Of bubble-wrap and coloured cables

And there is also this: Of bubble-wrap and coloured cables

Check that out occasionally, there will be regular additions unlike this poor, abandoned blog.

The Alphabet for Adults

I'm missing those alphabet books we had as kids. Lovely illustrations and a word or phrase for every letter reduced the entire language into a manageable twenty-six pages.

Times pass, and the comfort of that tiny package of language has long since been forgotten.

So here's the alphabet again, re-written to suit the exigencies that three decades of existence impose.

A is for Apple, for Eve ate one naked
B is for Butchery and other entertaining sports
C is for Caroline, who was struck by an axe
D is for Dunces, for they never get a mention
E is for Eric, the small, yellow, plastic pencil sharpener
F is for Fuck
G is for Gallantry, as evil deeds done gallantly earn respect
H is for Happiness when tears subside
I is selfish
J is for Jelly and organs that wobble
K is for Kameroun, that is not spelled that way but should be.
L is for Laughing at other people’s expense
M is for Making love with your socks on
N is for Neville, the naughty colour
O is for Surprise on a little girl’s face
P is done within the lines
Q is for Quirky, as if you had any doubt
S is for Steve, a sausage that means business
T is for Topazium, the fifth element
U is for Unctuous, a word with too many vowels
V is for Valhalla, an afterlife to die for
W is for Wallace and his seven mystical accountants
X is for X-Ray because Xylophone just won’t do
Y is a question on a young lady’s mobile phone
Z is for Zulu according to an ancient mariner

Text

She stepped into a bright night
Brighter than any night should be
Stars the size of golf balls shone
Fiercely the moon lit every shade

Clearly something was amiss
Nights have no right to outshine day
And yet she seemed unperturbed

A huge dog stood right before her
Larger than any dog should be
Eyes the size planets glared
Fur on end in furious rage

The bright night lit razor fangs
The angry brute prepared to pounce
And she hasn’t seen a thing

Then the world turns upside down
And inside out and wrong way round
Galaxies coil, spill their guts
The sea boils blue, the sky blood red

Below her feet, gaping void
Above her head demons despair
And still she will not blink

Delicate fingers, nails so pink
Brush an errant hair aside
And absent eyes of hazel grey
Peek at a small device

To her despair
There’s nothing there
He hasn’t even called.

Terrain in Spain - Seat Leon 2006

Here's the report from my test-drive of the Seat Leon 2006.

February briefly interrupted its onslaught and graced us with glorious clear skies for just enough time to take Seat’s dramatic new cub through its paces.

Hard as it may be to test a car without preconceived ideas, I felt little guilt associating this car with the rest of the vehicles in the VW stable sharing the Golf platform. It is, after all, the Seat offering for the C-segment, and like the rest of the C-segment, it has grown out of the cheerful slim-fit jeans-and-t-shirt into a more beefy guise.

The front of the Leon is where one can immediately tell that this car has grown. The pointy nose gives way to a long curvaceous bonnet, interrupted briefly by the neat grille introduced on the Altea and headlights that shamelessly follow the clear-lens, integrated cluster formula that became mainstream in the late nineties thanks to its ageing cousin. A gash in the side of the car claws all the way from the tip of the headlights, up through the doors and tears back down to the rear wheel-arch. This joins forces with a high rear-end to provide the car with an aggressive stance, sitting on its haunches just waiting to pounce. Seat have been touted as the Alfa Romeo of the VW group in terms of design and the concealed rear door handles are an acknowledging nod in the direction of these allegations. The rear-sloping roofline completes the coupé look that Walter de’Silva had in mind when working to fulfil a ‘sporty elegance’ brief.

Cosseted within the cocoon-like cockpit I was impressed by the build-quality of the interior. While not as revolutionary as the Citroen C4, it is a move away from the rest of what this segment has to offer. Most other cars in this class seem to have resorted to bland interiors when addressing a market that reads all about concept cars but goes out to buy a Ford Focus, so the sporty interior of the Leon is a welcome change. The leather steering wheel is easily manoeuvrable to enable a comfortable driving position without obscuring the red and white illuminated instrument panel. A multitude of buttons, switches and mystifying controls are scattered all over the steering wheel, wiper and indicator stalks, and overflowing onto the centre console. The function of most of these is self-evident and their location convenient, however there were a couple that will force an embarrassing delve into the user manual. The only serious gripe with the interior is the broad, sloping A-pillars that have the driver craning all the way forwards when trying to negotiate an intersection.

Starting up the entry-level 1.9 TDI raises some objections from deep within the massive snout but the chatter resolves after a few minutes of driving. This diesel has been tweaked into compliance with the Euro IV emissions standards. Quite a feat then, when a pleasant amount of torque is delivered from an engine that emits less pollutants than our receptionist who lights up the occasional silk-cut. While not particularly nippy, thanks in the most part to the scales tipping in at up to 1400 Kg for this model, the torquey engine provides enough acceleration for most day-to-day situations. The 140 BHP 2.0 TDI boasts a huge 320Nm of torque and is probably a better match to the sportive demeanour of the Leon. The engine line-up also comprises three petrol engines, the entry level 1.6 Litre and two 2.0 Litre FSI engines, the range-topper boasting a turbocharger that pushes power up to 185 BHP. Still, one cannot help but anticipate the forthcoming Cupra for a reputed 240 BHP of carnivorous muscle.

The tight chassis and suspension setup are the real treat that this vehicle has to offer. Starting off from the superb Golf underpinnings, the Spanish setup manages a stiffer and more sporty ride, with less body-roll and more enthusiasm for bends, while being tuned for Spanish rather than German tarmac. This terrain-tweak is possibly what accounts for the way in which this car masters Maltese roads, suspensions making up for erratic camber while the huge amount of rubber and air in the 205/55/16” tyres soaking up the bulk of tarmac terrors.

ESP, TCS, ABS and EBA provide sufficient acronym assistance to keep the Leon on track under most circumstances. The little TCS (traction control system) indicator inside the instrument cluster protests occasionally by flickering at the indulgent driver but that is all the intrusion you can expect to notice. Switching off TCS, on the other hand, can provide more fun by a torque-steering front end and a tail that is keener to slide outwards when provoked. Don't try this at home unless an adult can supervise your experiments.

The excellence of the suspension could have been complemented by even more sound-proofing to deaden noise within the car. Somehow wind and road-noise, while not unpleasant, sounded louder than other cars in this class. This is made up for by the in-dash CD-player that played Saint Germain reasonably well through six speakers that are carefully blended into the interior. This can be upgraded to an all-singing, all-dancing, MP3 playing 8-speaker setup, a recommended upgrade since the dash won’t permit straightforward aftermarket modification and neither will the style-police.

The Leon starts at a rather steep Lm 10,100 (€24,000) for the entry-level 1.6L and Lm 11,700 (€27,500) for the entry level TDI. Both offer a very high level of standard features that include a silent and efficient dual-zone climate control, air bags to protect all occupiers of the spacious cabin, electro-mechanical power steering, electric windows, Radio/CD and more acronyms than you can shake a stick at. Moving further up in the range, a host of interesting options and gadgets that were previously the reserve of more upmarket vehicles are made available.

The Leon proves a worthy C-segment contender, with a class-leading suspension and interior, an engine line-up worth exploring and a dramatic and exciting design. As tested, the Leon stands for the area in Spain it is eponymous for, vast and steeped in heritage. It will need the power afforded by the larger engines to truly dominate the plains and eat its competition, growing into the adult Leon that this cub is only too eager to aspire to.

The Simpsons IRL

Someone went through the bother of acting out the Simpsons opening sequence. Excellent job IMHO

Drawings of Muhammed

Face of Muhammed - Drawings of Muhammed


This blog has the 'offensive' images displayed. If we censor satire because of this kind of imagery, freedom of expression in every form will be in serious jeopardy.

Danish cartoons and the Islamic overreaction.

I refer to the recent spate of gratuitous violence that has been sparked by a couple of cartoons in Danish newspapers. It really confirms that Muslims will do anything to kick up a fuss with feigned righteousneess.
While they deem satire to be offensive enough to incite riots and violence, they conveniently ignore the countless videos of decapitation of non-Muslim prisoners disseminated by Islamic fundamentalists.
We all remember that every prisoner in Iraq met a bloody fate that was carefully documented and widely disseminated.
From any perspective, the beheading of an innocent prisoner videotaped with the intention of horrifying the Western world is far more radical than satire, especially in the form of a cartoon.
I would like to see the reaction of the Arab world had the videos been taped by anyone else and showing the beheading of a Muslim. I really hate contemplating the outcome of the reverse of this situation.

Exiles Haiku

Inadvertent art?

Listen to two blondes as they stumble, backsides firmly planted on their seats, through sentence after sentence of inane rants of little consequence. An art form emerges...

I told her and she

Was like, "Oh, my god," and I

Was like, "Oh, my god."

Fools! You travel the earth in search for a higher art form and it is here, cute and dandy, sitting on red, metal Coca-Cola chairs, not more than a few hundred metres from the place that you were born.

Balkan Chronicle 2

Last you heard for me I was heading out to hunt for the basic necessities. Well that I did, buying cheap cigarettes and a turnover that promised 'cheese' but was probably lactose intolerant. I walked around a bit and am at a loss for a concise description of this place. People and cars act as if the other didn't exist so every pedestrian who isn't killed accounts for a small miracle. Shops have a hit and miss approach to stock, so the most unlikely combination of items jostle for space on shelves labelled in Albanian, priced in Euros, and held together by string for the most part. It seems like there are no laws that enforce schooling and children play in the streets quite happily during the morning. The atmosphere is a relatively mild one with no real extremes, maybe similar in a way to North African cities and the Islamic influence can be felt occasionally. There is no religious fervour, no wailing from minarets, no ladies covered in black and no suq selling dubious shisha and silly carpets. Only the satellite dishes stuck to every rooftop and balcony face the Mecca but it is only because free-to-air satellite comes from that direction. Stalls, little shops, tiny shops and holes in between buildings sell an enormous amount of mobile phones, phone cards and cigarettes. Judging by the abundance of these wares one would think that every man and his dog in Kosovo spent eight hours a day sitting around, chatting on his mobile phone while chain-smoking. Curiously enough I saw none of this.

The city has no soul and no centre where all convene. There might have been either, or both of these but it must have been bombed into last century and is having trouble getting back here in a hurry. While shopkeepers wash the floor and pavement fastidiously, this cleanliness is restricted to their own turf, and common areas are most often in an appalling state of disrepair. There is no real sense of discipline, such a lack of it in fact, that the void it leaves is perceptible even to a Maltese person like myself. Parking just happens. Wherever a car can fit, there is bound to be one, parked at an odd angle to the pavement, on the pavement, touching a wall, peeking innocently through Osman's front gate. There is also a curious lack of fat people, especially considering that they eat plenty of fried and grilled meat all the time. They are also lucky to be quite genetically gifted, a privilege that girls tend to display in a truly non-Islamic strutting of wares at all times of day.

Next stop, Bulgaria. Our planned route was to drive out of Kosovo, into East Macedonia, skirt Skopje, then cross the country to leave the car on the West Macedonian border, where we would then take a taxi for the two-hour drive to Bansko, a ski resort in the Bulgarian mountains. We left Kosovo at around lunchtime which warranted a stop for lunch about half an hour out of the city in a Serbian enclave. The difference is that unlike the Albanians, they care about their surroundings and so Serbian enclaves, while not walled or in any way delineated, can be told by their lovely red brick houses, tidy gardens and clean surroundings. The restaurant was excellent, service polite and cordial and a huge meal for both of us cost around Lm3.50. An auspicious start to our trip. Well, more of an epic journey than a trip, but at that point we believed it would be a trip.

We then drove across the border into Macedonia where the customs and border police waved us through at the sight of a big white UN vehicle and the hint of a light-blue UN passport. We then passed south of Skopje and started travelling east along the motorway that eventually leads to Athens but turns off towards Sofia, Bulgaria. The sign that indicated Sofia was missing since a new motorway was being built and signage considered an unnecessary luxury so we cheerfully drove south, stopping several times to ask for directions. It was one of those unhappy situations where the navigator and driver are the same person, who happens to be too proud to buy a map despite the insistence of a totally disoriented passenger. We eventually backtracked for about an hour, drove through a murderously tricky mountain road towards the promise of a Bulgarian border, bought a map, and made it to the border on the southernmost tip of Bulgaria at around 10pm. We were harassed by Macedonian police, allowed to walk into the no-man's-land, only to be harassed once more by their Bulgarian counterparts. We were eventually treated to a stamp and a grunt and begrudgingly waved onto Bulgarian soil. A solitary taxi driver was waiting at the border, chatting with the lonely chef of a restaurant that depends on the occasional maniac who crosses that border and he was talked into driving us to Bansko, a two hour trip deep into the heart of Bulgaria, home to the best ski resort in the region. I cursed the time of year, packed my little bag into the back of his ailing Mercedes, and gripped the edge of my seat for the unexpected nocturnal rollercoaster ride.

We arrived at midnight, and throwing a defiant birdie (not the golfing term) in Baden Powell's general direction, we were spectacularly unprepared, having neglected to take the address of the hotel we were staying at. We finally found the place and I was overjoyed to find out that it was a gorgeous 5 star but somewhat dismayed that a minor detail such as advance booking was missing and that they were overbooked. Although the pavement seemed smooth enough, the chill dissuaded us from pursuing that kind of lodging arrangement so we coerced a sleepy night receptionist into calling another hotel and booking for us. The 5 minute ride to the hotel down the road cost us almost as much as the two hour ride from Macedonia but we gratefully flung our bags into the princely suite that was provided and set out on foot to find a restaurant. Never have a bottle of Merlot and half a pig gone down so well.

Bright and early next morning we woke up and headed out to discover what the town had to offer. We were met by a surprisingly anachronistic blend of top-notch ski shops and horse-drawn carts, 200 year-old wooden houses in pristine condition and designer hotels that look like an Italian furniture catalogue, poncey faggot cafes and communist statues, and cars ranging from the classic Trabant to the latest German Vorsprung durch Teknik.

All around, towering snow caps provided an alpine backdrop to the hundreds of taverns and cobbled streets and the river Glazne noisily rushed through town as if in a terrible hurry to put a large distance between it and the Pirin mountains where it originally came from. I kept looking for a banner that said 'Under Construction' with a silly animated man-and-shovel because hotels and apartment blocks are practically springing up overnight in a flurry of over-zealous capitalising on the sudden metamorphosis that this town has experienced. What was a small agricultural village until a couple of years ago is now host to thousands of tourists from Bulgaria itself and from all over Europe who turn up in drones seeking virtually unspoilt trekking in summer and fresh snow throughout winter.

The food varied from good to excellent and was consistently cheap and generous. The only downside was the difficulty communicating with serving staff who insist on repeating themselves in Bulgarian slowly and loudly hoping that the change in rate and intonation would prove to be of sudden enlightenment. Ordering sparkling water verged on impossible so I found myself describing the product. I ask for "Water." She goes "Voda?". My reply, "Da, voda." Then I twist my fingers around an imaginary bottle cap and say "Tssss", imitating the sound of sparkling water. "Ah, soda!” And my flawless Bulgarian reply, "Da, soda." Sorted.

All this naturally had me in a snap-happy mood, whipping out my camera at every possible occasion to shoot as representative a selection of photos as possible. When I was finally pleased with my little collection of pictures, I tried to review my oeuvre only to be greeted with a large yellow, cheerfully stylised question mark on my camera screen and the cryptic message, "Corrupted data". I am not the type to deal with such calamities with a resigned "Oh, bother." and I cursed the digital entrails of my memory card, wishing it stretched upon an electronic rack until it's hexadecimal sinews ripped asunder, causing whatever pain the bloody things can possibly feel. I was ruthlessly overcharged for a replacement card that unfortunately only had one eighth of the capacity of mine and tried to make up for the lost pictures but as clichè as it sounds, there is nothing that can quite recapture the moment.

On a lazy Sunday morning an open-air market gradually occupies a portion of the pedestrian area. Unlike other markets I've seen, the Bulgarians are in no hurry at all and at ten they're still arriving and unpacking their wares with a slovenly disinterest. They sell shoes, carpets, original Pioner (missing 'e') speakers, more shoes, blood pressure monitors, more carpets, bits of old bicycle, more shoes and live rabbits and chickens. The latter are slaughtered on the spot when you're satisfied with the beast of your choice.

Having had breakfast we decided not to contribute to the homicide and headed back to the border, this time with an ancient grey man in an ancient grey car, sourced by a friend of a friend of an ex-UN lawyer who saw us there with the meticulous caution of cuddling porcupines and charged us more than a taxi would have. Once again we were mercilessly harassed on both borders by obstinate uniforms, that could possibly have contained intelligent bipeds, who were evidently bored and exacted exaggerated vigilance upon their only charge for the day. We reached our forlorn truck that beeped a warm welcome and started tugging our starving bodies back towards Kosovo.

Every mile or so was marked by a noisy rumble from my protesting stomach. Beef, poultry, rabbit and other highly palatable sources of sorely needed nutrition were present in huge abundance but unfortunately were still blessed with the ability to move and I was in no mood to chase any of them. I decided to ignore the fact that I was ravenous and enjoy the surroundings. Driving through Macedonia is very similar to driving through France in many ways. Old furrowed, weathered men stand at crossroads, ready to frown at you and bark directions in a foreign language, refusing to speak English. A good road finds its way through vast, fertile plains that are punctuated by endless vineyards, gentle hills and dark green valleys between dark dreen hills that join forces to gently steer a crystal clear stream towards the rivers that dissect the country. Solitary cows allow a solitary farmer to hang on to the end of a short string and in most cases one wonders which of the couple is taking decisions. As the cow turns to choose a different leaf to nibble, it waits for the farmer to pause his introspective rumination and eventually change direction as well. Men and women of all ages can be seen bent over double at all times of day, their hands buried deep inside the brick red earth, buttocks pointing towards the sky in a backwards nod of gratitude to whatever deity provided this year's bounty. As the sun sets, entire families and their harvest pile onto wooden carts and are slowly hauled back to the village, the dark wooden structures a deadly peril on roads that make up for the lack of lighting by providing a plentiful supply of blind bends and dips.

We made our way past Strumica (pr. Strumitsa), Radovis (pr Radovish) and almost past Stip (pr Shtip) when our collective hunger drove us into the village in search of food. This one-cow town was quite picturesque but only hosted one restaurant that would feed hungry travellers on a Sunday afternoon. I ate a horrible burger that swam in enough oil to keep Siberia warm all winter and some cold and droopy chips. We asked for sparkling water, causing the bubbly owner of the place to run out of the restaurant and return five minutes later, beaming like a celestial floodlight and bearing a bottle of water labelled "Good Water" in large blue letters. It all tasted horrible but was just as welcome as all the other delicious meals we had enjoyed.

A relatively uneventful trip back 'home' to Pristina (that's Prishtina to you) was interrupted for a brief shopping spree at a brand spanking new supermarket that carried absolutely everything you could possibly imagine, possibly to satisfy the needs of all the 'internationals' (ex-pats) that live in Kosovo. It even stocks a huge variety of pirate CDs and DVDs to ensure that wholesome family entertainment is available at a price to suit all pockets.

Balkan Chronicles

Here's an email I sent to a few friends about my first twelve hours in Kosovo.

I'll try to get my initial impressions down now that I have access to email, and hopefully provide you with a more enlightened installment once I've actually managed to walk around this place.

Flying in on a small Alitalia jet accompanied by a small herd of Arabic-speaking men who hardly fit inside XL t-shirts and looked like a rugby team was a bit unsettling. Could be the sheer size of them, the language they spoke, the shaved heads, the menacing attitude, the insistence on vegetarian meals, or simply the stories that have made the press about this kind of situation on a plane leading to rather rapid and unplanned landings that caused that mixture of excitement and apprehension.

When we had descended below the thick cloud cover, the Macedonian landscape started to rear its mountain ranges, stark and grey for the most part except for jagged gashes of red rock, scars on each facet of the topology that seem to warn incoming travellers that further scars have yet to come. These dipped suddenly into gentle, verdant hills, furrowed along their length by winter streams, to give the appearance of a giant green brain, ruminating on all that they have had to witness with the numbing pace of continental drift. Another sudden drop gave way to a vast flat plain that was dotted, sparsely at first, then more thickly as we approached Skopje, with red brick houses. From time to time we flew over very regular rows of dull steel huts, possibly stores or factories, that had fallen into disuse but retained their rigid grid-like structure when viewed from above, echoes of a not-so-distant communist past.

The pilot did not land the plane so much as drop the thing out of the sky and hope that the runway was somewhere in the neighbourhood for the event. This had everyone struggling to keep their seats and attempt to appear composed but the chorus of loud thuds inside oversize chests was most likely audible from Belgrade. We walked across a runway into an airport that was evidently a recent affair, where some form of grandeur was present at planning stage but only the delusion remained in the final execution.

I was scrutinised by a Macedonian police woman who wore her fringe with an almost patriotic pride, skipped through the empty pages of my new passport with unsuppressed disdain, chose a page at random, and then stamped it with an apocalyptic finality. Never have I been made to feel so insignificant, such a meek instrument on the cosmic scale of things, such a useless mayfly trespassing on precious Macedonian soil. Armed with this new confidence I found myself on the street outside the airport, with no such thing as an arrivals area so that there is no interface between the passport control queue and the world outside.

I was immediately confronted by a dozen friendly faces who solicited their taxi service shamelessly and pushed each other aside in an attempt to take me to wherever it was I surely didn't want to go as long as they had secured my fare. The more vociferous of them asked me whether I was waiting for someone and I nodded dumbly and said "My Friend" for god knows what reason but I was still feeling rather intimidated and very, very confused. He immediately told me that no, my friend wasn't coming, he had forgotten about me, and that I was going with him. He would take me to Skopje and find me a hotel. He also knows the restaurant where I'm having dinner. I listened for a while then asked him whether I could smoke there, a question that he wasn't prepared for and interrupted his script. Floundering he accepted that I wasn't accepting his offer and went on to pester some other hapless traveller, this time a huge Nordic man who must have inspired much of their mythology, looking Thor-like and possibly of the same proportions.

I walked out of the throng and made my way to a small open-air cafeteria with eight tables and ten waiters. Labour is cheap in Macedonia. Daddy picked me up a few minutes later and we headed out North towards the border with Kosovo in a white 4x4 with UN written inconspicuously in 2 foot-high letters on each side of the vehicle. It beeped frantically whenever we hit the speed limit and informed the powers that be that we had committed this crime. On our way to the border we overtook a convoy of about 12 army tanks, hospital and supply vehicles and a police escort. We stopped ahead of them and I tried to take a couple of pictures but they climbed out of the bellies of the metal beasts they were riding to wave angry fists and even angrier Kalaschnikovs at me. Bad move.

Back into the jeep we finally reached the border and I decided to take a photo of the sand-bags and artillery. Bad move? Of course it was a bloody bad move. A police woman came up to the car smiling, and politely asked me to go with her. Internal battles were raging inside her since she was livid at my audacity but had to retain dignity when faced with a UN vehicle. Fumbling with the seat-belt I dropped the memory card inside the car and followed her to the police station like an obedient puppy. She rattled off in Albanian to two soldiers, hands on hips. Holsters, actually. Eventually I got out of it by convincing them that I had no card inside by brand new camera and that I was just practising.

Off to Pristina then, capital of Kosovo, a bit more cautious with the snapping this time.

The hour and a half drive from the border to the capital revealed a countryside with plenty of natural beauty and human interference that attempted to reverse this. Shops the size of my car sold a few apples and bottles of water, scrap-yards with hundreds upon hundreds of deceased vehicles rubbed shoulders with shops that seemingly existed purely as purveyors of rubber ducks. Plastic, it turned out, since many shops sold a small variety of plastic items, each 'specialising' in the range of items sold. So all of god's handiwork on whatever day he created plants was cruelly mimicked inside a shop that attempted to sell crude plastic representations of global flora.

At the same time, poncey,new, glass-clad buildings were erupting at haphazard intervals, glorious European architecture surrounded by the now-familiar rubble, like a steel-and-glass phoenix rising from the ashes of a recently-torched countryside. These are all evidence of new investment that is somehow focusing on small patches of land while ignoring the surroundings. Quite why certain patches are chosen for development remains quite a mystery since these new buildings seem to spring out of nowhere, and around them the car-sized 'shops' and mounds of metal or construction waste grow unchecked.

Another striking feature that hardly blends into this landscape was the presence of a disproportionate amount of advertising billboards, advertising cigarettes, the American School in Pristina, and a few other consumer products. The smokes and the school, however, alone dominate the vast majority of square kilometres available for public perusal.

Into the city finally, we enter a twisting and turning maze that diverted us through ramshackle shops and minarets, casinos and mosques, kebab restaurants and tobacconists. The first impression is that of a typical Islamic town that has been infused with a certain degree of communist architecture and the crass commercial in-your-face advertising of the glorious West. The latter factor is possibly the most incongruous. We drove through quite quickly but I'll be walking around soon enough and will be able to provide you with more detail later on.

Dad's flat turns out to be the only one in a neat and brand new house, with the landlord and his wife living on the ground floor and renting out the first floor to justify their investment. They seem to be obsessed with security, cleanliness, and for some bizarre reason, carpets, so each step has a tiny carpet to itself. The flat itself is comfortable and airy, with windows all around, an excellent level of finish and a massive car battery. An attempt, it turns out, to make up for the power cuts, the occurrence of which ranges from weekly to daily.

Straight on the house of an American judge for dinner with another 6 judges. Dad was the youngest of the bunch of these so I was delivered a healthy dose of discussion about the technicalities of the farce that they call a judicial system. They entertained Article six from the European courts, separation of the church from the state, delays in the Italian judiciary, systemic responsibility in Poland, and a mind-boggling array of similar fictions. They really don't get the point, do they?

I had to stop three incompetent female judges from boiling Barilla tortellini for 45 minutes. By the time I noticed what was happening, the poor little creatures, lovingly hand-wrapped by some Italian culinary artist, had been boiled until they were bursting at the seams, ready to spill their precious contents at any moment. By some stroke of good fortune the Italian judge had brought a sauce along, made with capers harvested on Pantalleria and this saved the day. Following dinner we convened in his sitting room where discussions went on about the fictions I mentioned earlier. As far as I'm concerned they droned on for at least another seven minutes at which point my head fell onto my chest and I snored my way through a couple of hours of "rumble, rumble, blubble, bah, blah...."

More soon...

The Horoscope

Horoscopes are a practical approach to astrology and its supposed influence on fate, that unfortunately guide the lives of many by describing one of seven common situations and blaming it on the position of a particular star on a particular date. I am curious to know, if my destiny is so heavily related to a factor as random as my birth date, why there aren't hordes of people born on the 22nd of February queuing up to take my job, to go out with my girlfriend and to snatch my chocolate ice-cream out of my hands, since they too were destined to eat it?

Prejudice of ideas does, unfortunately, lead to one modifying her behaviour in accordance with what an astrologer had to say. "Help will come from unexpected quarters this week" will make her more receptive to, and less suspicious towards the hundreds of helping hands that we normally refuse out of pride and basic mistrust. Then listen while she attributes this stroke of luck to the position of Jupiter.

How about a new approach that separates people by their role in society? This seems to be a more reliable criterion by which one can attempt mass predictions and is logistically easier to manage collective destinies. The column would read something like this:

The Unemployed
This week will see
the start of an intense
and fulfilling romance
in the workplace....

It might serve as an incentive to find a job and modify the destiny of those in need of a job rather than of all those hapless individuals who were perchance born on the same date, regardless of their needs, desires or marital status. Do marriages break when a receptive young lady is suddenly on the lookout for an intense relationship at work when her relationship with her husband happens to be undergoing a brief, probably transient, stressful period?

Lawyers
This week will be an
opportunity to perform
an act of kindness towards
a new acquaintance. This shall
not seem like the best course
of action but will be ultimately rewarding.

I needn't go into much detail here but the rewards that patience with clients offers over the prospects of immediate cash benefit both of the involved parties. It is a pity that most lawyers I know are far too rational to bother with horoscopes and are so convinced of their status of quasi-deity that they know that they're in control of their destiny. Good for them.

Telephone Salesgirl
It might be a good idea
to remember the golden rule:
Do unto others as you'd have
them do to you. This should be
your guiding light this week.

Now that would minimise the amount of calls to convince us about the benefits of a life-insurance-policy-including-funeral-expenses that have the uncanny habit of striking half way through dinner.

We are preoccupied with belief and religion, fate and destiny, good and evil and other concepts to distraction, yet rarely pause to disentangle the barbed hooks of all that is spiritual from the confused fishing line of our rationality. So if I believe in one almighty and benevolent God who knows All and decides All, then how can I simultaneously believe in the effect of a barren ball of molten rock a million miles away?

It is true that priests and rabbis and other members of the clergy have found a convenient way of going about the unexplained or inexplicable by blaming it on some god or other (others in some cases) while taking the merit for all that happens the way we wanted.

And so religions evolved and converged, then bickered and diverged and in general followed the tortuous history that we all know and revere. The religion that we were fed as children, along with healthy doses of cod liver oil and the antics of the Dukes of Hazard, served to mould us in a way that kept us mentally "healthy", avoiding evil and seeking truth, so help me God. We grew in the knowledge that the deity we believe in and fear will guide us and will keep us from harm, accepting, on the other hand, that the harm that befalls us is God's will and we receive it with a resigned impotence. How is it then, despite fervent prayer and adoration of artefacts that represent our very own deity, that we can give two hoots about what the clever usurpers of our predisposition to superstition decide to feed us? Is it the stars or is it God that decides?

This leads to another equally ineffable query. Are we polytheistic by nature despite our firm declarations to the contrary? Polytheism lasted much longer than monotheism has been around, with gods that stemmed from nature being around ever since man the farmer had the time to look around him and wonder about the scale of all that surrounded him. Monotheism is a much more recent concept, and was only introduced four thousand years ago. We do, however, unwittingly regress to the primeval polytheistic nature by splitting God up into tangible Saints and the other ecclesiastical nonsense that we revert to when in need of immediate succour.

Are the stars and resulting horoscopes merely an addition to this desire to hedge our spiritual bets when attempting to believe in that which we can't see or feel? We're not quite sure who or what is actually operating the strings in the cosmic puppet show so we're cautious not to make unnecessary enemies. It is true that belief is, by its very nature, uncertain but querying this is regarded as heresy so we don't dare express this. Since it happens to everyone at some point or another, the wholesale dishing out of a Saint for every occasion not only reduced the fervour of belief in a single God, but paved the way for other pagan superstitions to enter our lives, aided and abetted by residual belief in one of the oldest gods known to man, the stars in the sky.

Newsworthy?

Food for thought.

Follow that link and have a long and hard thought about the gradual changes that have happened to you but that you haven't been slow enough to notice. Gradual in terms of the rate that governs your life. Rapid in all other terms.

Black on white has changed in terms of true credibility but retained far too much credulity. The rift widens as the ease with which we can submit bollocks to the web increases.

As we increasingly refer to blogs and other posts for information, the line that divides news from opinion blurs. How many times do we quote a 'friend' during a conversation without stopping to think that we have never seen this 'friend's' face. Nor do we know his real name for that matter.

I am not predicting the doom of truth, nor am I undermining the value of opinion. I am urging all to raise the bar, to contribute towards their own personal quality in the hope that this will be reflected in the quality of their output.

Blog for the ages. Remember that a blog is for life, not just for Christmas.