle was referring to was her husband's position on reforming American health care. He wanted a "sliver" of the Health Bill currently being debated by Congress to contain a public health option. This would be funded and administered by the government, and be open to all who wished to sign up. Participants would pay a pro-rated tax, and including such an option would go some distance to ensuring full health coverage for all Americans. All other plans run by insurance companies would stay operational, but they would have to compete.

This whiff of competition, of course, was viewed by the insurance companies, the HMO's and the American Medical Association much as an Orthodox Jew would view a person eating a ham sandwich at the Wailing Wall. Intense lobbying immediately ensued, and Senators began to collapse right and left. All those campaign contributions, you see.

Yet not all is lost. A recent New York Times / CBS poll indicated that 85% of Americans overwhelmingly support substantial changes to their health care system. Well, why wouldn't they? America, after all, is 37th in the world in health care success, just behind Morocco, if the WHO is anything to go by. A smaller percentage (72%) stated that the government could do a better job of holding down health care costs than the private sector.

Those opposed to the public option, if not super intelligent, are at least cunning. If a public option is part of the Bill, and is successful, then in order to compete, or even to exist, their profit-taking mind-set would have to be radically altered, and altered downwards. That, to be sure, is horror itself. Affordable drugs? Less unneeded and expensive tests? Not worth thinking about, even if savings could reach $3 trillion by 2020, as estimated by one economist in the Los Angeles Times.

So the fight will be fierce. In this regard I sent Michelle two tweets.

1) If the Bill reaches his desk with no public option, veto it.

2) Google Tommy Douglas.

Stirrings in Iran

Occasionally, you win one. I have learned since my chat with Mr. Wen at the Chinese Consulate that an invitation was extended by China to Kin Jong Un, the youngest son of the Dear Leader, Kin Jong Il. He accepted, and is now in the process of (one hopes) getting an earful from North Korea's firmest ally. The youngest Kim has an education and has travelled internationally, and may just be conducive to bringing his nation one or two steps closer to sanity. We will see.

I had just started to plan a dinner party for the Clintons, who were in town and wanted my input on bringing a sane health plan to the U.S.A. without having a "single payer" system. This would be an impossibility, but the conversation would be worth having. However, the process was interrupted by an excited call from Matilda Hatt, my colleague in the CIA. Tilly was all agog about developments in Iran.

"Isn't it wonderful, Simone!" she exclaimed. "They're becoming a democracy!"

Oh dear, I thought. Tilly has gone overboard again. I mean, the woman is crackerjack in the field with an M16, but geopolitics is another thing entirely. I had to, not without some sadness, disabuse her. The following contains the gist of my remarks.

Tilly had likened the Iranian post-election clamour to that of Lech Walesa's activities in the Gdansk shipyard and referred as well to the coming down of the Berlin Wall. This argument doesn't hold. Iran is not Poland or East Germany (neither has an oil field) and Communism is not Islam.

Iran is, at the present moment, a theocracy, and the people involved with disputing the recent election of Ahmadinejad are up against the words of Iran's leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenai, who characterized the results of the election as "divine". In effect, then, any person who takes issue with this is disputing Mohammed's mouthpiece, a step not far from disputing the word of Mohammed himself. (Allah appears to be silent on all this.) Therefore, unless all the disputers have suddenly seen the light and become atheists, something unlikely in the extreme, the result will hold. Sorry, Tilly.

Moreover, I tend to believe that Ahmadinejad actually won the election. The man is enormously popular in rural areas, where the populace is much more conservative than those living in urban areas, and where his semi-insane fundamentalism is well-received. Also, he handed out free potatoes. Who can resist that?

There are, however, some interesting stirrings that are occurring. One is the Mullah's ignorance of modern electronic communication in the form of Facebook, YouTube and Twitter. It must have astounded them that a rally could be held here or there on very short notice. How did all those citizens know the exact time and place? And all this stuff is flying around the world. The Taliban are a step ahead here, banning every form of communication.

The second interesting thing is that so many were prepared to confront the religious authorities. They are brave souls indeed, to start questioning "divine" edicts. In this context I recall words from my great aunt Maud, who was worried about my tendency to question the validity of organized religion. "Well, Simone," she said, "just remember, if you're going to kill God, be sure you do it on the first blow."

Finally, I think the challenger, Mir Hossein Mousavi, will survive -- he is now too well known around the world, and the Mullahs are all too conscious of the power of a martyr. (I worry more about his wife, who had the guts to campaign publicly for her husband. Given the vicious nature of the thugs who comprise the Islamic militia, the Basij, along with the creeps who make up the Revolutionary Guard, well, I worry for her.)

Tilly's response to all this?

"Well, Simone, you could be wrong. I think they're going to pull it off."

Deep down, I wished that, just this once, to be wrong

But I'm not.

Orienting to the Orient

Outside in the Manor terrace, happily buried in Sir Thomas Browne's Discourse on Sepulchral Urns, I didn't hear the phone ring.

Irving did, came out, and handed me the receiver. His look told me that poor Sir Thomas was going to get short shrift.

I took the receiver, and heard one word: "Ernestine."

Shit! I thought. That was the code to place a call. Work. I left the terrace, and went to my office to use the secure line.

"Well?"

"The Chinese want to talk to you." Harry, my handler, always came right to the point.

"Do I want to talk to them?"

"You do. And soon."

"Visas," I replied, "particularly that visa, take time."

"Won't be necessary. They have arranged a meeting in Toronto. At the Consulate. It's on St. George --"

"I know where it is. When?"

"Tonight. At eight o'clock. You will be met by a Mr. Wen."

"I would have thought at the least it would be Hu Jintao."

"Always the idiotic remark." Harry had never appreciated anything approaching a lightness of touch. He continued, "But go there alone, and leave that Mossad butler of yours at home."

"Which could mean that I won't get back to home."

"You will. This has been discussed. Oh, and wear something pretty. Mr. Wen is drawn to the female figure."

"Harry, what a sexist thing -- " But the line had gone dead.

Irving, of course, was determined to accompany me. We compromised on his being somewhere in the area.

Following Harry's directions, I took a bit more time with my wardrobe. My Donna Karan black pencil skirt, with a silk Givenchy blouse, would do nicely. For shoes I chose the Milano Blahniks, the pair that that harridan at Chicago O'Hare had tried to scoff last month. I debated whether to insert my small Beretta into my bag -- Prada of course -- but decided against it. Harry would have warned me if all wasn't on the up and up, and his information tended to be accurate. Not many have deceived Harry, and those that did have lived to regret it.

Ahmed drove me to the Consulate, dropped me off, and went to park somewhere to await a call from me to get picked up. As I approached the Consulate, I looked around for Irving, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. But I knew he was there.

I was welcomed in by an elderly gentleman, and taken to a meeting room somewhere towards the rear of the building. There I was greeted by a person who introduced himself as Mr. Wen. He appeared older than the man who had shown me in, and I wondered if the Chinese diplomatic corps had a policy of not allowing anyone to serve until they had been properly aged. Like cheeses.

"Ah, Lady Simone," he began "a real pleasure. Please, sit down." He took the adjacent chair, and looked me up and down, looks that would be more appropriate at a slave auction.

"Mr. Wen," I replied, ignoring his ogling, "I understand you wished to see me. Might I enquire what it is about?"

"You Westerners always want to rush things," he sighed. "However, when in Rome -- what do you know about North Korea?"

The question was so abrupt I was momentarily off-guard. "Uh, not a great deal. It's not a place to visit or vacation in."

"But you have visited. A year ago, if I have it right."

Had Harry let this slip? I doubted it. More likely this was straightforward intelligence work by the Chinese themselves. In any event, there would be little point in denying the matter.

"I may have spent a minuscule amount of time there."

"And wrote a report. This is a copy. Your employers were good enough to make it available."

Good Lord, so it was Harry after all. Wonder what he got in return?

"Well," I said, "if you've seen the report, why this meeting?"

"To clarify one or two things. And to get any further advice you may care to offer. Our government is aware of some of your -- activities -- and is impressed."

"I can't wait to get a card of commendation from President Hu."

"Our information also mentions that you are a bit of a smart ass, but let that pass. What we are interested in is any further thoughts that you have had on the situation, or information that might not have been in your report."

I thought for a moment.

"There were only two items I withheld," I said, "on the grounds they were ludicrous. One was the fact that Kim Jong Il, the Dear Leader, plays with Barbie dolls. The other was his huge crush on Jennifer Aniston. This didn't seem to be of earth-shaking importance."

"You may have erred there. But things are, how do you say, heating up. I would be interested in what suggestions you might have to, er, relieve things somewhat."

There are several things the People's Republic might do. All of them dangerous. You must realize that the Dear Leader is bat-shit crazy --"

"What? I don't understand the term."

"He's loco. Deranged. Therefore, my first and really only suggestion is to deal with the generals that surround him. They've got to be worried as well, and they can't all be as nuts as Kim. You do have contact with some of the generals, surely. God knows we don't."

"It's an avenue we have been looking at."

I crossed my legs, which got his full attention. "Do more than look, " I stated. "Much more. And that's really all I can give you. Now some tea would be nice. Oolong."

"Certainly. You have been most helpful. You know, should you ever decide to settle down in the East --"

"Doubtful. I am content right here. And I remember my Kipling."

"How so?"

I'm sure you know the lines, and I recited:

"At the end of a flight is a tombstone, with the name of the late deceased;
And the epitaph drear: 'A fool lies here, who tried to hustle the East.'"

He nodded, rose, and said."I'll arrange for the tea. And Lady Simone, I really don't think you're a hustler."

I thought, don't be too sure of that, Mr. Wen.

Politics Today: Of Miscues and Moats

I'm a bit late getting back from my Slavic sojourn, but a side-trip to Paris, and the Compte de Rienville, intervened. These things happen.

Thank God. Or perhaps Aphrodite. But let us not stray into prurience.

I needed some quiet time, and was just starting to relax with Brahm's 2nd when some items in the newspaper caught my attention. What on earth are the politicians up to?

First, the British House of Commons, where I read of MP's flipping houses, obtaining porn, and (although this almost beggars belief) cleaning moats. All courtesy of the beleaguered British taxpayer. Now I have thought of a moat to ward off the uninvited, but cleaning the damn thing would prove a bit expensive. If, however, the government would look after this....hmm, must raise the issue with The Mayor. He won't bite, of course, but just might succumb to a fit of apoplexy. One can only hope.

I gather poor Gordon Brown is going to soldier on, although Ministers are dropping like flies. Where is Sir Humphrey Appleby when you need him?

In Canada, things have taken a different turn. The Canadian Parliament is still recovering from the unholy machinations of Jean Chretien and the mammoth "Adscam" scandal, and expense account nonsense tends to stay under the radar, at least for now. No, the problem here is one of "leaving things behind." Things such as top secret documents. Maxime Bernier, Minister, left just such a document at his mistress' s apartment. Not good, but at least understandable, given how things happen in the heat of the moment, so to speak. What is more baffling is the behaviour of a competent Minister, Lisa Raitt, who also left top secret documents. Not at any one's apartment, but at a national television network. This requires some thought.

First, Stephen Harper, Prime Minister, is more than a little anal-retentive, and probably wants any and every document to have a top secret label. In his view, freedom of information requests are better described in terms of freedom from information. So any document left lying around -- well, you get the picture.

Still, this doesn't explain leaving documents at a television station. So...a puzzle, and in The Trade, whenever we are faced with a puzzle, one of the ways into the enigma is to raise the question, "Who benefits?" Now things become a bit clearer.

The documents Minister Raitt left behind were pretty mundane, dealing as they did with cost overruns at Canada's Atomic Energy Commission. Canadians, unless vacationing on Mars, knew all about this, although not the exact figure. That figure was going top come out at some point, and what better way than to come out side by side with a massive diversion. Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, and all the media, immediately fell into the trap. The heat was on, not on the documents themselves, but on the way they had become public. It didn't hurt as well that Lisa Raitt is one of Harper's more attractive Ministers, and both the Opposition and the media take an unbecoming delight in pillorying a pretty woman.

The clincher to this argument resides in the fact that while the unfortunate Maxime Bernier was dropped like a hot potato, Lisa Raitt's offer to resign was swiftly turned down by Harper. (An aside -- at the recent election, Bernier was re-elected with a huge plurality. Quebec understands mistresses).

So there you have it. Or at least my take on the situation. And yes, I have my doubts, but I also remember my Voltaire: "Doubt is not a pleasant position, but certainty is absurd."

Until next time.

To The East

My oft-travelled cousin, Sir Robert Hazeltown, brings me some odd news from Russia. He had seen Swan Lake in St. Petersburg, and was startled to note that the ballet had created a happy ending, with Odette and her prince happily going off, no doubt to raise a number of ugly ducklings. He wondered what had happened to Odile, and two fates sprung to my mind. She had gone to Wall Street, as a true Black Swan. Either that, or she had fled Russia and landed a job pole-dancing in Bangkok. Whatever the case, this bore investigation, and since I had business in Ukraine, thought I would extend the trip a bit further east. I also needed to raise a rather serious matter with Putin. The trip was fine with my pilot, Hank Grimsby, and soon I was in the Lear, sipping Laphroaig and pondering the ironies of existence.

In Kiev, I met with my sugar beet overseer, Bohdan. All was going well, although he was having trouble fending off requests for a larger piece of the action from Yuliya Tymoshenko. I said not to worry -- I will get in touch with La Tymoshenko and remind her of certain favours owed, not the least of which was getting the gas flowing again. And the woman still hasn't lost that damn braid. Yuliya can handle a leveraged buyout, but her sense of style is the pits.

Then on to Moscow. At the airport, I had just got off the Lear when my cell phone rang. Very few have the number, but one who does is Vladimir Putin.

"Simone, dorogaya, word reached me that you were likely to visit. Where are you precisely?"

"At Sheremetyevo airport. And I am not your sweetheart."

"One can always hope. Stay there. I will send a car."

Shortly after, I was ensconced in a suite at the Kremlin. We spoke in Russian, in that I am fluent and Putin's English is awful , although he has mastered one word very well: 'no'.

"Vladimir," I said, "What's this nonsense about Swan Lake, with everyone going off into the sunset in a state of bliss?"

"Yes," he replied, "rather neat, that. Leaves people very happy, and forgetful that the economy is not what it might be. And we have a new version of Romeo and Juliet in the works."

"Don't tell me. The lovers survive, and go on to become major shareholders in Gazprom."

"Not exactly, but you get the drift, and the endings will be well received. Czar Ivan did the same thing with various court entertainments."

"I'm sure he did. He wasn't called 'The Terrible' for nothing. But sooner or later the populace --"

"Will do what we tell it to." He leaned forward. "And by the way, we have intercepted some information from our operatives in Pakistan. Apparently you are Number One on Al Qaeda's hit list. Just what did you do? I can only think of one thing that would get them so impossibly riled up. Let me see if I have it right."

"Speculate away."

"Our information is the following. We know you were in Afghanistan, near Tora Bora, a few days before the Americans attacked. We also know that somewhere in those mountains was one Osama bin Laden. Finally, we know that you left the area in one hell 0f a hurry." Putin stared at me for some time, then finally said, "You got him, didn't you?"

I kept silent.

"It's OK. The room is not wired, nor am I."

"No, your not Richard Nixon, nor were meant to be." I fussed with my skirt for a moment, then spoke. "Hypothetically, it might just be possible to track down a six-foot Arab with kidney trouble traipsing about Tora Bora dragging a dialysis machine. How hard could that be? And putting a bullet smack into the forehead. Hypothetically, mind."

"Ah," he said, "and of course the Americans knew, hushed it all up, and created a, a... I've forgotten the English term --"

"A bogeyman," I finished. "And now it's my turn. Vladimir, you and Medvedev must pay more attention to Iran and, particularly, North Korea. The Dear Leader is spinning out of control."

"That's China's problem. But we are monitoring things closely."

"You and China may have to do more than monitor."

"Point taken." Putin rose from his seat. "Now I must go. I've been invited to attend a seminar given by our leading physics researchers. All on the origins of the universe and the Big Bang."

I rose as well, saying, "I understand. Oh, and if you're meeting with your physics scientists on the Big Bang, you might raise a certain question."

"What question?"

"Just WHAT banged?"

There, that should start a healthy debate.

Meetings in Chicago

To the Windy City, where I had a number of meetings with various representatives of the Mercantile Bank of Chicago and the Chicago Board of Trade. At issue were figures related to sugar beet futures: to put it bluntly, they had flat-lined. What was going on?

Turns out that both institutions were participating in the current craze affecting American finance -- downsizing everything in sight. The result of all this was the letting go of senior managers (who knew their business) and retaining junior and less costly personnel (who knew squat.) Thus I quickly learned that these these ingenues made no distinction between sugar beets and beets, and this lumping together of two distinct entities had played havoc with the figures. After some heated words, this got straightened out, but still.

Cretins.

I had booked into the Knickerbocker on East Walton Place, and after the meetings, took time to recover from such nonsense and to enjoy a serious vodka gimlet in the Martini Bar. I had travelled with Irving, who was responsible for my security on these jaunts. He was somewhere in the room, just in case. The mad Mullahs are just that. Mad.

"Might I join you?"

I turned around on my bar stool, and there, of all people, stood Stephen Harper.

"Certainly, Prime Minister." Politicians are much more approachable when you have contributed goodly sums to their campaign.

He settled his somewhat bulky frame on the adjacent stool, and said, "Can I order you something?'

"Another Vodka gimlet would do just fine. Grey Goose."

He ordered the gimlet for me, and a Corona for himself. It was interesting to note that he could swan about Chicago without getting so much as a glance of recognition. This was not entirely unexpected. Americans, when they think about Canada, which is not often, think of cold weather and the perils of socialism. That any would recognize the Prime Minister, well, just wouldn't occur.

"What brings you to this fair city?" I began. "

"Just renewing an acquaintance with a number of fellow politicians," he said.

From which I could conclude that the Daly political machine was being consulted. Well, he could do worse. Barack Obama had honed his skills in Chicago.

"One thing, Prime Minister, that I would like to raise -- "

"Now, Lady Simone, let's not get into scrapping The Indian Act again."

"No, although you bloody well should. Can't keep giving people something for nothing. Saps the soul, it does, and drives one to drugs and alcohol. But, no. I am more concerned about those silly attack ads on Michael Ignatieff."

"Don't tell me you financially support him as well?"

"Of course I do. And if I could, I'd also support Giles Duceppe, who I think would run the country rather well were he not, like poor Gloucester in King Lear, tied to the Quebec stake and cannot fly. Jack Layton, of course, would be a politician too far. No, those ads are not only in bad taste, they don't play well in Canada, and, finally, they get the electorate all worried about an election, an election that you know very well won't occur."

The Prime Minister took a sip of his beer, and replied, "And just why won't there be an election?"

"You know very well. Pensions. Some 80 odd MP's would lose their pension benefits if there were an election before 2010, most of them in the Bloc. Hence, no election. So stop the ads."

"I will give it some thought. Oh, and Laureen thanks you for the skirts. They're really made of hemp?"

"You know it."

He rose to leave, and said, "Always a pleasure to talk to you. Although right now, with the economy, things are really difficult."

"Not as difficult as they might be."

"What do you mean?"

"You could be Gordon Brown."

A Dire Dilemma

Lord Strunsky once said, when he faced a conundrum, "We're on the horns of a dilemma, my dear. Only thing to do -- throw sand in the bull's face."

This adage was much in my mind when I took a call on my secure line from Michelle Obama. She was fretting about Barack's response to all the torture stuff (actual pictures) becoming public, particularly after the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit dismissed the government's security concerns as vague, and that the public's right to know came first. Barack then quashed this, on the grounds that it would inflame anti-American feeling and lead to even more danger for the troops abroad.

"Well Michelle," I said, "you have reason to fret. What we have here is a lose-lose situation. If he doesn't allow the pictures to be released, the civil libertarians will be outraged. If he does release them, his statements about inflaming opinion and upping the danger ante for the troops will be all too true."

"But surely a few pictures --"

"Not a few. Hundreds. And some make what was earlier published from Abu Ghraib look like illustrations from Anne of Green Gables."

"Simone, just how do you know this? Barack, from what he tells me, hasn't seen them all."

"Because I'm in The Trade, and it's my business to know such things. But some others know as well. Why do you think Dick Cheney is running about the country, squawking like a headless chicken that torture really works? Or why Don Rumsfeld is applying for visas all over the place? They are very scared, Michelle, and they bloody well should be. If those pictures are released, along with documents that indicate that they both sanctioned and ordered that interrogations be carried out in that manner, they're very likely to wind behind bars for the rest of their lives. Hell, they might even be turned over to The Hague for crimes against humanity. The thing could actually reach George W., although that might be a bridge too far. Office of the Presidency and all that."

"But," said Michelle, "waterboarding doesn't sound all that horrific. Well, it is, but --"

"Michelle, you are entering one of the few areas you know nothing about. That's a compliment, by the way. You see, the problem with torture is who you've got. And this brings up a little axiom: 'There are old spies, and there are bold spies. But there are no old, bold spies." If a spy is captured, likely as not it will be someone young who has acted rashly; that is, he or she has made a mistake. So when they are interrogated in what I will call an 'all out' fashion, they will very shortly tell everything they know. Everything. Believe me, I know."

"How --"

"Because I've experienced interrogation. Twice. Two errors, and two extremely painful results. And I told everything I knew, although the second time I managed to last for three days. Got commended for that. But we are entering classified stuff here. Suffice it to say that Barack faces a real problem. You see, and I really shouldn't be telling you this, some of the interrogation techniques employed by the contractors sub-let to the C.I.A. involved children, young boys and girls. It is, by the by, to the credit of the C.I.A. that they wanted no part of this."

"Oh, my God."

"Yes, an unholy mess."

"But when Barack asks me what he should do, what should I advise? Not that my advice is always taken."

I thought for a long moment, then replied.

You've heard of Marshall McLuhan?"

"The medium is the message guy?"

"Yes. Well, Dr. McLuhan also made the point that we live in a world where there are more Xerox machines than shredders. And he wrote that before the Internet. So I think those pictures will come out, probably in some country like Australia. And he'd better be prepared to react.

"He's good at that. Tends to land on his feet."

"Good to know. And when all is said and done, there is something to hold on to."

"What?"

"A statement with which I know he will be familiar. Written by Justice Louis Brandeis: "Sunlight is said to be the best disinfectant."

A Tale Of Two Trees

Consider the Norway maple (Acer platanoides). This is a tree that deserves to be in a special education program big time. The shallow and fibrous roots go everywhere, strangle everything, and eventually girdle the tree itself, effectively choking itself to death. The Mayor, naturally, urges planting them all over Toronto.

All this surged into my consciousness when Ahmed, who likes to fix things around the Manor when he spots trouble, noticed yesterday that no water was reaching the main house. He quickly switched to our Artesian well , then went to explore just what was going on. Two hours later, he had the answer.

"It's that tree down by the road, My Lady," he said. "The one you don't like. The roots have pierced the water pipe that leads to the house."

"Well, Ahmed, just arrange for someone to cut it down. It's an eyesore anyway."

"Er, ...it may not be that simple."

"Nonsense," I replied. "The estate three lots down the road just cut one down, in almost the same location near to the road. I remember mentally applauding -- it is a very silly tree."

"Well, said Ahmed, "they got permission to bring it down."

"So get the necessary permission."

And there was the rub. Apparently there are in this tax-ridden city a group of tree police, (a.k.a. Urban Forestry staff) who refused permission, indicating that the tree was healthy and a significant and valuable part of the urban forest. An arborist whom I consulted said this was rubbish, the tree was actually dangerous, and should come down immediately. But she was a knowledgeable arborist, and hence unlikely to be part of the mayor's Urban Forestry staff. At that point I turned to my Councillor for help.

This man, whom I will call Peter X, was a decent, hard-working individual, who made it a point to respond quickly to concerns of constituents. There was, however, one big, black mark against him -- he was not part of the Mayor's inner circle of Council cronies, and he stated to me that while he would do his best, my chances were slim.

"But Peter," I argued, "The property three lots away just took down a tree in similar position."

"Simone, that property is in a different Ward, and that particular Councillor is part of the Executive Council"

"You mean the Mayor's Star Chamber."

"Oh, that's good. Henry VII would approve." (I told you he was decent and hard working. I should have mentioned that he was educated as well). "There is one Councillor, Joe X, that has, if you'll pardon the phrase, 'tree power'. Indeed, around Council he is known as The Italian Tree Emperor. Now if you could get him to agree --"

"He's Italian?" An idea was beginning to form. "Peter, say no more. I'll take it from there."

My next call was to an old enemy, but an enemy who owed me one. It was time to call in the marker. After some back and fill with various associates, I got him on the line.

"Pronto."

"Don Guido. Lady Simone Strunsky here."

There was a moment's silence, then came recognition. "Ah, Simone, how goes the saying? Ah, yes, 'Our eyes have met, our thighs not yet.'" Oh, c'mon, give him credit -- the guy was pushing eighty.

"My thighs are just fine, grazie. But I do need a small favour."

"And why should I do you a favour? After wrecking that nice little earner I was involved with in Bosnia. Really, bella."

"That was because you were supporting the trafficking of women. Which, I'm glad to say, I note that you've quit. Now, I ask you to remember a certain warehouse in Palermo."

There was a longer silence this time. What I hoped he was remembering was a very nasty bomb that had been planted by the Italian Red Brigade in said warehouse, a warehouse right next to a factory wherein most of the money extorted by the Sicilian Mafia was kept for later and careful disbursement. I, along with some British colleagues, had been instrumental in defusing that bomb, not, to be sure, to save the factory next door, but to save the city. Half of Palermo would have been blown to bits.

I was also hoping that he recalled the dozen roses he had sent to my London flat, along with a profuse thank you and the terse phrase, 'I owe you one.'

Finally, Don Guido spoke. "Si, I am a bit in your debt. What is the situation?

I explained, and was informed that 'he would make a few calls', to see what could be done. He also stressed that all debts were now repaid, to which I agreed. Too much dancing with the devil is dangerous. The devil won't change, but you will.

Two days later, a permit to cut down the tree arrived by Fed Ex, and shortly after that a city crew took down the tree, while at the same time a second city crew made short work of repairing my water pipe. Such service!

It was Irving (he can find out about most anything) who peeled the onion on this one, and I learned the following. Apparently, Joe X had initially resisted Don Guido's suggestion that I be awarded a permit. This attitude changed rapidly when he woke the next morning to find he was sleeping next to the bloody head of a chipmunk.

Satisfied that the whole barking mad incident was over, but feeling a twinge of guilt about the chipmunk, I wrote a hefty cheque to the S.P.C.A.

Free Speech and Film: The Repast

So. Daughter and Irving had gone off to this crazy film shoot. I had decided not to attend, for three good reasons:

1) I had no wish to see Victoria suspended by the ankles. Not the sort of things mothers' delight in.

2) A film shoot is boring, and takes forever, what with gaffers and gofers all over the place, and all afflicted with importance.

3) I had some homework to do. Apparently I am being sued by the City Council for what I did to a tree on my property, and I wanted to get my ducks in order before contacting my lawyers, the prestigious firm of Lambaste, Lambaste and McScroo. More about that in my next report.

From my terrace at the Manor, morning croissants and coffee finished, I saw that my driver Ahmed had brought the limo back. I went to greet the passengers, Irving and my daughter, who, I was glad to note, was still in one piece.

"How did it all go?" I asked Irving.

"It was great," said Victoria.

"Very well indeed," said Irving. "I arranged the ropes in a certain way -- "

"I don't want to know."

"But Mum," said Victoria excitedly, "the crew even gave me a little award. See?"

She handed me a little golden statuette of a girl suspended upside-down, with an inscription that read 'Best damsel in distress. Ever.' "Isn't that cute?" she crowed.

"Oh, just wonderful." I had much rather she had shown similar excitement when she had been awarded a Certificate of Merit for her work at Stanford that shed new light on the 1631 Siege of Magdeburg during the Thirty Years War. Come to think of it, that event was remarked at the time as one of staggering brutality in an age where brutality was all too commonplace. I am going to have to watch my youngest daughter a bit more carefully.

"Now, Vicky, lunch. And then off to your panel discussion." This I would attend, and, indeed, was looking forward to it. Victoria would be flanked by a biologist, a bishop and a physicist. Should be an interesting discussion.

Alas, it was not to be.

Ahmed dropped us off near the Convocation Hall at the University, and as we made our way towards the building, we were confronted with all manner of people shouting and waving big signs about. What the hell?

"Vicky," I said, "just what topic is this panel discussion addressing?"

Victoria was also a bit puzzled at the noisy throng. "Nothing dramatic, really. It's a statement by H.L. Mencken, you know, the writer --"

"I know who H.L. Mencken is."

"Yeah, well it's his statement. It's now in my memory: "Every time the scientists take another fort from the theologians and the politicians, there is genuine human progress."

Ah, I thought. I looked more closely at the screaming protesters. Sure enough, representatives of almost every major religion were present: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and one really tough looking group called 'Truckers for Christ'. Only Buddhists seemed to have stayed away, exhibiting their usual good sense. Then Victoria's cell phone went off. She listened for a moment, then said "But it's a university. This is where free speech is everything...really...oh, that's too bad...no, I don't really understand." With that she clamped her phone shut, and turned to me, fury in her eyes.

"The panel discussion has been cancelled, she snapped. "Apparently some Human Rights Tribunal sees this as a hate crime or something, and threatened the University that they would be charged. Really and truly, Mum. This is ridiculous. This would never happen at Stanford."

This, of course, was nonsense.

"Vicky, just imagine that by some freak of circumstance Rush Limbaugh, Dick Cheney and, oh, Ann Coulter were scheduled to address the Stanford student body on the topic, 'Democrats are Dense and Dumb.' You think the students would give them a fair hearing?"

Victoria was silent for a moment, then said in a small voice, "Well, one could hope."

"One could, which is why Hope came last out of Pandora's Box. So let us hope. In the meantime, I have a question. Does your cell phone take pictures?

"Yes. It films a bit too."

"Excellent. Then document a bit of this demonstration, then post it on You Tube. Use a suitable heading such as, 'University Defends Free Speech. NOT!' Or something like that."

This she did, and a suitable amount of hell was raised. Doing our bit, if you will, in what really is a fallen universe.

Free Speech and Film: Setting The Table

This may take a bit longer than usual, and hence the two part approach, but a lot has happened since I last wrote. It all began with the arrival in Toronto of my youngest daughter, Victoria, the history major who supplements her income by portraying dead bodies for TV shows. Apparently she had written a paper stemming from her studies on the Thirty Years War. The paper stressed that scientific advance surged during that period, and this fact did a great deal to undercut the religious basis of that little dust up. (This theme was partly explored in Brecht's Mother Courage, but I digress.) In any event, Victoria had been invited to serve on a panel at the University of Toronto exploring the issue.

This suited Victoria, for she had also been approached to appear briefly in a Canadian TV show entitled Flashpoint, and thereby could fly from Los Angeles on the sponsoring network's dime. This made sense. Universities, I have found, are very free with invitations to give papers and presentations, but much much less free with providing expenses to make that happen. (Unless the speaker is Bill Clinton, but that's another matter entirely.)

Learning of her imminent arrival, I watched an episode of the show, and came away impressed. The theme focusses on the work of a police tactical squad, and, amazingly, sticks to its knitting; that is, no long sidebars into personal relationships, thereby avoiding the crippling slide into soap opera that so often afflicts many other TV offerings.

She stayed at the Manor, of course, and there I learned how the two things had come about. The history thing was fairly straightforward. Her paper had been accepted in an academic journal whose title escapes me, and had come to the attention of the professor at the University who was organizing the panel discussion. At the same time Victoria had received an invitation to act as a stunt person in a rather delicate segment of the show. Further questioning on such an unlikely request coming out of the blue unearthed the information that my son Sebastian had been involved, he of the New York dress shop.

"You see," said Victoria, "after that crazy arrest on the hemp charge, his business went through the roof. A whole slew of actors and producers, or at least their wives or partners, flocked to the shop, and, well, way led on to way. as someone once put it."

"Robert Frost."

"Yeah, that's the sort of thing you would know."

"More than just know, Vicky. Your grandfather, the third Lord Strunsky, got drunk with Frost in Oxford one night, but that's neither here nor there. Now what's the connection between Sebastian's dresses and your appearing in a Canadian TV show?"

Long story short, Victoria explained that Sebastian had mentioned to one of the wives, whose husband produced a variety of action TV shows, that his sister was becoming quite adept at playing victims. Sebastian was proud of her, had saved some clips, and after some complicated back and fill, the request was made. She then went on to hint that she had extended her repertoire somewhat.

"What do you mean, 'extended your repertoire somewhat'?"

"Well, I'm quite good at writhing and screaming. It's sort of fun, really, but sometimes the ropes can be a bit painful. Which is why a number of professional actresses ask for a stand-in."

"Good God, just what are you being asked to do?"

"I've seen the script. I'm bound and gagged, and suspended by the ankles for about a half-hour. Then I'm rescued by the tactical squad. Bit of a change, really. Normally I'm not rescued at all."

"It's a Canadian show -- we're kinder up here. But a half-hour is about twenty minutes too long. Your circulation would go haywire, and you would lose consciousness. And maybe not get it back." I knew this because I had been in a similar position when I was younger and not really adept in The Trade. Fortunately, it being a joint operation with Mossad, Irving, Uzi blazing, had shot himself into the Syrian warehouse where I was being held and got to me just as I was blacking out. Then Irving became my butler, but that's a story for another day.

I regarded my daughter. "Vicky, this is dangerous stuff. How to breathe is critical."

"Oh, Mum, it will be a snap."

I was baffled, and wondered why three of my children were drawn to danger. Mark, the skier, Isolde, who is sniffing around The Trade, and now this. Thank God for Sebastian, who is quite content with A-lines, and whose greatest worry was the next showing of Dolce and Gabbana. Well, needs must, and I rang for Irving, explained the situation, and, after some protestation, Victoria agreed to head for the gym and some training exercises that would serve her well.

Before they left, I said I hoped that the TV suits were paying her well.

Oh, yes," she said. "I'm getting $10,000 dollars. I'm covering expenses for the University thingy, and then donating the rest to charity."

"What charity?"

"Victoria replied, "The Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain. You would approve."

"And why would that be?"

"They are atheistic nuns, who run a woman's shelter. The Matron, Sister Cecilia, explained that while all the nuns well knew organized religion was hogwash, it did give great comfort to many of the women they cared for. That, Sister Cecilia said, was what was important. Her thinking also influenced my Thirty Years War paper, so you see, this trip sort of ties itself together."

Then Victoria trotted off with Irving, and I was left to ponder. I will, however, report as soon as time permits on what happened, or, in one instance, what didn't. One thing for sure, though. I must meet this Sister Cecilia. Sounds like my kind of woman.

A Bump in the Road

Yes, this missive is a wee bit late, but bear with me.

I am now back in the Manor in Toronto, after putting my daughter Isolde back on the straight and narrow. Or so one hopes. I had stopped off in Ottawa briefly, to give the good Stephen Harper a pat on the back for not attending that insane human rights conference in Switzerland, led by those paragons of personal liberty, Iran, Libya, Saudi Arabia and a host of African countries where any notion of liberty was really licence -- in this case, licence to loot the country and give the proceeds to selected cronies and backers. I had a good word for Ignatieff as well, commending him for similar action. I think he used the phrase "an assemblage of clowns", although there really is nothing funny about the robbery, rape and murder sanctioned by these staunch defenders of human rights. It really is a fallen universe.

Now for something completely different. I had constructed a shooting range in the basement of the Manor, in order to keep my skill up to speed, given my occasional assignments where that skill is required.

An aside: Apparently word of this activity had somehow reached the Mayor, who was appalled, and he and select members of his Star Chamber began to proceed to enforce a gun ban. Now I hasten to mention that all my weapons are registered, and registered to a far greater authority than Canada's silly gun registry, aimed primarily at farmers and gun club members. The guns that should be banned, of course, are revolvers and assault rifles. These are the weapons of choice favoured by criminals, but amazingly these stalwarts do not exactly flock to the registration bureau. In any event, a colleague in CSIS, code name Barry, and last seen on a rooftop in Washington, had a word in the Mayor's tinted ear, and his desire to continue with the exercise came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

But back to the shooting range. I had aimed my Erma rifle at a target some distance away, the target being the profile of that illiterate leader of the Taliban, the awful Mullah Omar. (On some glorious day, In'shallah, I will have the bugger actually in my sights). I fired several times, then checked for accuracy. Uh oh. In each case my shot was a quarter inch from where it should have been, smack in Omar's forehead.

I rang for my ex-Mossad butler, Irving, and repeated the exercise, having with Irving carefully checked rifle bore, scope optics and calibration. Same result.

"Could be your eyes, Simone," said Irving.

"Nonsense. I can see you perfectly. And the target."

"Wouldn't hurt to check."

Now one of the perks of being in The Trade (God knows there are not many) is access to first rate health care. This is not done out of compassion or a keen sense of social obligation, but rather has to do with keeping your assets in fighting trim. So a medical appointment was made, and shortly after that, the results were in. Incipient cataracts.

Cataracts! Things that happen in your seventies, not your mid-forties. Still, could have been worse, and the road stretches a good distance yet, although the novelist Phillip Roth's words suddenly came to mind: "Old age isn't a battle, it's a massacre."

A day and an operation later both eyes were dealt with, and for the next little while, things were somewhat blurry. Hence is was simply not possible to write. Things are, however, back to normal now, and the bullets went exactly where I wanted them to. Now I must fly. The Compte de Rienville is in town, and coming for dinner. And it has been way, way too long since we -- well, never mind about that.

Isolde -- Part II

Having learned of Isolde's involvement in things that she shouldn't be involved in (why couldn't she just stick to the violin?) I decided to have it out with her. I had to cross the ocean anyway, to expand the Strunsky sugar beet enterprise. BP wanted to double the beet intake for its eco-fuel enterprise -- stimulus money from one G. Brown -- and this necessitated a trip to Lviv in Ukraine. There the proposal to expand was well received (Ukraine always has fiscal problems) and I was also happy to make a not insignificant contribution to that rather funky opera house located in Lviv's central square. One must always support the arts.

Then from there it was on to London, to solidify the sugar beet thingy. I had arranged for the wayward Isolde to meet me there as well. All this meant using the Strunsky Lear jet, and fortunately the pilot I use on such occasions, Hank Grimsby, was available. Hank was a former member of the US Air Force, and used to fly F 16's hither and yon in Iraq. At least he did until he realized he was in the wrong war, and when the time came to re-up, he didn't. After that, it was simply a matter of making him an offer he couldn't refuse. (Hank is not only a crack pilot, but has other qualities as well. But I digress.)

Irving accompanied me, since these trips are always a bit dicey -- those fatwas again -- but not being on an assignment, I wasn't expecting trouble. However, I was glad to reach my flat in Knightsbridge, where I got together with a serious martini. A shower, a good sleep, and I was ready the next morning to face Isolde.

We met at The Grill, Dorchester, where they do wonderful things to Cornish scallops. Then, both sated, certain cards were put on the table.

"Who approached you," I began, "with this courier thing?"

"That's classified," she said.

"Isolde, honey, my own classification level is that of the Home Secretary's. One phone call will reveal all, but I would rather hear it from you. And I'll make a wild guess. Smidge was involved."
Isolde was silent for a minute as she absorbed this, and then the story came out. "Smidge" was my nephew, Stephen, and was very much involved in The Trade. Lord Stunsky had recruited him early on, when his talent for foreign language mastery had emerged, along with a love of secrets and, more importantly, the ability to keep them. He was not, unfortunately, that effective at the sharp end of things (my particular forte) but it takes all kinds. Smidge had indeed approached Isolde, saying the courier thing just a "one-off", and would not recur again. The enterprise had gone so well that Isolde, all excited and agog, said she was willing to do it again, depending on her concert schedule. Smidge, perhaps fearing my wrath, (as well he might)said Isolde's little courier adventure was truly a one-off, and would not recur. Good for Smidge.

Isolde, however, had been bitten by something she saw as exotic and exciting, and at a reception for the orchestra in the Mozart Conzerthall had somehow overheard the information about the Stinger missiles -- she thought it was a planned attack of killer bees -- and passed the information on to Smidge. This, of course, had led me and colleagues to retrieve the missiles from Africa, as earlier described.

"Well, all this stops now," I firmly stated.

"But I helped," she said plaintively.

I took her hand. "Note, Isolde, you still have your fingers. You need them to play. Keep this activity up with Smidge and you will lose your fingers. and other parts of your body. Very painfully. You are not trained for this type of work. It's not your talent, and it will detract from the marvellous talent you do have. You see my point?"

She nodded glumly.

"Still got the Strad?" I enquired, wishing to change the subject.

"Under lock and key in the Staatoper," she replied. "Don't worry. It's safe."

"It better be," I replied. The obtaining of the Stradivarius had taken some ingenuity. An Italian businessman with whom I had done business had called me in a panic. Apparently his daughter, a fanatic birdwatcher, had wandered too close to the North Korean border and had been snatched. He wanted her back, and I obliged. This was not overly difficult. I knew that The Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, had a certain passion, and from an earlier foray into that benighted country had procured a videotape of that passion. It showed Kim happily playing with his Barbie dolls, When I mentioned to his handlers via a Chinese colleague that this would look great on the Internet, given Barbie's 50th anniversary, well, things moved rather quickly. The daughter was returned post haste, and her Italian father, in gratitude, parted with one of three Strads he had acquired.

Occasionally things work out rather well.

Isolde -- Part 1

Yes, a bit late with this missive, but I have been rather busy. It all started, as it usually does, with a phone call on my secure line. Only one word, "Ernestine". That was enough to get in touch with my employers, and to know that somewhere a wheel had come off. Turns out that fifty Stinger missiles had somehow fallen into the hands of the Lord's Resistance Army, based in one of Uganda, Sudan or the Democratic (Hah!) Republic of Congo. You never knew for certain -- national boundaries in that area leave a lot to be desired. The leader of this ghastly outfit was that paragon of Christian charity, Joseph Kony, he who delights in kidnapping young boys, arming them with AK 47's, and then telling them to kill their parents. (Don't even ask what happens to the young girls.)

I and colleagues had tangled with this outfit before, but this time was a bit different. Apparently, Kony was in the process of transporting the Stingers to Somalia, where they would be sold to the Islamic pirate enterprise they have going there. Isn't ecumenism wonderful! But the difference was the source of the intelligence.

My eldest daughter, Isolde.

This came as a total surprise. The last time I had talked to her, she was safely ensconced in a small pension in Vienna, along with her current girlfriend, an oboist named Magda something or other. Isolde, you see, is on the other side of the street (so to speak). No Tristan for her. She is also a first rate violinist, and had landed in the first violin section of the Vienna Philharmonic. She was excited about this, and was eager to inform me that Riccardo Muti had agreed to take both Isolde and Magda on as his pupils. "Just think, Mum," she blurted, "I'll be working under Muti!"

With Isolde and Muti, the "under" would be metaphorical rather than literal. Yet I was happy for her. She is in my opinion some distance from becoming a Perlman or a Bell or a Midori, but she is on her way. And now, my employers tell me, she is also in what I refer to as The Trade.

Isolde, you see, travels a lot, whether with the Philharmonic itself, or participating in concert performances, international competitions, or what have you. My employers (bastards) saw this as an opportunity, and I have since learned that she has become an expert in drop-offs, as well as becoming an ace courier. Who would question a striking blonde carting a (rather special) violin case, in company with a host of other musicians?

I didn't have time to raise the matter with her, given the exigency of the mission, but I certainly did when I arrived back. And yes, the Stingers were recovered, Kony's "army" was somewhat depleted, and we also managed to grab a cool $100,000 American in the process. My colleagues and I quickly decided to make a donation to Medicins Sans Frontieres, who were working in the area. The harassed young doctor was grateful, and the money would be used for a greater purpose than anything dreamed up by government.

As for my conversation with my daughter, that will have to wait for next time. Right now a rather tricky debriefing is scheduled. I love Isolde dearly, but occasionally I am grateful that there is an ocean between us. As Quentin Crisp once put it:"The continued propinquity of another human being cramps the style after a time unless that person is someone you think you love. Then the burden becomes intolerable at once."

Bonus Bashing

Before she flew off to London for the G20 bun fest, Michelle Obama, recently added to my secure cell phone, gave me a call. Michelle was worried about the anger surfacing in America about the number of obscene bonuses being paid to all those who had got their enterprises into trouble in the first place. Most worrisome of all was the fact that some of this anger was being directed towards her husband.

"Of course," I replied.

"Of course?" she yelped. "But he had nothing to do with it!"

"Well, he was in the Senate, and could have urged greater oversight, but that's neither here nor there. The whole thing is Oedipal, you see."

"No, I don't see."

"Well, think of Sophocles Oedipus Rex. The King, Oedipus, is doing what?"

Now Michelle, unlike several million of her countrymen, has had an education, and she began to parse it out. She recalled the plague hammering Oedipus' city of Thebes, Oedipus' frantic attempts to find the cause, and then coming to the realization that he himself was the cause. (Inadvertently married his mother, you see, but that's an issue for another day). The point that she grasped was the assumption of responsibility for actions taken, something only a person who is all grown up can do. For non-grown ups, all thought becomes focussed on who to blame. Hence the howls of outrage directed at bankers, financiers and insurance company executives, (who admittedly are greedy bastards) but not at themselves (for letting the lure of a sub-prime mortgage or a totally unrealistic return on a dubious investment outweigh good sense. Step forward Bernie Madoff).

"But, Simone, what can Barack do, then?"

"In the short term, wait it out. In the long term, the answer lies in education, and I think he realizes that."

"Lord, it isn't easy, is it?" and I caught a quaver in her voice.

"No it isn't. But as Piet Hein put it in a well-thought out Grook, 'Problems worthy of attack / Prove their worth by hitting back.' Now enough of this. Your wardrobe all ready?"

There followed a longish discussion on pencil skirts, colours (yellow and green suit her) and proper behaviour when meeting The Queen. I also advised her to stay away from the Dolce and Gabbana, Dior, Givenchy and the like when trooping around Strasbourg with the love of Sarkozy's life, Carla Bruni. "After all, Michelle, the woman is a professional clothes horse -- sometimes the best way to win the game is not to play at all. But stay away from pant suits; don't want to be mistaken for Hillary."

"In other words, Simone, 'Be humble, Uriah, and you'll get on.'"

"Right. And have a Dickens of a time."

Plumping For Paranoia

I did not escape entirely unscathed from my fine dinner with Warren Buffett. I, along with my chauffeur Ahmed, had returned him to his hotel. At the entrance, the paparazzi thronged; apparently Britney was giving a concert at a hockey arena, a not entirely inappropriate venue for La Spears, and they were awaiting her return. Ahmed and I managed a quick escape, but Warren was recognized, and immediately besieged with questions. Not on finance, mind you, but on just who was the lady he had been with. (They had glimpsed me briefly in the back of the limousine). He replied as he made his way through the crush, "Oh, that was the Sibyl of Cumae."

Oh, good on you, I thought, as he let me know in a later telephone call, and both of us wondered just how the tabloid media would handle that little bit of classical information. We were not long in finding out.

A week later, my butler Irving brought one of the tabloids to my attention. The headline screamed "Daring Buffett Dines with Reclusive Soap Heiress!" What on earth?

I read further. Apparently the reporter, lacking a sound education, thought Sibyl of Cumae was someone with the surname Camay, "the soap of beautiful women" (if memory serves). A long, long way from a Greek oracle at Cumae, near Naples. I could only recall Cicero: "O tempora! O mores!"

But yes, I am frightened by the paparazzi, or indeed any unwanted publicity, something I share with the English Royals. It's too bad all this happens in the current age. In an earlier time, paparazzi would have found themselves in the Tower, where the perpetrators could have been properly re-educated. One way or the other.

But why this fear? Well, if you were the subject of four fatwas, all asking for a beheading, you might be a little antsy too. Not that I couldn't cope with these louts on an even playing field (such as a dark alley) but there really is no defence other than obscurity against the long gun. A trained sniper on a rooftop presents problems with which I'd rather not contend. So the less publicity, the better.

Yet one must continue to act, to take chances, if you will, and I keep in my mind the following. There is a mountain located on the Trans-Canada Highway between Calgary and Banff, called The Three Sisters. Legend has it that a Blackfoot chief placed each of his daughters on a separate peak to keep them away from unworthy suitors. The strategy succeeded so well that the three daughters died up there.

Hell, even old Wotan gave Brunnhilde a better chance than that.

Risky Business

Said goodbye to Tilly Hatt, having arranged a flight for her from Toronto to Denver, from where she could return to Washington. The broken arm could then be from a skiing accident at Vail, rather than an unwanted outcome from that craziness in Saudi Arabia. The escapade did not escape entirely unnoticed -- Al Jazeera featured a photograph of the head of a woman that looked remarkably like Andrea Dworkin, along with furious comments by the Saudi Religious Police. Such is life in the Ninth Century.

At this point Warren Buffett called. He was in Toronto on business, and wanted a meeting. He suggested one or two places, but too often celebrities dined there, and this meant the paparazzi as well, something not conducive to my health. I suggested dinner at a somewhat out of the way place, known by those who appreciate good food, but not known otherwise -- Noce at Queen and Walnut.

I had chosen to wear one of my son's hemp outfits -- a beige sheath. The only bow to current fashion was a cool leather belt by Versace, which complemented things nicely.

"You look smashing" he said, as he ushered me into my seat. "Dolce and Gabbana?"

"No, Sebastian's of New York." and over Manhattans I related the nonsense of the hemp charge, and the subsequent outcome.

Buffett laughed. "I must have a word with Bloomberg about this."

"You will do no such thing," I replied. "Michael wants that episode kept very quiet. But you might have your researchers do some due diligence on hemp's market potential. My son is doing very well, and the thing is politically correct as hell. Ah, here's the minestrone."

We attended to our soup, but shortly after, Buffett asked, "How did you escape?"

For a minute I thought he was referring to the Sudan and old Al Bashir, but he couldn't possibly have known about that little adventure. "Escape from what?" I asked.

"This financial fiasco. Sub-primes. Madoff. Collateralized debt options. The whole shooting match. Dropped a significant amount myself. You, my sources tell me , did not lose a penny."

"First things first. Take Bernie Madoff and his Ponzi scheme. I avoided that like the plague. Why on earth would you invest in a fund run by a man with the surname Madoff? As to the other issues, I simply read the VaR correctly."

"You know about VaR?"

"Value at Risk. Really, Warren." I shot him a withering glance.

"Sorry. Of course you do. Ah, but here's our wine. I must say, I didn't expect a cellar this good. Lafitte Rothschild indeed."

"You'd be surprised what you can find in this town." I tried a sip. Magnificent. "Now as to VaR--"

"I'm all ears," he said. "Hell, Nobel prizes were awarded for that algorithm. But it didn't alert the risk factors soon enough."

"It was soon enough for Goldman Sachs, after the Long Term Capital Management screw-up. That's when they began to draw in their horns. So did I. But they didn't go far enough, nor did anyone else. Because --"

"Because?" He was giving me total attention now.

"Because the time frame it measured was too short. VaR generally relied on a two year data history. This worked for a while, and everyone made a lot of money. It was 98% accurate -- AIG thought 99% -- and that was considered adequate risk. And it is, under those terms. But the time span was roughly 1997 to the present. If, on the other hand, you begin in 1900, then the risk factor doesn't begin to whimper at a 1% or 5% level, it begins to shriek at about a 25% level. In other words, time to jump ship, realizing that you've hit those dreaded initials, T.B.D."

"To be determined?"

"No. THERE BE DRAGONS. Now let's talk about sugar beets."

A Bit Over The Top

Back from the Big Apple and the hemp wars, along with two nice skirt and blouse ensembles and leaving one relieved son. Some relaxation was in order, and I was happily ensconced in a bubble bath, re-reading Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, when Irving poked his head in.

"There's been a spot of trouble."

"Well, deal with it." I was at an interesting part of the novel.

"It's Miss Hatt," Irving continued, ignoring me completely. "She needs a place to stay for a few days. To recover from Saudi Arabia."

Now my curiosity was piqued. "She told me she was going to the West Indies for a vacation. What the hell was she doing in The Kingdom?"

"That Miss Hatt can tell you herself. She's downstairs in the kitchen. She,... er... needed some patching up. And a shower. But I did get the bullet out."

"Oh bloody hell," I said, rising, I hoped, like some Venus from the foam. Irving handed me a large towel, oblivious to any of my charms, such as they were. We have known each other for a long time. "Right. let's see just what kind of mess Tilly Hatt has gotten herself into this time."

A few minutes later, in jeans and T shirt, (the one that reads "My England Includes Calais") I headed for the kitchen. There I beheld a rather bedraggled Matilda Hatt, pride of the CIA, clutching a formidable Laphroaig in one hand. The other was bandaged up to the arm. Irving had also taken some liberties with my wardrobe, to wit, a pair of shorts and my German T shirt, the one that reads "Der Tage ende; Johhny Walker Kommt."

I seized the bottle, and poured myself a good dollop. Nothing like drinking an peat-ridden anchor to bring perspective on things.

"Well?" I said, seating myself opposite her. "This was your vacation? In Saudi Arabia?"

"It was something I wanted to do," she replied, a tinge of defiance in her voice. "I thought it would be a great idea to do a little information dissemination."

"Information dissemination."

"Yes," she replied, pushing a strand of blond hair away from her eye. "I brought some samples back. Look in that knapsack in the corner.

I did so, and withdrew several texts, all the same. In Arabic.

"Simone, you read and speak Arabic, don't you?"

"Well, I'm not Ibn Khuldun, but let me see -- Good God! You were swanning around The Kingdom distributing these? You're bloody lucky you've still got your head on."

The text I held was entitled Life and Death. By Andrea Dworkin. Andrea Dworkin! The ultimate, no holds barred feminist. Irving once told me that any man reading this would feel he was eating barbed wire. A Saudi male would go ballistic.

"Why on earth --"

"Actually," Tilly said, "there's no place better on earth to do this. And I got a lot of the texts out. It's amazing what you can do in a full body naqib. Bloody invisible, you are."

"But then it all went south."

"Yeah. And so did I. In a hurry. To Yemen. Hooked up with one of the clans that we've done some business with in the past. But then we ran across another clan that we didn't do business with, and there was a wee tussle. That's where I picked up this." She pointed to her bandaged arm. "Couldn't really attend to it there, and things moved very fast after that. Long story short, I need to hang out for a few days.

"And Langley?"

"As far as they're concerned, I'm still in the West Indies."

Well, Tilly, mi casa su casa. But you really have to stop all this Don Quixote stuff, even if you're doing it on your own time. Let's keep things sane. I mean it."

"I know you do, but Simone, since you brought up Quixote, there's something else that's worth remembering."

"What's that?"

"It was, as I recall, Cervantes who wrote, "Too much sanity may be madness, and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be."

And I found myself schooled.

A Bite of the Big Apple

So there I was, off to New York to settle this ridiculous hemp charge. Headed right for Fifth Avenue and 59th, and my suite at the Plaza. I had earlier called Sebastian, and told him on no account was he to discuss the marijuana charge with the press. At least not yet -- this was fruit that had yet to be picked.

My next move was to get in touch with the Mayor, Michael Bloomberg. Michael had been an earlier investor in my sugar beet enterprise, and his firm had done well. It was, therefore, not that difficult to get through the various officials, terribly afflicted with office, by simply stating, "Just tell him, 'sugar beets'".

I outlined what had occurred, the confusion between clothing made from hemp, and its relationship to marijuana (non-existent to all intents and purposes). I could literally hear him blanch, for he immediately saw the problem: the media would have a field day with the story, with New York becoming a global laughing stock.

"Now not to worry, Michael," I said. "I will make it all go away. But I do need to know the name of the Assistant District Attorney who would be prosecuting the case, and your assistance in arranging a meeting as soon as possible. And forget notifying the District Attorney, whoever that might be. He or she wouldn't know a damn thing about the matter, and would get all hot and bothered trying to figure out how this would play in terms of electoral prospects."

Michael agreed wholeheartedly, and an hour later I had a name and an appointment for 10:00 am the next day. I then caught a cab and spent some time at Sebastian's store, where I made a few purchases; he really does have a sense of style. After that, a fine dinner at the Plaza Room, and then, as old Sam Pepys liked to write, "and so to bed."

Next morning Sebastian and I were ushered in to the office of one Hedy Catskill, the A.D.A. in charge of the case. Pleasant looking face, but the glasses didn't help, nor did her hair, tightly back in a bun. Her pant suit was all wrong -- she didn't have the height -- and she really should stay away from that outfit. Probably an undue influence from Hillary. The woman looked harassed, and had to fumble through a series of files before retrieving the hemp issue.

"Yes," she began. "A serious charge. Trafficking. Serious that."

"Trafficking what?" I asked.

"A restricted drug. Marijuana, to be exact."

"Rubbish." I stood up, approached her desk. I was wearing a black pencil skirt and magenta blouse. "Here, Hedy," I said, holding the hem of the skirt. "Feel."

For a moment I thought the woman, wide-eyed, was going to flee, but a tentative hand stretched out.

"That's hemp," I said. "My blouse is made of the same material. That's what is being sold. Clothing, not a narcotic. Now can you imagine what the media might do with this story? Just visualize the headline -- A.D.A. HOT FOR HEMP! Or how about this -- NUMB SKULL NARCS! Or --"

"All right! All right! Just give me a minute to find out how this whole thing started."

Hedy flipped through the file, and then looked up, a peculiar expression on her face. "Well, the N.Y.P.D. were following up on a complaint. It seems that a group had a strong disliking for drugs being used as clothing."

Sebastian spoke up at this point. "What group could possibly object? I mean really, my dear."

Hedy replied, "Er...it says here, 'Clothing For Christ.'

A short silence ensued after this, the usual reaction when the bizarre occurs.

"So perhaps," I suggested, "this whole thing could be dismissed. You might consider writing to this group explaining the difference between a drug and a dress. Sebastian and I of course will say nothing. Particularly to the media. No point in embarrassing you, or the D.A. Or, for that matter, Mayor Bloomberg. You agree?"

She nodded silently. Then she looked up and said, "What you're wearing. Must have cost a fortune."

Sebastian said, "Skirt, $45.00. Blouse, $33.00." He looked at her closely. "You know, we have some really cool A-lines and jumpers in now. Would suit you perfectly. $40.00, two for $60.00. Here's my card. You're welcome anytime."

"I...I might just take you up on that. And yes, this will be dismissed. Nonsense, all of it."

"Hedy," I said, you will go far."

So that was that. Occasionally, government gets it right, and gives the lie to that frightening saying, "Hi. I'm from the government, and I'm here to help you." But as my good friend Bill Maher once stated, that frightening saying has now been replaced with a far more fearsome one: "Hi. I'm Sarah Palin, and by golly, I have access to the launch codes."

See you soon.

Designer Drugs

After my last note, admittedly a bit out of control, I was glad to see The Economist is reading my stuff, and referenced the news item that so enraged me. (cf. The Economist, February 21, 2009, p. 6). That ghastly decapitation certainly deserved wider exposure, although I was a bit disappointed that the magazine didn't zero in on the ludicrous second degree murder charge. Still, the focus of The Economist is,...er....economics, and given the current gloom and despair in the financial world, I can understand where its priority lies. Hell, even Warren Buffet is being buffeted these days. (Thought I'd get that in before it appears in The Wall Street Journal.)

But right now I have another worry.

My eldest son (not my younger one, Mark, who careens down snow hills on two sticks) has found himself in a spot of trouble. He is called Sebastian --Lord Strunsky was much enamoured of Waugh's novel Brideshead Revisited -- and is a very successful designer of women's clothes. His emporium in New York is always a hub of activity, mainly because he rather upsets the designer apple cart, and makes clothes that women actually will wear. He also exclusively uses natural fibres -- cotton, wool, linen -- and this apparently makes him a mini-hero to the ecological sensitive. Apparently, however, he went too far, and began putting out dresses, pants and skirts made of hemp.

These outfits were enormously successful, but then the whole thing went south. A frantic phone call from Sebastian brought me into the picture.

A woman had purchased several hemp jumpers. Then, and this is where things went off the rails, the silly thing proceeded to cut them to pieces, roll up the fibres, and sell them as marijuana. She was arrested about a week later, something that doesn't surprise. Hemp fibre is not the psychoactive drug cannabis, something she could have learned in Grade Ten biology if she had actually gone to Grade Ten. (Do they even teach biology these days in America?) So we are dealing with a person here who is not particularly swift, but canny enough to say that she purchased her supplies at Aloysius' store, Real Clothing For Women. Bitch.

Aly had been arrested and charged in turn, with drug trafficking. He had no trouble posting bail, but was clueless when it came to how he was going to answer the charge, and was worried about the possible sentence -- ten years at Rikers.

I made a phone call to a first rate criminal lawyer in New York that I had once saved in a white water rapids incident, and who owed me one. He leapt at the case -- this was drug enforcement gone mad -- and assured me that all would be OK. I was not so sure. Americans have this insane War On Drugs, and strange things can happen. So I am off to New York, and will let you know how all this turns out.

A Matter of Degree

I was at my desk in the conservatory, absorbed in an article on nematodes, when my handyman Ahmed came in, his face a mask of sadness. This was odd -- his coming nuptials with the fair Consuela should have argued for a different mien -- and I wondered what had occurred.

He handed me a newspaper clipping, an AP snippet from some place called Orchard Park in New York state, and said simply, "I am ashamed of my religion. This is behaviour not sanctioned by the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, nor can it be found in the Holy Qu'ran. Perhaps, my Lady, you could give it a wider audience." Without explaining more, he left.

What was this all about?

I read the article, and had two reactions.

Shock, and rage.

First, the shock. Apparently a TV show managed by Aasiya Hassan and her husband Muzzammil, termed "Bridges", had as its purpose the showing of a more moderate Islam. It dealt with the more lunatic aspects of Shariah law -- amputating hands for theft, stoning women (never men) to death for adultery, the non-education of girls, and the practice of "honour killings." Well good on them, I thought.

But I speak too soon. Apparently what the Hassans dealt with in the abstract level became something quite different at the personal level. From what I could gather the marriage was in trouble, and Aasiya was seeking a divorce. This was a bridge too far for Muzzammil, and seizing a ceremonial sword, he hacked her head off. Can't be "dishonoured" you see. Reading this part, I fondly wished that I could have faced this guy with some good Damascus steel in my own hand.

Now the rage.

A few phone calls to certain people in New York state jurisprudence resulted in the following information. Hassan, having done the deed, phoned the police with some pride, and was shortly thereafter arrested. The Erie County District Attorney, one Frank Sedita, called the crime "the worst form of domestic violence", and charged Muzzammil with second degree murder.

SECOND DEGREE MURDER?

What on earth would it have taken to lay a charge of first degree murder? Subjecting the woman to hanging, drawing, and quartering? I mean really. The act fulfilled both aspects of the mens rea, actus reus standards (planning plus intent) and was hardly done in the passion of the moment, the criteria for murder in the second degree. Dickens' Mr. Bumble surely had it right: "The law is a ass!"

What further enrages is the extremely sparse coverage given to the act. Maybe he should have thrown a shoe at her -- that behaviour appears to get tons of coverage. Good on The Toronto Sun for allowing columnist Peter Worthington to address the whole sordid tale in his column of February 20th, and good on Bill Maher for also leaping into the fray on his HBO show, also on February 2oth. But so little for so much.

A final comment. It is sad when lunatics take over a system of thought -- all right, a religion -- that is embedded in compassion and redemption, and turns that system into something so perverse that even the Marquis de Sade would raise his dandruffy head. I was raised an Catholic, but now I am very far from being a paragon of Christian womanhood. Made the mistake of being pro choice, you see, and Holy Mother Church has cast me out, and in an earlier age would have done much worse. Of course, if men gave birth, abortion would be a sacrament.

But I am in danger of digressing from the major thrust of this note -- the lack of media attention to a truly heinous act, and an idiotic criminal charge. To lean on Dickens again, "Bah. Humbug!"

Intriguing Nuptials

Back from Los Angeles, and it was good to be back at the Manor and to get at some correspondence that had been left hanging. I needed to check something, so headed for the Manor library. There I discovered some missing texts. I was in the process of writing a brief epistle to an author who had, in my opinion, completely misconstrued a point William James had made in his work, Varieties of Religious Experience. I wanted to be certain of my facts, but where the book should have been, well, it wasn't. I wondered who among my staff was suddenly interested in James, and his rather unique world-view.

Turned out it was Ahmed, my handyman. This was odd, for I had him pegged as an fairly strict Muslim. I discovered the missing text while searching in Ahmed's workroom for some industrial Vaseline (don't ask -- you really don't want to know). While there, I also spotted my copy of John Locke's Essay on Human Understanding. What was going on? These are not books that are high in the Muslim canon; indeed, I doubt that they appear at all. A little conversation with Ahmed was in order.

I found Ahmed doing something obscure to the John Deere tractor snow/plow that my gardener, Consuela, so loved to drive. Indeed, Consuela was hovering near his elbow, anxiety in her face.

"There," said Ahmed. "Just a loose clamp."

"Nothing more serious?" inquired Consuela. "It really felt -- oh, my Lady."

"Just wanted a word with Ahmed, Connie."

Ahmed put down a small wrench he was holding, and said "Well, my Lady, we sort of wanted a word with you." He reached for Consuela's hand, grasped it tightly. "I have proposed, and this beautiful one has accepted."

Hah! I thought. Ahmed's reading material was beginning to make sense. And indeed this was so, for I was informed of the following.

The two were in love -- not being deaf and blind, I had noticed this before -- but their religious backgrounds were severely at odds with each other. Ahmed took his Islam seriously, as did Consuela her Catholicism. How had they surmounted these barriers?

It had been Ahmed who had thought long and hard about this (as well as Consuela's undoubted charms) and had done some research. He had reached the conclusion, aided and abetted by James and Locke, among others, that yes, there was one God, and that the major theme behind that God was compassion and redemption, and that God should have no business in the grubby and all too human running of the state, or dress codes, or dietary edicts, or violence masquerading as religious fervour. Consuela had no problem with this interpretation, artfully quoting the Bible: "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God, the things that are God's".

Well, well well.

They asked, and received, my blessing, and I offered them the small guest house adjacent to the tennis court. It needed some fixing up, but those two were more than capable of undertaking the task. As for the actual ceremony, they had asked several imams or priests to preside, and had been turned down flat. I stressed that they were asking a lot of these gentlemen (no women, note) and that if I have learned one thing thoroughly, it is that emotions and ideas follow beliefs, not the other way round. Purveyors of religion work hard to keep their beliefs tightly boxed, lest these beliefs get corrupted by the pervasive nature of human experience.

It was my butler, Irving, who suggested that a friend of his (from his Mossad days) could perform the ritual. This friend had studied to be a rabbi, but got caught in a nasty situation in the Gaza Strip, after which he had quit his studies, come to Canada, and was now a Justice of the Peace.

Perfect. I wished them both happiness, and turned my mind to arranging a small reception at the Manor.

Later, I pondered all this, particularly religious thought that appears to separate rather than bring together. And there is Nietzsche: "Two thousand years! And no new God!"

Selah.

Feminine Wins and Losses

A rather busy little week. I had just returned from Davos, Switzerland, where I had been invited to give an address to the great and the good of the financial world, when I got a call from a reporter friend in Los Angeles. Apparently my youngest daughter, Victoria, was involved in some very odd extra-curricular activities that had nothing to do with her studies in history at Stanford University. It had been some time since I had been in my beach house overlooking the sea, and given the insane weather that is Canada in winter, decided to fly down unannounced and find out what all the fuss was all about.

On the flight down, I reflected on my talk in Davos (grungy little town) and how it had been received. I had entitled my address "The Feminine and Finance". The major thrust zeroed in on the fact -- and it is a fact -- that few women are to be found among the great "Masters of the Financial Universe", the very clowns that had, through greed and the creation of financial instruments that no one understood had caused the global fiscal mess we are currently in. Women, I stressed, are inherently more cautious, and would never have succumbed to the toxic stew of collateralized debt options, dodgy derivatives and stupid swaps that have almost destroyed the world's banks. Women may have been more susceptible to the sub-prime mortgage debacle, for their focus is fixed on the home, but even there, I don't think it would have reached the extremes of obtaining land with no down payment and no credit check whatsoever. Would things have been different if it wasn't Lehman Brothers, but Lehman Brothers and Sisters? I rather think so.

My little speech actually received a smattering of applause when I finished. A minuscule ray of hope piercing the clouds of testosterone gathered at the event? Perhaps.

I had called Victoria earlier, and she said she would meet me at her small apartment near the university. I arrived early, and let myself by employing a very useful tool that doubles as a nail file. The apartment was a mess, with books and papers scattered throughout, most of which dealt with the area of history she was studying -- the Thirty Years War. I was aware of this interest through earlier conversations. Victoria had been quite taken with the originating cause of the war, the defenestration at Prague in 1618. I think she thought the term "defenestration" had sexual overtones, and may have been disappointed to learn that it meant throwing someone out of a window, in this case, two Catholic governors and their scribe. All three landed in a dung heap, great insult was taken, and the war began. What made her continue her study of a highly complex and byzantine event I am at a loss to say -- it's a mystery.

But not the only mystery.

Out of curiosity, I opened one of her closets, and beheld a vast array of skirts, blouses, and dresses that paid homage to the likes of Donna Karan, Dior, Ralph Lauren and God knows who else. I too have such a closet, but I know where the money comes from -- good little sugar beets. Where does Victoria's come from? True, she receives a stipend from me, but no way could it account for this type of expenditure. What was going on? Surely my youngest daughter, who hides her beauty by parading around campus in baggy pants, sweatshirt, and her Sarah Palin-like glasses, couldn't take ownership of such an exotic wardrobe? Was she covering for someone?
As it turned out, she was covering no one but herself. Once she had gotten over the fact that I had broken into her apartment, a situation eased by an excellent dinner at a small establishment near Rodeo Drive, the truth came out. Apparently she was supplementing her income by being dead. Now it is true that Victoria was a great swimmer, and could hold her breath for a goodly three minutes. Well this facility, along with her good looks, made her a very attractive proposition for such shows as CSI, Medium, Bones and others of that ilk, where bodies pop up with regularity, and it doesn't hurt if that body is good-looking. And remembering the items in her closet, I determined that the pay was very good. Very good indeed.

Later, back at her apartment, she proudly showed me pictures of some of her best roles. I was shocked. There was my daughter, mangled, beaten, tortured, suspended -- I had had enough.

"Vicky, what on earth are you doing? What message are you sending to viewers.? That women are objects to be savaged, then cast aside? Good God, there is enough violence against women already, without this sort of encouragement."

"Well," she replied, "the money is so generous that aside from buying the clothes that you saw, clothes that I need when dying or whatever, the rest goes to four rape crisis shelters in Los Angeles. I think of the whole thing as relaying money from one dubious source to others that do very good work, and desperately need the funds."

I have to think about that, although I still have strong doubts about the way she is supplementing her income. Perhaps The Talmud is right (it usually is): "Do not attempt to understand your children. They were born in a different time."