plus ça change
I was going to make today’s post a diatribe about the iniquities of our leaders and the wickedness being perpetrated in Syria but quite frankly, I believe that my poor readers need a break from contemplating the parlous state of human interactions. I am no peacenik, in fact I’m notorious for wading into battle when provoked but I struggle to see the point of raining missiles on the heads of the poor Syrian people who have surely suffered enough. Why the megalomaniac superpowers are choosing to fight a proxy war in Syria is a complete myustery to me. If we really believe that Russia is a pestilential rogue state that we as the world’s policemen must deal with, put your money where your mouth is. Direct the Hellfire missiles at Moscow and St. Petersburg. When they retaliate by levelling St.Albans, Bordeaux, or Cincinnati and we meet that consequence with a needs-must shrug, then I’ll really accept that we believe in our actions. It doesn’t seem to matter who is in power, we end up with warmongering psycopathic behaviour. All this aggresion based on a level of ‘facts’ and ‘evidence’ that would not secure a shoplifting conviction in any court of law. The argument seems to be ‘ Assad is highly likely(!) to be using chemical weapons even though he has all but won the war, and the Russians are helping him in ways we can’t prove. I know! Let’s bomb the Syrians. That will put an end to this nonsense.’ It is all inexpressibly depressing. Sorry, turns out I couldn’t help the diatribe after all but it royally ticks me off. This is what Syria used to look like before the sons and daughters of Belial decided to destroy it:
In a bid to cheer us all up, I will move to the much saner world of design, where coffee tables cost £10,000 and beds are £25,000. OK, maybe not so sane after all. Salone del Mobile is about to kick off, hurrah and huzzah. In that spirit of creativity and exuberance, today’s images include the oh-so-beauteous pendant light by Chiara Colombini, street art by Vhils, a mental gold kitchen by Stine Goya of Reform, and Fabio Novembre’s art furniture. Brought a smile to your faces I hope. I look forward to updating you on the wild fruits of designers’ imaginations as Salone goes on. I leave you with some poems to cheer us all up. Have a lovely, peaceful week:
The Orange
By Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
I was married to a widow, she’s as pretty as can be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in lover with her, and soon these two were wed.This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life:
My daughter was my mother ’cause she was my father’s wife.
And then to complicate the matter, though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.This bouncing baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
and so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
for if he was my uncle then he also was the brother
of the widow’s grown-up daughter, who, of course, was my step-mother.
Father’s wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter’s son.
My wife is now my mother’s mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she’s my grandmother, too.
Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
Husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.
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