Sunday scribbles - IIL

I just had a quick scan of the daily papers before I cracked open blogger.com: and I was so upset. I just felt like weeping. My life has, truly, been devastated.
Firstly I read that Paris Hilton, 28, has been arrested for cocaine posession. My heart just about stopped. Surely that drug it was planted by some malicious cop. I mean - Paris is kind of like, gee, Sister Mother Teresa of Calcutta to me, y'know?
Then I read a truly heart-warming story: it was right under the nasty cocaine story about my heroin, Paris Hilton, and it re-affirmed my love for her. It said that Paris Hilton, 29, had always wanted to be a teacher or a veterinarian, and if she'd had had the chance, like a couple of breaks y'know, she would have been, and she loves little children just liike Sister Mother Teresa of Kowloon, and loves animals too and has 17 dogs so there. I wish someone could have given her a break when she was younger. The world's just been so cruel to her, holding her back from her real ambitions.
Then there was a story about Heidi Montag, the poor thing, and hown she regretted the ten plastic surgery procedures she had in November, and how her new G-sized breasts made it difficult for her to work out, and how she'd like to have her breasts reduced to D, or possibly DD, but her mean plastuc surgeon just killed himself in a car-crash,and she's so sad 'cause no-one else can shrink her breasts. That bastard had no right to get himself mangled when she still needed him. Men!
Come the revolution, I can think of at least wto people who'll go to the wall... along with the simpering PR people and "journalists" who leech a living off these people's empty lives.
When I think of the astonishing women in my life, and the contributions they make to their families and society at large, and compare them to such individuals as Paris freaking Hilton and Heidi Montag (whoever she may be) and I know who I'd rather have at my dinner table..
Speaking of women: a Swiss ski champion was being interviewed about her sucesses at a South Island skiing competition. She was vibrant, good-looking, fit, and spoke with a broad Swiss-German accent. I was charmed to see her name: Fanny Smith. Excellent. The world is homogenising: Cockney Chinese, Innuit Malays, Russian Kiwis... give us another 50 years - time for the Islamofascist movements to die out - and we'll have Mexican Iraniains, Scots Saudis..
Actually, I don't know about the Saudis. With any luck they'll diksappear along with the dead-eyed Paris Hiltons of the world. I do not understand how we manage to ease our conscience by treating with the Saudis. They're a pack of murderous thugs, a nest of vipers, and they should be cleaned out. I mean - who do we think are financing the Afghanistani Taliban? Evil funding evil, but it's all right, ma - they have the oil.
Reading: Still on my BDAB, but it's going slow. Am also going through something called "All The Men Here Are Liars", but can't tell you the author's name. The book's on my bedside table, and Jenny's still asleep. Written by a lady journo who has spent a long time in Afghanistan. Brave, brave woman.
Listening to: Joaquin Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez", London Philharmonic, and a classical guitarist whose name is not recorded on the computer file. Just... excellent.
Doing: a jigsaw. Bloody hell, they're difficult. I haven't put a jigsaw together in 20 years, and I'm starting to understand why. You need buckets of patience.
More "Paper Heroes" :
Blunt’s smile was brilliant, and the cat gave a quiet snarl of pleasure.


The corridor they were going down was a faceless and formless as any others Blunt had seen the previous day. Once again, the only indication as to where he should go was the lights that glowed in front of him, and the cat, trotting along, long tail held straight in the air.

“ ‘Old it,” said Bill. “ ‘Ere comes your mate.” They stopped, and waited. After a moment or two, a section of wall opened up, and Sean Whistler stepped into the hallway. At his ankle was a twin to Bill. “Morning, sir,” said Whistler. “Sleep well?”

“Better than we ever did in Spain. I see you have a cat, too. Identical to mine, by the looks.”

“Don’t know whether I’ve got the cat, or the cat’s got me, sir, if you know what I mean.”

“And not quite identical,” said the cat, in a mellow contralto voice. Blunt grinned, and said “I see. There’s a fundamental difference.”

“I should bleeding say so,” squawked Bill, indignantly. “Can’t you smell that she’s a she?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Just as well you’ve got me around, then. Gordon bleeding Bennet, sis: he couldn’t even hear you.”

“’Umans,” she sniffed. “No hearing, no eyesight. How they became the dominant species I’ll never understand.”

Bill swiped at her, and turned to Blunt. “Boss, I’d like you to meet my sister. What name ‘as ‘is nibs given yer, then, Sis?”

“Clementine.”

“Oow, very classy.”

Clementine purred, twined around Whistler’s feet, and pounced ahead, Bill following fast after her. The two cats trotted ahead of the men, looking back occasionally to see that they were being followed.

“Sir,’ began Whistler. “I don’t know that I’m overjoyed about any of this. It’s a fine thing being alive, so it is, and no argument. But in a place where the cats talk, and there’s dreadful fookin’ music coming from the walls, and tables pop up from the floor: sir, I’m not a happy man.”

“Wait ‘til we get a full belly, Sean. And I think we can drop the Sir business. You’re not in the King’s army now.”

“Ain’t I, sir?” Whistler’s tone was sour. “Did you not notice that Charles chappy? Same goggle-eyed face as that mad bugger King George, sir. Got to be related. Put that together with the fact that we were press-ganged, sir, and we’re in the army, right enough.”