A tour of the closed sites

Silvia Montfort (1923-1991) was a mere slip of a girl of 16 when she joined the Resistance. She had been born in the Marais area and went to school at the lycee Victor Hugo. In 1939 she joined the Eure-et-Loir network under the command of the man she would marry, Maurice Clavel. Her mother died early in Silvia’s life and her father wanted a life in a Gobelin manufactory for Silvia but she had different ideas.

Our hotel is in the Marais and we walked by the house where Silvia was born this morning. After the war she became an actor, a comic, a director, she worked on films and plays and…well, she did heaps of stuff. Unlike us today. Because of the strike, we basically just wandered from unopen site to unopen site.

The strike, on the other hand, spawned a great tear gas ridden riot. Not that we knew about it in the Marais. At one stage we were walking parallel to the Seine when 15 black Marias sped by, sirens screaming. I can only imagine they were off for a bit of quelling.

While we didn’t see anything of the riot, for some reason I overheard quite a few American conversations. There was the couple trying to find a second scooter and the woman who was telling her husband that she had “A bit of fluff on my eyelash.” And many more.

The scooter thing is interesting. Last night we kept seeing discarded scooters littering the streets. Sometimes in the gutter, sometimes leaning against walls, sometimes just lying all forlorn sprawled like some Oktoberfest Kiwi draped across the footpath. We also saw lots of them in operation. Scooters; not Kiwis.

Think city bikes but without a seat and you get the idea. There are ten separate companies operating across Paris and each one has brightly coloured electric scooters. You use the app to connect to the machine than you scoot around the city, paying per half hour. The price varies but it’s reasonable.

The scooters are capable of speeds of up to 50kpm, which is a bit scary if you ask me. Mind you, given the streets, I’m not sure you’d ever get that fast.

A rare sight: scooters in a scooter bay

I didn’t see any charging points so how they are recharged is a mystery. I imagine they have a GPS tracker in them in order to be located. Maybe they then get hauled off somewhere for some juice. Though I haven’t seen a spot where the fully charged ones congregate. It’s all very interesting but a little confusing.

I was surprised there were any scooters around at all. Or bikes for that matter. With the national strike starting today and it was as if the whole of Paris was asleep. The bit in the Marais anyway.

Most shops were open but largely empty, bus stops were collecting only dust and art galleries were closed. We know because we wandered by a few. Mind you, we didn’t wander long, first thing, before stopping at a very French cafe for a coffee.

Coffee and croissant – how Parisian are we?

And we stopped at a fair few coffee/tea shops today. We also ate at a truffle restaurant which was, as far as I was concerned, heaven. They even had truffle ice cream but, sadly, had sold out. I did manage to have a truffle creme brulee though, which was very interesting. In a good way. (There’ll be a report in the creme brulee page soon.) My pizza was divine and worth the carbs.

Truffle-liscous

After lunch and a bit more wandering we managed to find a tourist site that was open. It is a cellar. It is also very old. The pillars which are holding everything up were built in the 13th century and are Gothic. The first house on top was built (after the cellar) for a bunch of Cistercian Monks. The idea was for them to use it as a central distribution centre for the produce they brought into Paris from the countryside. Sort of like the greengrocers still do today but without the arches.

It quite reminded me of the undercroft in Guildford though not in as good a repair. The reason for this, the lady said, was because of the many changes of buildings above. Of course I only think that’s what she said. As soon as Mirinda had told her we didn’t speak French she decided to explain everything in French. Very quickly and with great enthusiasm.

At one point the monks decided there was more money in real estate than vegetables so they decided to rent the place out. It whole block was converted into three separate buildings full of rental properties.

The building continued to change usage until October 1961 when it was decided to demolish it.

It was saved by a group of people who didn’t feel that its destruction was warranted. Nowadays, it is the headquarters of the association Paris Historique, who look after and restore it as best they can with limited funds.

Possibly the most interesting thing the lady showed us was the plan that Corbusier had for the whole Marais area. He would have the whole place completely flattened and a load of cross shaped towerblocks plonked in a gridlike pattern. I rather like his houses, but his plan for the Marais sucked big time.

Before we left, our chatty guide took us upstairs to show us a light well with the original wattle and daub walls and a very long garderobe. It was rather cold. The lightwell not the long loo.

We did see another site. A church. A big cold and unwelcoming behemoth of a thing. It’s the Church of Saint-Gervais-et-Saint-Protais that once had a very old and famous tree outside. The tree has gone (Bob reckons it was worn down with dog’s peeing on it) but, sadly, the church has not.

Mind you, it does have quite a good reason to be so gloomy. In March 1918, a long range German shell landed on it. The bomb killed 91 people at a Good Friday service when the whole roof collapsed onto the congregation. It also wounded 68 others. It was part of the Paris Bombing of 1918, something I’d never heard of until today.

Our day sort of stopped at about 5pm when we returned to the hotel for a siesta. Then, following a couple of beers in the bar, we headed across the road for tapas. I was very keen to go because they serve grilled sardines.

They were delicious

Back in the safety of our room, I had an urgent and abrupt appointment with Mr Toilet. I think the steak tartare from last night had decided it had had enough of my gut and wanted out. There was nothing else I could think of and raw beef does have form. The appointment went on well into the night and completely emptied my body.

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In defence of Communism

The Polidor would have to be one of our favourite restaurants in Paris. This visit, because we had Bob with us, we wanted him to experience it with us. Having checked into our hotel we went for a long, long walk. And, while the food and the bench tables and the lack of booking are all still there, they now accept plastic. The sign which proudly proclaimed that they hadn’t accepted a credit card since 1845 has gone. I saw someone pay with a card.

Needless to say that was a bit disappointing. Though the food and wine were both excellent and the atmosphere was exactly how we remembered. My steak tartare was amazing.

I was sort of amazed that we actually made it. Emile had picked us up in a taxi at 9am, assuring us we’d be there in heaps of time. And, to be fair to Emile, he was right. What Emile didn’t know was that I’d built in a Mirinda Buffer on top of the time he allowed. This meant we managed to arrive with an hour to spare.

Needless to say, the traffic was horrendous. I don’t know if it was because of the train strike or simply because people didn’t want us to go to Paris, but it was chockas. Mirinda was getting a bit toey in the front seat but I was watching the satnav and I knew I had some secret time up my sleeve. I knew it was going to be fine.

And Emile is a very calm driver. He managed to talk to Mirinda for most of the journey filling her head with all manner of things. Like, for instance, how the Communists weren’t that bad in Bulgaria. For one thing they ensured that the rivers were very straight. I guess it’s always going to be much easier when you only have one opinion and everyone shares it.

So, we pulled up outside St Pancras and headed for the gates, tickets clutched, passports brandished. It was smooth as silk, mainly because there wasn’t many people on the train. This might be normal for the 12:24 of a Wednesday Eurostar but we’ve never caught it so…

Everything was simply lush as we headed out of London. There was a moment of confusion when Bob asked for red, white and rose when out meal was served but it was quickly explained away and things just chugged along perfectly.

Happy travellers

At one point I went to the loo and found myself selfconsciously walking through a carriage full of National Police who looked at me with a strange suspicion which I can only imagine came with the basic training.

First thing this morning I dropped the girls around to Sue and she told me not to post photos of my food because it made her salivate uncontrollably. I tried to promise her to comply. In the interests of her sensitivity, I include this photo of my Eurostar lunch.

Finis

Arriving at Gard de Nord, we were whisked through everyone else and given priority status for a taxi. I had no idea why until Mirinda assured me it was because I had a walking stick. I really am quite thick sometimes. Anyone who has joined the long snaking queue outside Gard de Nord taxi rank will tell you, getting priority is not to be sneezed at.

We were very quickly heading down to the river and the pretty little boutique Hotel JoBo, our rooms for the next few nights. JoBo stands for Josephine Bonaparte (whose name wasn’t Josephine). The taxi driver was happily practising his fractured English, telling us about the big strike. I was quite pleased that I could not just follow his words but also joined in a bit as well.

After the mandatory Mirinda inspection of every room in the building, we settled on the one the receptionist had decided she’d like in the first place. Rather than unpack we decided to take advantage of the free welcome drinks in the bar. Well, Mirinda and Bob did, I had a beer, not being a big fan of voluntary champagne.

The JoBo Bar

It was soon time to work up a full sized appetite with a 15 mile walk to the Polidor which we managed in about an hour. It was totally worth it. On the way we passed the sadness that is Notre Dame and lots of lovely little shops that Mirinda is determined to revisit in the daytime.

Having eaten our fills we then walked all the way back to the hotel where we, eventually, went to bed.

An excellent and easy start to Paris 2019.

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When a cow farts the earth moves

Bob arrived at sparrows fart today so, to celebrate, we had a lovely discussion which included the power of farting cows. Using human intelligence as a measure, we decided it wasn’t as bad as vegans make out. We also decided going to Mars was silly.

For some reason, Bob loves landing at Heathrow at around 5am. Poor Carol, I assume, had a very early start to her day as she headed off to pick him up. Hopefully she had a granny nap before hitting the school run.

Having arrived and taken up residence on Emma’s recliner, Bob settled back while I headed to the gym and shopping.

Actually Emma is not happy with Bob. She keeps giving him scathing looks. We don’t know why unless it is because he keeps sitting on her chair. This is entirely possible. She does think she owns four chairs in the house.

Eventually, Bob went to the Bush to check in and have a shower. He also had a lie down but insisted he didn’t sleep.

Mirinda, in the meanwhilst, had a day full of very important phone and Skype calls. This was instead of going into town. Given the ridiculous strike, it was preferable to do it from home.

I took the girls to the park after lunch and ran into Kate, Daisy and Harley who I’ve not seen for ages.

Bob returned for dinner (sea bass on Mediterranean veg) and for more evil eyes from Emma.

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How about I pay you NOT to do it?

A month ago I accidentally went to the Talking Newspaper studio in order to record the Monthly Magazine Edition. I’d forgotten that I’d swappd with Judy. This morning was the session I’d swapped into so, once more, I set off.

Given it was such a great success a month ago, I went to the gym first then to Neros for a latte before making the journey through Farnham. The traffic wasn’t bad and the air was not as toxic as it is earlier in the day. Actually, because I take as many back lanes as I can, I tend to miss a lot of both.

I only noticed one example of inconsiderate parking.

Builders are allowed to do anything

The truck is parked across the dropped kerb which means anyone with a wheelchair or stroller or small children…actually, everyone coming from Bear Lane…has to walk around and step up from the gutter. There’s no reason he couldn’t have moved backwards or forwards in order to free up the access. Well, apart from the fact that he clearly doesn’t think of anyone else.

Still, apart from that minor inconvenience, my trip in was delightfully unimpeded.

And the weather was beautiful. Cold, crisp with blue sky and sunshine. A delight.

The Monthly Magazine is a bit different to the normal newspaper recordings. The Presenter prepares everything and the readers just read. Generally the readers are presenters. It’s a doddle and, to be completely honest, I rather like the lack of responsibility. I was asked once if I’d like to be one of the magazine presenters. My head was shaken vigorously at the suggestion.

Today it was David presenting and John E reading with me: The Three Wise Men, as David introduced us given it was the Christmas magazine. He amended it to four when he realised that he’d left out Charles, our engineer.

David had given me three stories (and a couple of poems) two of which I rather enjoyed. The other one, titled Ring of Red, had me fuming inside. I read it sympathetically but I thought it was a horrendous idea.

It’s a group of motor cyclists who, each year, get into a long convoy and ride around the M25. They wear red, the idea being to create the world’s biggest poppy. The fact that they are just burning fossil fuel and making a right racket at the same time seems to have escaped them.

Not that the charitable work isn’t worthy. It’s for service personnel via various organisations. No, it’s the idea of pointlessly riding petrol driven vehicles that make a lot of noise around in a circle that annoys me.

Still, my other two stories were good. One was a historical one and the other about a woman who trains dogs. She trains dogs to go into schools and be there to help kids who may have behavioural issues. The piece had some delightful photographs of caring puppies.

When I told Freya about it, she wanted to send an email off to get into the programme.

Smart dog

A very worthy thing indeed. I don’t mean Freya’s laptop abilities.

On the way home I decided it would be an excellent idea to pop into the Nelson’s Arm for a sneaky pint. I texted Mirinda telling her I was having one. This obviously had the effect of negating any sneaky aspects to it but still…

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Strikes, strikes, strikes, stupid annoying strikes

On Friday I was happily researching the final names on the Walton on Thames memorial when I had an urgent email from Eurostar. It seems there’s going to be a huge, unpleasant general strike in France next week. It’s going to last until December 8 which, unfortunately, was the day we were scheduled to return from Paris. But no, there will be no trains.

We were given two choices: cancel or book something after the strike is over. After a bit of soul searching, and considering the fact that Mirinda was unavailable for comment, I decided to opt for an extra night. I figured she’d not want to miss out given it’s (sort of) to celebrate her graduation. So, now, rather than returning Sunday we’ll be back on Monday morning.

But, while the French national strike is annoying it’s not as bad as the stupid South Western Railway guards who are having most of December off because they think they are more important than the people who pay their wages. That’s the people who use the trains.

The traffic strike starts tomorrow, Monday. Today was beautiful by contrast. The weather was delightfully bright and crisp. The world was a joy of autumn chill.

And to celebrate, we decided to go and visit the Midhurst Craft Fair, something we first went to years ago but then never returned. It was on this weekend so we decided to forego a visit to a garden centre, instead heading off through the glorious countryside to Sussex.

For starters we indulged in a cheeky lunch at Fitzcanes Ice Cream Cafe.

The view from our table

We didn’t have ice cream. Instead we both had eggs (Benedict & Royale) though there was some confusion over who wanted what. No confusion with my hazelnut latte, though it could have had a little less syrup.

We were lucky to find somewhere to eat. Fitzcanes was rammed so we, ever hopefully, reserved a table for ten minutes in the future. We then went for a stroll up the main road.

It was on our stroll that we discovered that everywhere in Midhurst was equally full. After five minutes we turned around and headed back.

Oddly, by the time we were sat eating our eggs, the place was almost empty. Clearly we had arrived at the Midhurst Sunday lunch peak hour.

Last time we attended the craft fair it was in Dawn’s old school (directly opposite Fitzcanes). This time, however, it was in Rother College where they name their classrooms after poets. (I mention that merely because Mirinda’s place has names for rooms rather than numbers.)

The fair was fantastic. Lots and lots of beautiful handcrafted pieces in all manner of materials. Many things that we wanted to own but resisted.

I would have loved some of the bowls but couldn’t work out where to put them. These days, like the t-shirt rule, if I buy anything for the kitchen I need to remove something to make room. I have to justify it. Sadly, I can’t.

Mirinda was very strong in resisting some truly beautiful jewellery but did not resist a stunning little wooden box. It looked very Japanese with an unusual lid. Perfect for the display cabinet in the library.

Having wandered all the way round we then headed back to Max for the drive home.

After such a gorgeous day, the weather was turning a bit steely grey. There were some sharp little showers which felt like tiny shards of ice but were never enough to make anything wet. In fact, the weather could not be described as wet by any stretch.

Back at home I made pork with green butter and played fetch with Emma along the extension to the front door. While obviously not as good as a walk at least she had a bit of a run.

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The amazing floating aerodrome

The first successful landing on a moving ship was performed on HMS Furious by Squadron Commander Edwin Dunning in his Sopwith Pup, during trials in early August 1917. This followed the first successful landing on a stationary ship by Eugene Ely in 1910. Before that it had been mostly balloons rather than aircraft.

Mind you, while Dunning’s success no doubt heralded a great feat in aiming, flying and sailing, it was, after three goes, banned. The fact was that to land on HMS Furious a pilot had to not just negotiate a ship moving on choppy seas but also dodge around the massive flight deck. In fact, poor Edwin managed it a second time then died trying for his hat trick.

Given my love of all things maritime (I do like a good anchor) I was, frankly, amazed at discovering that I’d never heard of the amazing HMS Furious. I’d heard of the extraordinary Bermuda Floating Dock so why not the Furious?

Originally launched in August 1916, she was a converted Battlecruiser. While not that extraordinary, what she was converted into was. She was to become a launching pad for air raids on the German coast.

Being a Royal Navy ship in 1917 meant that the planes were part of the Royal Naval Air Service up until April 1, 1018. Then both the Navy and Army arms of fly-boys were amalgamated into the all new Royal Air Force. By this time, HMS Furious was being used to successfully annoy the German Zeppelins and the sheds in which they resided.

Then, on 19 July 1918, seven Sopwith Camels took off in order to raid Tondern, a German Airship Base at T√łnder on the Danish coast.

By Photographer not identified. “Official photograph”. – This version : U.S. Naval Historical Center Photograph.Source: http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/sh-fornv/uk/uksh-f/furis-6.htmAlso :This is photograph Q 20627 from the collections of the Imperial War Museums (collection no. 2700-01), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=395624

(Originally there were to be eight planes but one of the pilots was ‘called away’ beforehand. It left no time to train another pilot so it was down to seven.)

The idea was for the planes to fly off in two raiding runs, bomb the hell out of as much of the Zeppelin stuff as possible then fly back. Unfortunately the day it was planned for was too stormy so they put it back 24 hours. Then, the next day, in the wee small hours, they took off for the coast.

The raid was only a minor success and if you factor in the loss of planes and one pilot, not so much. Still, for whoever had the idea of using the Furious as a floating aerodrome, it was a major success.

The pilot who died was Flight Lieutenant Walter Albert Yeulett. While some of the planes headed north to land in Denmark the others headed back to the Furious. Yeulett was in the latter group. However, he had difficulties with his plane and ditched in the sea. He died as a result of the crash. His body was recovered and buried in Denmark. He had only just turned 19 a month before.

Walter (Toby to his family and friends) was posthumously awarded a DFC for his great bravery. Small consolation but at least a recognition.

The whole HMS Furious Tondern Raid is a fascinating episode in a ridiculously pointless war. It shows the ingenuity brought out in times of military need.

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Mr Stabby and the Brave Ones

London Bridge (as opposed to Tower Bridge which Americans seem to think is London Bridge) is pretty unlucky. For some reason, dickheads like to kill people on it. They like to strap knives to their hands and slash and vent until as many innocent people as possible are lying on the ground. They like to keep at it until some kindly police officer puts them out of their misery. It’s a good thing there’s no afterlife because they are so awful that they’d probably keep doing it there too.

At least at today’s outrage a group of normal, ordinary people jumped in and immobilised this freak, disregarding their own safety in order to kick a bit of shit out of this poor excuse for a human being. It’s nice to know that he possibly suffered before being dispatched. He deserves nothing less.

I can’t help being angry about terrorist attacks. However, what also makes me angry is how, at a time when we all seem to hate each other in a country divided by stupidity, we have to be attacked in order to work together. Why can’t we do that anyway?

Two normal people died on London Bridge today because a maniac with a blade and gaffer tape decided he wanted to take their lives. Apparently he was on early prison release for terrorism offences. He deserves nothing less than the swift death he received.

And on a day during which I completed the Walton on Thames memorial, researching the equally pointless deaths of young men who were brainwashed into thinking the enemy was not human. It’s all just a bit too depressing sometimes.

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Melting moments are not just biscuits

Today was another great morning, crappy afternoon weather type day. I had a Talking Newspaper for Haslemere so half my journey was lovely while the other was threatening a drenching. As it was, I didn’t get rained on.

Lovely morning

Oddly enough, my team was almost identical to the other week when I was presenting the Farnham edition. Even more odd was the fact that both sessions were a swap with another presenter. Mind you, I do rather enjoy working with Lindsey and Penny so it was good.

The other reader was Mike who I haven’t seen for a long time. I thought he’d given up. His wife also reads and she’d been saying how he’s been unwell. Then, today, Mike said how he’s trying to give up but, until the end of the current roster, Tony can’t do it.

I kept an eye (and ear) on him in case he needed rescuing but he managed okay. The poor man. He’s a lovely fellow but does not look well. Mind you, as he told me today, he and his wife are probably the longest serving Talking Newspaper volunteers so retirement has definitely been earned. He remembers recording at the Maltings onto cassettes which was many years ago now.

The recording went well and fun was had by all (I think) including Tim our engineer – he’s new but fitting right in with the usual Gaz Mayhem.

Of course, on the way home, I was astounded by the degree of inconsideration shown by motorists as they did whatever the hell wanted through Farnham. This guy, for instance, decided he could take up most of the footpath because he had to visit the newsagent just around the corner to the left. Probably buying a Daily Mail.

Total arse parking!

Then, probably my favourite for a while, this huge lorry had come down Castle Street to turn into the Borough. Naturally the driver was so important he was allowed to completely block the road and encroach onto the footpath without regard for anyone else.

Rude truck pig man!

Speaking of inconsiderate arseholes…The Leaders Climate Change Debate on Channel 4 tonight featured two ice sculptures which slowly dripped away as the heat of the studio lights warmed them up. The ice sculptures were imprinted with maps of the world indicating the state of the planet.

At the bottom of the ice sculptures were two logos; one each. They replaced the two leaders who aren’t interested in the planet, the fate of their children or anything but themselves. One was in place of the Conservative leader while the other was for the Brexit Party.

L-R: Nigel Farage, Jo Swinson, Nicola Sturgeon, Adam Price, Jeremy Corbyn, Sian Berry and Boris Johnson

I understand the Brexit Party no-show because they only have two policies: Leave Europe and make Nigel Farage wealthier than he already is. I don’t understand why Boris Johnson didn’t attend given he’s supposed to be the leader of the country as well as the Conservatives. Unless he’s scared or, possibly more accurate, has to do whatever the Trump acolytes dictate.

Maybe both because he’s quite good at putting his foot in it and is just a Populist Puppet.

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Alice Day 2019

Following on from yesterday’s diatribe…today, Jeremy Clarkson said that Greta Thunberg is an idiot because she’d ruined this year’s car show. How pathetic is that? He claims that since she started going on about climate change and greenhouse gases destroying the planet, young people had lost interest in cars. More likely because he’s a dinosaur that has yet to die out. The last sentence is mine.

In an interview with a muck raking rag, he said “Everyone I know under 25 isn’t the slightest bit interested in cars – Great Thunberg has killed the car show.” That’s pretty amazing for a 16 year old and she’s probably quite proud of her great power and influence. Also, of course, his services will no longer be required and he’ll become a sad, old man without a job, rather than a sad, old man who is paid great wads of money to burn fossil fuels and make lots of noise.

Apart from that annoying bit of news, there were three big deaths today. Clive James (who regularly updated his own obituary), Gary Rhodes (chef and all round nice guy) and Jonathan Miller (described as a ‘…theatre and opera director, actor, author, television presenter, humourist, and medical doctor.’) Most unexpected was Gary Rhodes who was only 59.

But enough of world affairs…here in Farnham the weather was beautiful at first then went into the kind of decline I’m becoming increasingly used to. In fact, walking to the gym was in bright sunshine, under a blue sky and, by the time I left, it was grey, wet and miserable.

There was a bit of change for the better at around lunchtime so we took the opportunity for a bit of a ball chase in the park which was enjoyed more than yesterday, particularly by Freya.

Most of the day was spent doing our tax, something I always put off until it really HAS to be done. How much easier it would be if I devoted a little bit of time each day to it rather than a mad dash at the end of the year. I guess that’s what happens when the tax office gives you so much time to get it in.

It’s not even winter and there’s already truck marks in the Dell

Mirinda had a particularly rough day at work and was glad to get back to the flat. She put on the flashing fairy lights and settled down in front of the telly for a bit of Star Trek: Voyager. I, on the other hand, have started watching a particularly poignant German TV series about climate change activists taking on the world…at least as far as episode two anyway.

And, in case the title isn’t clear enough, Alice in Wonderland was published on this day 154 years ago, which is way better than Jeremy Clarkson and his childish nonsense.

Jeremy Clarkson would rather this was full of cars
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Short sighted tunnel vision

The more the impending election creeps forward, the more I begin to wonder why we are governed by a bunch of old people (mostly men) who have no idea what is really happening. With the world either in flames, underwater or without clean air and water, they are arguing about religion.

This morning the head of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth, Chief Rabbi Ephraim Mirvis claimed that the Labour Party was riddled with anti-semites while the Muslim Council of Britain claimed that the Conservatives were all Islamophobic. How long, I wonder, before the Catholics and the Protestants start arguing over the politics in Northern Ireland? Then the Hindus can have a go regarding…whoever. It’s just ridiculous.

Unfortunately it’s all grist for the mill as far as politicians are concerned because they don’t care about anything but their limited tenure in power. At least when we were a monarchy, it may have been a dictatorship but the monarch had to think in longer terms than five years. (Or two in the present couple of Parliaments.)

It really, really pisses me off that the world is almost completely fucked and yet these twats are allowed to play stupid games. There won’t be a lot of point in religion when we’re all extinct. (To be fair, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no point to religion anyway but still…)

And, because of stupid, idiotic, self destructive Brexit, I have to vote tactically rather than for the best placed candidate for saving the planet. (It could be the same person of course but I doubt it.)

And when anyone mentions Climate Change, the politicians merely parade their list of ‘achievements’ for yesterday, today and tomorrow. I have news for them, the ‘tomorrow’ is unlikely to actually happen given their record of inaction ‘yesterday’ and this self servicing, power hungry, shit storm election of ‘today’.

But enough of that. Okay, it really annoyed me listening to the news this morning but the small things are what should keep me happy. Small things like the poor person who lost their glasses in the park today. I don’t mean that someone’s misfortune made me happy.

On the contrary, I think the fact that someone found them and placed them on top of the bin in order to help the person who lost them rediscover them, is cause for a smile.

For the short sighted

As the above photo indicates, we had a bit of rain today. As opposed to quite a few days so far this November, I did not escape getting wet.

Walking to the gym made me wet, walking home from the gym made me wet, taking the girls to the park made me wet and, possibly the worst, planting about a million bulbs in the garden made me wet. And muddy. In fact I think I spent more time wet than dry today.

Of course, Freya was a bit perturbed with having to walk in the park in the rain. Everytime we had a wave of rain she’d look at me with her plaintive look full of wonder and disgust. I eventually gave in to her and we cut the park short. Emma didn’t seem to notice.

The little white dot is an annoyed Freya
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