Death and life

Sad news yesterday of a distant relative and then today of seven colleagues I never had the chance to know. And I don't quite know exactly how I should feel.

But then you see how these people touched the lives of others, people who loved them and people who never even knew them. Such beautiful words and thoughts. Emails and messages from people from around the world who just care, about the people, their families and their work. And in such a moment of sadness for so many people, I can't not but feel hope.

And then I think back to the hazy memories of my relative. Uncle Harold, although he wasn't really my uncle. The small house he shared with his late brother. He stories of the war, the fact that he was always happy to see my brother and... and whilst writing this I realise he wasn't that distant at all.

Peace.

Two days and a hell of a lot of le français

The state of anti-semitism in Europe. The pros and cons of big city vs. country living. Cool bands, wine making and the joys of relationships (or lack of). In French. Maybe I'm getting somewhere after all.

My worst ever gift

I'm in the most romantic city on earth and I bring back a pasta recipe book (in French). Sigh.

Facial hair

You either love it or hate it. Ok, you probably hate it. Especially if you talking about your gran. But anyways I digress. Why is it that it just keeps growing, even when hair that is actually useful (i.e. on your head) seems to be falling out. Not that my hair is falling out, heavens forbid. No sir. I've just decided a toupee is rather stylish for a gentlemen of my age.

Anyway some old fool has decided to raise money by trying to grow a moustache. Progress has yet to be visually documented but I wish him well, even though he once stole my Guinness.

And so my mere freak of chance I am drawn into a world of mystery and intrigue that I never knew existed. The previously unknown world of beards.

Stuck between here and there

Which way next. So much time spent, but so little seemingly achieved. Moments fly by with no recollection of what passed before. And an unwelcome five letter words clings to my mind.

The thing I hate most about Switzerland

Now you might think this is obvious. The impression that the place is rather boring. What about the obsessive rules. Maybe it is the lack of decent pubs or the fact that nothing is open on Sundays. Or perhaps Orson Welles best summed it up in the Third man when he said "in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock".

But no. The place isn't boring (ok a little quiet perhaps). Yes, there are lots of rules, but lots of people don't follow them. It is actually possible to find a nice pint and maybe one day a week without obsessive shopping isn't such a bad thing. And what is wrong with the cuckoo clock?

No, the thing I hate most are…the traffic lights. I just can't deal with them. Really. Red lights but the man stays red. And everyone just waits. And waits. And waits some more. The cars wait. The motorcycles wait. The pedestrians wait. Even the cyclists wait for heaven’s sake. We all just stand or sit waiting for something, anything, to happen. And the worst thing is that I wait as well. No more London style rushing across dual carriageways-like-roads without a care in the world. No sir. I stand. And I wait for that magic little green man to appear. The adopted Londoner within me shouts and screams to break free, but its no use. He’s been beaten. By the bloody cuckoo clock.

The man

He stands alone in the car park, shuffling to the left and then to the right. Who is he?
He looks furtively around with hands firmly held in pockets. What is he doing?
Something grabs his attention. He stops. Who is he waiting for?
His curiosity temporarily placated he starts his shuffle once again. Who is he?
Is he me?

Missing

The faded and hard to decipher postmark says 6.20pm on 25 July, but the envelope only reaches me today, when it catches my glance sitting on top of the gleaming silver post boxes. What was once missing is now found. But the question remains of where it been on its travels.

Nothing to report

Nothing stupid or cryptic, or stupidly cryptic or even cryptically stupid. No strange dreams, no odd encounters, no hangovers, no pearls of wisdom.

Lazy Sunday

A beautiful sunny down and I'm surrounded by lakes and mountains. So many options. Yet I've moved a grand total of about 10m so far today, and I can't see that increasing much.

Surreal dream fragment

I don't normally remember my dreams and after last night I can probably see why that is a good thing. The only part I remember is this...I'm standing in a queue at US immigration and am handed a form to fill in. It has all the usual stuff, name, address etc. But at the top it asked when did Murder She Wrote begin. Now, I'm not totally clear why US immigration needed to asses my knowledge of the popular 80's murder mystery show starring Angela Lansbury, but it sure as hell had me perplexed when I woke up this morning.

And the answer is 1984. In case you ever get asked.