This blog is about my plan to live in Italy for a year or so from Spring 2008 and my endeavour to find something to do, a place to live and to organise everything else.
Well, of course, some things are better shared than done alone, and exploring a city together with a nearest and dearest must be one of the most exhilarating things one can do together (well, after exploring each other, of course).
But one of the main little naggings of discovering a unknown location (and I refer to city centres here) with a female is that they want to know where they are going.
Tze, and where is the sense of exploring of the unknown in that?
So, some things if a man wants to do what a man has to do are best done if the man does so on his own – apart from that there was no nearest and dearest on offer to do otherwise anyway.
So, true to whole generations of (stubborn/male) discoverers I left the hotel, walked straight for awhile, before I turned right and then just followed the next big road. Walking along I quickly noticed that Leeds is a mixture of at city centre that had an amicable amount of old buildings (certainly more than Birmingham can muster in the city centre), followed by large areas of redevelopment – at which I decided to turn back.
Well, not immediately, I sort of turned right and walked along a bit before I turned right again. By my excellent navigation skills I reckoned that by now I should be heading back to the hotel again. During my stroll I passed yet more nice buildings of various descriptions, including one that looked like a town hall (eg big, with lots of column and a big cupola on top – ok, it could have been a dome as well, I guess).
Trotting along, two things happened, a) I got increasingly hungry, and b) the area looked less and less likely that it would be in the vicinity of the hotel.
Back in the scenario of walking with your nearest and dearest this would be the time where she would start asking:
Why don’t you ask someone? - Because I am a man, doh.
So, ignoring the rumble in my stomach, the fact that it had gotten dark and that the people looked increasingly scruffy and rough, I peeked around corners, glanced up and down streets to see if I could see something looking vaguely familiar.
Not really.
Eventually I found a tourist board that had a map of the city centre and discreetly peeked at it while lightening a cigarette to see if I could get a sense where I was. I have to say I was quite chuffed when I saw that I was actually quite close to the hotel – basically less than 100 metres.
Approaching the hotel I realised that I had actually walked a big circle, as I came up to the hotel from the opposite direction than I had left some two hours earlier.
And when I was back in the room looking at the map the hotel had of course provided as part of their service I found out that I had managed to see almost all of the major sites in the city centre, the City Square, the Town hall, Millennium Square, Leeds Bridge, the City Markets, the Corn Exchange, the river, the Brewery Wharf.
Of course, if I had been in female company, I would have proclaimed an indefatigable sense of orientation rather than pure chance to have passed all the tourist attractions as I did.
But having done so, I have to say that Leeds seems to be a really nice city.
It is said that the English are obsessed by the weather and that talking about it is their favourite topic.
Well, if that is so, I have been in England too long, as I seem to follow that same path (as friends on Facebook could vouch, as the first question I asked them when they returned home was about the weather).
Most seem to assume that the fondness of weather topics for the English is rooted in their somewhat awkward relationship with each other and to people they don’t know, eg that it is a result of their emotional repression. In order to overcome their reservedness towards other people in general, English choose a topic that will reveal very little.
The weather topic then is this unthreatening, unrevealing, uncontroversial topic all can agree on to say as little as possible about themselves and keep any personal relationship to a minimum.
Or...
Maybe the obsession with the weather is the result that the English as one of a few people have fully understood what influence the weather has on our mood. Most people will agree that if the sun shines, ones feels happier and more upbeat than then we are surrounded by fog, cold and rain.
This coupled with the fact that the weather is fairly changeable over here may explain the preoccupation with weather topics. Of course abroad, where weather patterns are more stable, it would not make sense to talk about the weather, and through that asking about your inner equilibrium, as it (the weather and the equilibrium) was the same as yesterday, and the day before and the day before that...
So rather than being aloof, talking about the weather is a good start to actually really enquire of the emotional state of the conversational partner.
So, how was my holiday, again as in previous years spend in Zeithain, doing an international volunteer workcamp ?
Well, as hinted in the headline, I departed from a fairly average situation here in England into summer, with brilliant sunshine and hot temperatures (only once or twice being interrupted by rain and cooler temperatures). And with this metaphor all should have been said.
As in previous years, the work was ever so slightly boring, as we were still digging for the camp road in the former Prisoner of War camp come nature reserve, and I have difficulties understanding the relevance of making ever more excavations on a road that we know is there. After all, knowing that the road must be going along the axis we can identify on old aerial photographs and the excavations we made previous years, not finding the road surface ( eg stones that were used to make the road) does not actually mean that the road was not there, juts that the stones for one reason or another are not any longer situated in that location (and the fact that the area was used after the war by the Russian Army as a tank driving range may go some way to explain the absence of stones).
But it was not the work, or even the weather that made the camp the best one in previous years, it was the people. Whereas in previous camps the group fragmented increasingly during the camp, resulting for instance last year in four different groups doing their own stuff over the weekends, the group this year largely stayed together, which resulted in all of us going to Berlin, meeting in Dresden one Sunday and apart from people who had made prior arrangements went all to Prague for the weekend after the camp.
I can only agree with what Luis, one of the volunteers, wrote in Facebook: “I'll never forget the "aasht", the "pf-pf", the "oh yeah!", the "nononono", the "chicken!", the "d'you know?" and all the words I learnt with you (Nasdravi, nasdrovia, nasdarovia, prost, siktir, otpadki, podpadki, "dabei, dabei"...)(I know that it's not the right spelling...), Berlin, Dresden, the Shisha Bar, Riesa, Kreinitz, the walk to the river, the elektro-punk concert, too many things I can't write here...”
And I am afraid you would have to been there to appreciate what brilliant time those few utterances stand for.
And as Luis also wrote, it was a wonderful time especially because of the people who were there: Luis, Marie, Agnieszka, Maciek, Richard, Šárka, Anastasia, Bor, Rakel, Farid, Rustam, Katya L, Katya G, Bärbel and Lucy
At the end of the camp 10 of us went to Prague, and if you know what happened last time I went to Prague with my car from Zeithain, you that I was a bit apprehensive about my car doing the trip. (to recap, last year, my car broke down, resulting in a longer than anticipated stay in Prague, a return journey to collect my car after the camp, and fine because I thought I could get away with not paying the Czech maut on motorways).
But this year Gertrude performed wonderfully. Not only had she managed to bring me all the way to Budapest at Easter, not this time she made the trip to Prague without any incident. Brilliant!
Prague also was just brilliant, blue skies throughout.
So when it came to get home on Monday morning, I was not looking forward to getting back to grey, rainy England (which of course it was).
Making the 14+ hour drive home did rely on me maybe catching a Eurotrain for the tunnel perhaps a bit earlier than I had booked. Normally that was not a problem, as I was able to get on earlier trains before.
But did you know that the second topic for conversations in England, after the weather, is public transport? And for good reason.
Because it is as crap as the weather – and unfortunately, conversations about the failings of the public transport system are exactly that, complaining about an abysmal situation of eternal delays – no deeper meaning in these sort of conversations.
And true to form, of course the trains through were delayed – almost 5 hours. So instead catching an early one at perhaps 22.00 and arrive home at about 1.00 in the morning to be able to grab a few hours sleep before I had to start work again, I dozed in the car waiting for the service to continue in Calais and then, taking an hour rest on some motorway stop, had to go into the office without proper sleep, still dressed very summery (in Prague in was sunny, remember?) in shorts, and without having had a shower for a very drawn-out day of work.
That it was cold, grey and rainy certainly described my mood perfectly at the time.
In fact, it has been miserable ever since here in Brum that I actually contemplate to take up the offer to go to Azerbaijan – the only fact that worries me slightly is the amount of mosquitoes they have there. There are so many that you can not leave the house in the evening.
Well, that must be why they apparently still use mainly donkeys for transport. A) they don’t break down so often as English trains, and B ) they move so slowly that they can part the clouds of mosquitoes easily; going by car would blacken the windscreen in minutes.... (ah, sorry,just another in-joke from the camp)
Well... you end up with a much shorter haircut than you anticipated or even perhaps wanted.
In preparation for my annual international youth work camp in the former prisoner of war camp Zeithain (and am I not this year appropriately hair dressed?) I thought I just give myself a little trim.
I got my hair trimmer, put on clipper no 2 on (7mm) and everything went hunkey dorey. I then took the clipper off to trimm the bit over the ears (always a tricky bit) and when everything was done I put the trimmer down.
I started to run my bath and when I looked up in the mirror I noticed a bit I missed when trimming my hair and automaticcally reached for the trimmer to cut the missed bit off.
No sooner did I realise that I did not put the clipper back on when I looked at a rather longish stripe of no-hair in the middle of otherwise perfectly trimmed hair on my head.
A few frozen moments later, and some wild imaginations of how possibly to rectify the situation that would involve not cutting off the rest of my hair as well I reached for the trimmer again ... and soon after the deed was done.
If ever I wanted to know how I would look once my hair would start to falling out, I now have a fairly good idea. Of course, the little bit of self respect in me said that I could pretend when others would comment, which they undoubtedly would do, that is was a the result of a lost bet... or that it was a friend who got it wrong... that I actually wanted the haircut because I had joined the Royal Marines...
But in the end that would just be silly, I never loose bets.
And after all, it will grow back.
Well, and of course there is also some good... like... grey hair, what grey hair?
I know, the title is a bit misleading as this is actually the continuation about the little alien under the skin of my wrist, also known as ganglion.
So, it was all about the ganglion that needed treatment, and so, after some trial and tribulations (see the first part of this story earlier on), I managed to see a nurse to look at it and make recommendations how to proceed.
Well, she looked at it, ever so gently squeezed it and said that there were three possibilities:
a) Leave it be as sometimes it vanishes by itself
b) Stick a syringe into it and squeeze the ganglion out and
c) Take a scalpel and cut it open.
Ah!
Not the one for any unnecessary blood and gore, I tentatively asked how long one would have to wait to determine if the ganglion would go by itself.
Shaking her head, murmuring something about "fear" and "hospitals" in my direction, she completely ignored my question and booked me an appointment with a consultant in the nearby City Hospital.
Hm, thanks.
A few days later a letter arrived confirming the appointment a few weeks later.
So the waiting began.
A week before the appointment, a letter arrived informing me apologetically that my appointment had to be cancelled and I would be informed about the new appointment.
So the waiting continued.
A few days later another letter arrived telling me the time for the new appointment - a week after the original one.
And I still waited.
2 days before the new appointment, a letter arrived informing me apologetically that my appointment had to be cancelled and I would be informed about the new appointment.
Ah, a case of deja vu.
A day later another letter arrived, telling me the time for the new appointment - in the afternoon rather than the morning.
Ok, no problem.
And yes, finally, finally a qualified doctor was looking at the ganglion, repeating the three options the nurse had already pointed out, and as with the nurse my initial enquiry was somewhat ignored and he stood up getting the equipment, after rhetorically asking if I would mind the "syringe" solution.
"Will it hurt?"
"Well, it is a syringe, so it will feel like a syringe going into the skin."
Is that a yes or a no?
And out came the syringe, the ganglion was disinfected, the syringe went in (yes, and it did hurt) and the doctor tried to suck the ganglion matter, a fairly transparent gelatinous mass, into the syringe. But whether the syringe was too small or the ganglion too solid, but not much came out.
Then, after pulling the syringe out, he squeezed the ganglion like a big pimple and low and behold he managed to push the gelatinous stuff through the hole the syringe had made.
Not the nicest view of my body I ever had....
Wiping the blood and ganglion away, the doctor nonchalantly mentioned that the chances of success and the ganglion not coming back was 50/50, but that he would not mind to repeat the procedure a couple of times if necessary.
Well, if I would be on that side of the syringe, I probably wouldn't mind either, I thought.
But instead I gave him a cheery "Let's see." and made my way out of the hospital.
Luckily, so far the ganglion stays gone, so no trip back to the hospital ... and may it never happen.
PS. Did I mention that I hate syringes? Just the sight of them makes me cringe.
I know, jumping a bit on the bandwagon here, but I have to say that the notion by the government of Iran that the video showing the fatal shooting of Neda Agha-Soltan is a fabrication, an attempt of the West or the demonstrators to provoke the government of Iran, is redicolous.
Of course, manipulation of public opinion is an old story and it would not have been the first time that “news” would have been fabricated to serve a propaganda purpose.
After all, even Hitler felt the need to stage a 'Polish' attack on Gleiwitz radio station as justification for the Invasion of Poland on 31 August 1939 rather than just outright admitting to attacking Poland.
And the Gulf of Tonkin Incident in August 1964 falls in the same category as the US cited two separate attacks by naval forces of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North Vietnam) on US naval forces were presented to the US public as justification for the large-scale involvement of US armed forces in Southeast Asia. Later it emerged that there were no such attacks on US ships.
In December 1989, it was reported that in Romania between 4,000 and 10,000 people had been shot during a local demonstration by the Securitate, the state secret police, which in turn led to a nation-wide wave of unrest, ultimately resulting in the fall of the dictatorship of Nicolae Ceauşescu. Later official counts show that “only” 97 people were killed in Timisoara.
And who could forget the fabrication of the baby-incubator atrocity, allegedly committed by Iraqi soldiers in Kuwaiti hospitals, witnessed by a Kuwaiti "witness" named Nayirah, which was harnessed to help drive a reluctant Senate into the first Iraq war and Colin Powell’s bioweapons producing train laboratories and in general the existence of weapons of mass destruction to facilitate the second Iraq war?
So, could it be “thinkable” that the video is a fabrication?
Sure, certainly.
That some of the reports can not even agree on the age of Neda – in some she is 16, in others 19 or even 27 or 27- and tries to make Neda into “the face of Iran’s struggle”, an “Angel of the revolution” while other reports insist that she was an innocent bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time may also raise doubts about the facts surrounding the origins of the video.
And of course the video is being made all the more dramatic by the flood of pictures now depicting Neda as a young attractive woman – so much so that the tragic circumstances of the other 9 fatalities of that day have almost disappeared. This exclusive focus on Neda seems again be all to convenient not to be the result of a clever, albeit ruthless manipulation done by the press (and other, more sinister, agencies?).
But what would be the motive of faking the video?
In all other cases the fabricated news were used to spark some kind of reaction.
In the case of Neda that reaction, eg the nation-wide demonstrations, were already happening.
Should the video be a tool to radicalise the demonstrators?
Perhaps, but the government of Iran had themselve already announced that there were fatalities (perhaps in an ill-fated atempt to scare people off the streets, as some reporters suggested. In that case, how better to achieve this by attesting to the veracity of the video rather than denying it.)
If the video is fake, if it does not show Neda, or anyone else’s last moments after being fatally shot; if Neda (or the person in the video) was not an anti-government demonstrator… why then did the government of Iran prohibit a proper funeral according to islamic traditions, why does the government ban to hold memorial services for her?
More than everything, it is the reaction of the Iranian government that belie their own words.
But in the end it almost does not matter if Neda was a supporter of the opposition or not, if she was “too western” in her dressing style for the government (as some of the pictures distinctly show her non-traditional islamic dress code)... if old men with beards are so arrogant to have their state forces fire indiscrimiently into crowds, if they are so afraid of an unarmed young woman that they deny her family a burial according to islamic traditions in a country that proclaims to be an “Islamic Republic”, then we may indeed have seen the beginning of the end of that particular brand of islamic government.
And the thought that this may be a result that Neda would have not been too sad about is the only little bit of consolation when you see those last moments of her.
As with most things, make up your own mind about what you see.
And if you think that this is a genuine video, that it does show the last moments of Neda/someone, spare a few moments to mourn the passing of a young life.
Is it just me, or is there a certain antagonism between women and airports?
Last year I brought a friend of mine, Bella, who had visited me in Birmingham to the airport. Ok, she lives in New York and was travelling for a few months before so I wasn’t too surprised when I saw her piece of luggage – a man(!)-sized wardrobe on wheels.
As she was flying across oceans that wasn’t a problem so far , but then she wanted to fly to Rome to see some friends before making her way to Australia. And slowly but surely running out of money, she wanted to fly with a low-budget airline and that was when things got a bit dramatic, if not traumatic (well, at least for her).
When we arrived at the airport with that rolling walk-in wardrobe of hers, Ryan Air flatly refused to accept her suitcase as it weighed in at a staggering 35 kilos.
They stated that for health and safety reasons staff was only allowed to lift suitcases up to 30 kilos. So off we went to buy another suitcase at the airport there and then to distribute the weight.
And back is was to the check-in desk - just to face the next obstacle.
Of course Ryan Air only allows one 15 kg suitcase per person and for every kilo more you payed £15 each (then). As even before there was 20 kg excess weight, together with the weight of the brand new suitcase it came to just over £350 in penalty.
Now with the checkout being close to closing and boarding to begin shortly, this was not the time to divide the belongings up in “necessary” and “not-so-necessary” (just to do that for all the pairs of shoes Bella had with her would have taken an eternity) and with me always willing to come to an aide of an damsel in distress it was a good thing that I had my credit card with me.
Funny as all this that was (now, a few months later), I thought that this would have been something of a one-time-off thing.
Well.
Today, this afternoon, I accompanied my friend Annalisa, one of my housemates, to the airport as she was leaving to return to her native Sicily.
Like Bella, she was running out of money.
Unlike Bella, she had sent some of her stuff via carrier days before and made sure that her suitcase did not come to more that 12 kg. So, what could go wrong?
We went to the check-in and the weigh-in went fine – 12,5 kilos. But then the lady behind the counter asked for the on-line check-in print-out. When I saw Annalisa’s eyes widening in surprise I had a deja-vu feeling coming over me.
Without the print-out Annalisa had to pay £40 for the airport desk check-in.
Did I mention before that when a damsel is in distress having a credit-card comes in handy sometimes?
Sigh.
Perhaps it will be third time lucky and next time I bring one of my female friends to the airport all we need are matches to light the cigarettes before she is boarding the plane.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to enjoy the sun and suffer
The pains and death from skin cancer,
Or to hide from the burning rays
And grow up with deformed bones,
Like the slum’s kids in Victorian London.
A few days ago I came across some interesting item that was reported in the News*
Yea, the Victorian childhood disease known as “rickets” is making it’s unwelcome comeback. Rickets is a softening of bones in children potentially leading to fractures and deformity, the predominant cause is a vitamin D deficiency.
Simpels, by exposure to ultraviolet B light (sunshine when the sun is highest in the sky).
But apparently, due to the hours of sunshine everywhere north of Birmingham (and no one mentioned in the News whether it would include the city or not), children increasingly suffer from Rickets, especially if they are dark skinned (as that makes it more difficult for the weak rays to stimulate the Vitamin D production in the body) or wear protective clothing for instance for religious reasons (-like the Burqua).
But then - even if the sun breaks through the northern blanket of clouds, you can’t just enjoy the good weather, because exposing yourself to the sun will give you skin cancer, as we all know since we are told every 5 minutes in "summer" (eg when it is a bit lighter during the rainy season).
…sometimes you just can’t win.
*So, you see, it is even for health reasons that I should go to Italy… if that isn’t a sign…
Well, that was interesting, we should do that again... not!
I halfway expected just a clerk to greet me, to go over the paperwork and give the verdict.
But life is always different than you expect, isn't it?
So, when I approached the building, I had a smoke and soon was approached by one other guy who apparently was waiting for the proceedings.
"What are you in for?" the asked conspicuously. A normal friendly question, if perhaps he would not have had a closely cropped hairstyle, big heavy boots and had a face covered in bruises.
"Erm, not paying a fine" I replied timidly.
"Oh, you be ok, mate" he stated generously. "For me it's prison this time for sure."
I suddenly remembered all those prison movies where the lifer advived the newcomer never to ask for why people are in for. So I went for "A long time?"
"Yea, probably."
"Ah."
"So, now I am having a drink before, been on the vodka." as if his breath would not have told me already. I found myself suddenly smoking a lot faster than I normally do.
He then reached inside his jacket, produced a vodka bottle and held it out in front of me. "Want some?"
"Ah, thanks, not just right now." And uups, my cigarette was just reaching the end.
"I better go in." I said.
With a toast of his bottle he waved me off.
And inside the magistrate'c court it did not get any better. There was an abundant amount of people with very short hair, and the occasional tatoo of "Love - Hate" on their knuckles.
I was not even sure what worried me more, my own feeling of relief that I had had a haircut before Easter so I did not stick out like a sore thumb, or the amount of smiling nods I received.
And before long, my new friend came in as well. Seeing his lawyer he whispered to him "Don't tell the court that I was having a drink outside." as if this odour and his uneven walk would not have give that away.
He then meet one of his mates, apparently in for his own trial, and began to talk to him. I did not catch everything, but heard words like "assault", "bodily harm and "bloody Paki" being dropped.
Looking around me I could only think "Oh, my God, let me out of here pleeeese, I am only here because I did not pay a car fine."
But then my name was being called, and the next chaper in the saga began.
It was like on telly, three guys sitting behind a raised table, the Court Clerk and the prosecutor.
While they were all sitting, I had to stand while my details were being confirmed.
Then the plea. "Guilty."
I explained that I just had forgot the renewal date, and that I tought that I had aready paid all I thought I had to pay.
That seem to take the Magistrate a bit by surprise, however the prosecutor rallied fast and said that this was a different matter as the the sums I had paid had to do with the actual non-paymant of the tax, whereas todays matter was about the fact that "the car was seen on the road without being taxed".
So how come that the sum of £30,82 that was mentioned on the court summons was the same as the one I had paid?
A little bit of hesitation on the side of the prosecution, and then the announcement that the prosecution would need to make a phone call and I would have to leave the court for a few minutes.
When I came back, the Magistrate said that they would take into account that I did try to pay the fine in time, and that they recognised that the tax due was paid as well, so the original fine of £100 was being reduced to £40.
Unfortunately, the court would need to ask for the £60 in court proceedings, so the combined sum would cone to, erm, £100- which I would have to pay immediately.
Brilliant!
Well, actually that is was not was I was thinking, that was more along the lines of "daylight", "highway" and "robbery" with images of men hiding their face behind scarfs.
But heyho, this was the law, and so I paid, and was duely dismissed by the court.
Well, I hope so. But I do have to go to the Magistrate Court tomorrow morning.
But really only for a formality... he says.
Well, it all started just before christmas 2008. I was just about to go to work when I found my car clamped outside the house. First I tought I had parked where I shouldn't have, but then I remembered "Hold on a minute, there is no restricted parking in my street."
And then I saw the notice that I had not payed the road tax (as could be seen on the taxdisk which quite clearly stated that my tax was due on the 31 August 2008).
So, a couple of phonecalls later, one to the DVLA to pay the tax (£185), one to the highway robbers who clamped my car who demanded £100 to release it I thought the affair to be settled.
How wrong was I. A few days later I received a letter from the DVLA stating that I had to pay another £40 for the 3 months the tax was due and a penalty of £40. But clearly that was it, I thought.
Wrong again.
A few days later I got another letter from the DVLA stating that I had to pay tax that was due and a fine. Like the first letter it "has been issued by automated process and therefore does not cary a signature". Assuming that my previous payment would have taken care of this reminder letter I ignored it, believing the matter to be resolved.
You guessed it, wrong again.
In March I got a letter from the DVLA summoning me to appear in front of the Magistrates' Court to answer for why I had not payed the fine.
So, tomorrow I will hopefully speak to a real person instead of computers who issue automated responses. And settle the matter once and for all.
Wrong again... ?
I hope not, though the lates letter informs me that the prosecutor will also ask for a minimum contribution of £60 towards legal costs.
Sorry, come again? The DVLA can't get organised to keep their records updated properly and I have to pay?
Give me a break, this is getting more absurd by the minute.
Don't get me wrong, I am enough of a hypochondriac myself to be worried about (mostly imagined so far) illnesses and diseases I have, but the present obsession with Swineflu is a bit bizarre even for me.
Let's get the facts: so far only 29 death have occured in Mexico that have definately been contributed to Swineflu, only one, an infant, in the US. In all other cases outside Mexico the symtoms have been described as very mild.
A term of "pandemic" does not refer to any fatality rate of a disease, just to the spread of the disease, e.g. being found in population of more than two countries. It does not therefore not equal "killer disease on a global scale" like the Black Plague.
In any given year, the normal flu occuring at wintertime will kill between 8 - 12,000 people in the UK alone, around 20,000 in the more populous Germany.
So why am I subjected to terrified schoolkids from Devon on the TV news,
trembling and crying with fear that they may have contraced Swineflu (implying that they might possibly die of it)?
Is it just my cynical self that, at least at this stage, suspects other motives behind the present hysterical obsession with the Swinefly, notably that the global recession has sudenly disappeared from the News, and with it the actions of Banks, large scale Corporations and the greedy behaviour of (Bank) Managers and the apparent inability of governments to remedy the crisis fast and decisively?
Of course, fighting a flu makes everyone (erm governments, politicians, even the WHO) look good, with the stockpiling of medicine (namely Tamiflu, a reminant of the last global killer disease that was not to be, so wasn't it good that we produced all that stuff back then that would have otherwise gone to waste?) and besides, crying children are so much more pityable than trembling Bank managers with their final salary bonuses.
