Looking forward v. much to a curry lunch with friends Andy and Diana Anderson at Higher Cartha Martha in Rezare, Cornwall. Some thirty guests invited including the Lord Lieutenant – just as well I brought a jacket and tie!
“When you make a moderate proposal, they will react with blank stares and look at you as if you were reciting the Swedish National Anthem.” So says Yanis Varoufakis the former Greek finance minister of negotiating with the EU. His advice to Theresa May is simple: don’t. If you make any concession to them you will finish up surrendering and conceding victory.
Now, the Greeks went into negotiations in a position of extreme weakness – they were broke and had suffered under years of economic illiteracy. GB Ltd enters negotiations in a position of strength. We no longer want membership of a club that is corrupt, whose books have not been signed off in an audit since it was founded and whose founders admitted that the principles of democracy must be denied to its electorate in case they decided they’d rather retain control of their own national governments.
Let’s hope TM follows this timely advice IF she wins the election with an increased majority. My advice is that in any negotiation you must be prepared to walk out, if the other side is simply not listening. Every indication is that they’re not and we haven’t even begun negotiations!
Despite the fact that I think that marathon runners in general are certifiably mad – many of then think this themselves – I cannot deny that those who set out to raise money for charities (as opposed to those who do it for personal glory) do a fantastic job every year. It would be unkind to pick out any single runner for special mention, when there are so many causes out there with their own participants and very special reasons, many of them involving heartrending stories of personal courage.
It is, however, particularly good to see the young Royals getting out there to encourage all the runners, not only those supporting their own particular charitable cause for more openness in bringing mental health in from the cold. Good luck to them all.
I will break my resolution not to give anyone a special mention and applaud Bryony Gordon of the Daily Telegraph for her superb effort and for her splendid interview last week with Prince Harry – for which she got a special hug.
I wrote this little poem after I found a desktop image on my computer that reminded me strongly of a stroll on a beautiful silver-sanded tropical beach in Brunei near the British Army Gurkha base at Seria many years ago. I was a long way from home, wife and growing family and missing them.
Sun dips over sandy beach, setting the sky ablaze.
Its golden orb flirts with mackerel clouds in the west,
Heralding change – tomorrow’s rain-swept haze –
But now the stage is set at its glorious backlit best.
A freshening wind stirs the sparkling wavelets.
They tumble onto golden sands with the ebbing tide.
White horses prance far out as the restless sea frets,
Impatient to shed their golden bits and cast their reins aside.
Apollo has paused to admire his golden tresses as he drives
His gilded chariot on to its haunted nightly flight,
East beneath the waves to where the new dawn strives,
Where now black velvet foreshadows approaching night.
Scenes of such beauty etch themselves on the mind,
Cherished memories – barefoot lovers hand in hand,
Lost in happiness, careless of the world – true love is blind.
Blissful moments. Paradise found in sun and sand.
It started wet!
I heard the milk float swishing by at seven.
Oh, never fret…
For dog, just getting soaked is heaven.
The Sun is up,
But rain clings doggedly to darkness still.
Our dawn patrols are growing dank and chill.
The field’s awash
And surface water glitters in the grass.
Dog loves a splash…
That sunbeam came and went as bold as brass.
The spray flies high
As pounding legs fling droplets in the air.
Stub tail is high,
Tongue waving wild – go near him if you dare.
Who dares to say our canine friends can’t smile?
This one can.
A smile miles wide, without a trace of guile.
White socks now black
Liquid mud turning beauty into beast.
Dog paddles back,
Innocence and mischief mingled – what a feast!
Now homeward bound,
Ears cocked, eyes wide, ever spoiling for a fight.
Oh, happy hound.
High stepping, nose quivering, breakfast now in sight.
Syston, November ’94
Eerie quiet follows sudden silenced radio alarm.
I sense the snow,
Cosy still – reluctant yet to rise – so snug and warm.
He’s there, of course!
Dog’s clock is never foxed by weather’s tricks.
I must perforce
Get up or else…proverbial ton of bricks!
A year old pup, he gingerly took stock of that first fall?
New game then!
We laughed until we cried…he had a ball!
He licked it first,
Then tossed fresh nosed-up chunks to left and right.
I thought I’d burst
When he pounced upon a snowdrift – what a fright!
He loves it still.
The joy that lights his eye as each winter glows.
Oh what a thrill!
A child’s delight for us each time it snows.
He ducked when snowflakes fluttered down?
No novice now,
He takes that in his stride – still plays the clown.
He bounds straight out
And charges off to mar the virgin field,
Then turns about
And rushes back to see if I will yield.
I stand my ground.
He leaps towards my out-stretched arms in glee.
I spin around
And miss my footing, falling on one knee.
He lands astride,
Full of fun and game for rough and tumbles any day.
A truce denied.
It’s play or freeze – no fear of growing old this way
Syston, December ‘94