the deaths of henri paul, princess diana and dodi al fayed

1.Mohammed Al Fayed is not an objective judge of Britain, British institutions or the British public.
2. The British Secret Service is believed by many of us to behave with a modicum of integrity. Nonetheless the possibility of a rogue element, or a dysfunctionally corrupt element achieving preeminence within the organisation is not hard to imagine. (In my opinion the Irish police force, a far more provincial body, has become institutionally, individually and congenitally corrupt, merely by virtue of the fact that its actions are not properly scrutinised. A dysfunction within a more high octane power driven organisation such as British Intelligence would produce exponentially greater outrages against the innocent than the habitual thuggery of Irish police. An even better analogy would perhaps be the behaviour in America of Ollie North and his cadre within the Reagan administration during the 1980s.) By rogue or dysfunctionally corrupt, I mean capable of murder. Quis custodet custodes? Who guards the guardians? We do. And the price of our liberty is eternal vigilance.
3. The absence of any functioning speed cameras or security cameras on the route Dodi and Diana were driven by Henri Paul through Paris from the restaurant to their deaths, seems improbable.
4. The death, supposedly by suicide, of the driver of a white car which some believe collided with Dodi and Diana's car, is disquieting.
5. The theft of a laptop computer belonging to the man who conducted the enquiry into Diana's death, Lord Stevens, (a theft that took place during the course of his enquiry) is disquieting.
6. The citing of a lady friend of Diana's as being in a position to refute the suggestion Diana was pregnant is dissatisfying. In my opinion this lady does not speak like a friend of Diana's. Pure instinct. But of all the points I make, this is the one I am most sure of.
7. The Stevens Report does not resolve the issues.

tides in the affairs of men

Lunch with my cousin Emma in the Newbridge eatery known to scholars of the once great While I'm At It column, as the Chat and Chew.
The cafe cacaphones around us.
I am holding forth about various creative projects.
If you were sitting nearby bold readers, you might have heard something like this:
"...Vampires of Dublin into a film... book version of The Birds of Northernesse poem... James Bond song, very funny... Want to put Lady Windermere back on stage. Not Oscar Wilde's. Mine. I'm telling you Oscar Wilde didn't write this crap..."
Presently the cousin leaned forward and addressed me conspiratorially.
"Do you see that elder man and middle aged woman at the next table? No James don't turn round."
"How can I look if I don't turn round?"
"Shut up. Listen. She's his mistress. He doesn't work and she's given him money and the keys of her house. But she doesn't think he loves her. She's just asked for the keys back."
I favoured Emma with my famous Paddington Bear stare.
"You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?" I asked her.
"Yes, yes," quoth the cousin. "Something about a Dracula song and a James Bond poem. You want to put them on stage."
The noble Heelers nodded bitterly.
"Close enough," sez I grimly.
And there our story ends.

the christmas season in dublin

refuelling at shannon

the iron bird drinks
that which gives her flight
i watch from the window
grey light become white light
as the firstlings of the dawn
drink the night

this thought in the stillness
bitter and chill
i loved once
and do still
and always will

scenes from a life

Afternoon in Dublin.
The Spanish professor is playing with her hair. Women who play with their hair are dangerous. This law is constant.
"James," she says. "I don't know if you'll want to do this..."
At this moment I would have done anything for her short of culpable homicide.
Somewhat expectantly I wait for her to continue.
Her suggestion when fully revealed falls a little below the divine afflatus of my fantasies.
"I don't want you to pay me for Spanish lessons anymore," sez she. "We'll just do a language exchange from now on. You give me English. I give you Spanish."

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
The family are elsewhere.
God knows where.
I am alone in the hall with a rolled up batch of Christmas wrapping paper.
I am wielding it like a sword.
A light sabre to be precise.
I am making electronic humming noises to simulate the sound effects for the light sabre.
Occasionally I do funny voices too skipping from different characters along the lines of: "Trust in the force Luke." "Is Darth Vader my father?" "Let me put it this way, one of your parents he is. Your mother he ain't."
(And somewhere the ghost of Mad Magazine is smiling.)
I get inordinate jollies from my impression of Darth Vader which includes his intimidatory heavy breathing routine.
"We have captured your Spanish teacher Luke. Pant, pant. She told us everything. Pant, pant. Including the Spanish word for snuggle. Pant, pant."
Well you'd have to be there.
It's funny when I do it live.
Anyhoo.

Strolling through the fields at midnight near Kilcullen.
Bitter cold frosty air.
I stop at the hedgerow near the river and gaze up towards the heavens.
The moon is like a slice of watermelon.
"Look Paddy," I murmur. "It's a Chamki moon."
"My tail is freezing off," replies Padddy Pup drily. "Are you going to stand here all night?"
And we return home.