There's a lot in this world to scare any rational human being. First up would be our Prime Minister, trying to sound sincere. After all the puffery and wounded feelings of the past week re the saleof Kiwibank, he's finally (so National Radio tells me) said that Kiwibank will never be sold as long as he's PM. This guy changes his mind as quickly as he reads the polls. The man is a prat, his cabinet is a bunch of prats, and that evil gnome he calls an ally is... well, an evil gnome. History will, I'm sure, grace Rodney (Skeletor) Hyde with a special approbium, but evil gnome will do for now.
The Israelis, meanwhile, find it convenient to maintain a steady plan of shitting into their own nest. I can understand that they don't want arms being introduced into the Gaza strip: how else will they continue with their barbarous subjugation of a people? But surely they must be able to find a way of differentiating between an AK57 and a can of baby formula. I'm pretty sure that I, with a little training, could tell the difference.
Speaking of which: the so-called flotilla of blockade-running ships. Why did they all stick together? All they did was present the Israeli Navy with one large target. If there was, say, fifty boats (I heard that figure once, but didn't hear a confirmation) then wouldn't it have made sense to scatter? Perhaps some may have made it through....
I saw a terrifying commercial on tele: falsies for bums. Once upon a time, last week, the eternal question was "does my bum look big in this?" Now, because men have always answered hom=nestly (yeah, right) women are buying padded knickers, to make their arses look bigger.
I was at a so-called "Rest Home" the other day, delivering bbooks, being Saint Library. I was in a corridor, and checking out which room I had to visit next. An old lady came out of her room and asked me if I knew the way to the dining room. They make these places as geographically impossible as, well, possible... so I told her I had no idea. I turned away, to do whatever the hell it was that I was doing, and I heard her say "I'm so frightened". And she was. It was the most chilling thing I've ever heard anyone utter.
I really don't want to get that old.
Reading: Christopher Hitchens, "Thomas Paine: The Rights of Man". We have no idea how fortunate we are to have been born into this period. We have no idea how rich and free we are. And it's all due to a few astonishing pople like Thomas Paine.
Listening To: Kings of Leon, "Only By The Night". When I grow up, I wanna be a rock star.
Watching: The last episodes of "Lost". No, I haven't seen them yet, and I know it's supposed to be a real dismal effort, but I still have to see for myself.... sucker.
More "Paper Heroes":
.....Secondly sir: there’s some bloody funny business going on with them behind us: the other sleeping ones.”
“Paulus – stop the Activation!” snaps Cienwyn.
“Would do if I could do. But we were sure the first ones would be out of the room before the second Activation started. Stopping it will kill them, and we can’t do that. First rule, Cienwyn.”
The First Rule, taken from the Hippocratic Oath of so many centuries past: First, do no harm.
“Yes. Forgive me. Well.” Cienwyn leans back, and watches the activity. She makes the only decision she can. “Very well, close the door. Keep them in. Are all three awakening now?”
Adam answers, “All three: Grey, Prester, and Hanno.”
“Well, this could be interesting. Get Charles back. Let him know what’s going on.”
The three sleeping figures are now under the bright chromatic flickering, and the Crayne and his companions have to raise their hands to cover their eyes.
“Gentlemen, if you insist on staying in there, please turn your back to the light. It may damage your eyes permanently. The noise is going to become deafening, so cover your ears with your palms, and keep your mouths open. Do you understand? Cover your ears, and open your mouths.” Cienwyn’s warning is almost unnecessary: all three men are blinking back tears from the light. They turn as the strange window goes opaque again.
“What the hell’s going on, Crayne?” Blunt shouts. There’s anxiety in his voice, but it’s under control. Crayne is impressed by the Englishman and the big Irishman’s poise. The noise in the room has built up from the low hum of air-conditioning machines to a steady rumbling thunder.
“It’s my guess that they are like us: dead men, being revived, reawakened.”
“Oh, holy Mary, mother of God,” cries Whistler.
The light and sound plucks at their clothing, whips their hair about like frenzied snakes. As one, all three fall to their knees, then huddle down, covering their ears, keeping their eyes tight shut, and their mouths open. Screaming.