If you think I am being flippant with the term townhouse, try the wiki link. More info on the actual monarchy website about the history.

However, browsing through the Gib govt website – in vain – for any nice jobs, I read a press release about the Queen’s speech to Parliament yesterday morning.

“My government will ensure the security, good governance and development of the overseas territories, including by protecting the Falkland Islanders’ and Gibraltarians’ right to determine their political futures.”

The Queen’s speech to Parliament is a State Occasion in the United Kingdom and represents the policy of Her Majesty’s Government of the UK.

This sentiment was also included in the “Mid-term Review” of the Coalition Government which was recently published by Downing Street.

That this reference should have been included in such a high profile speech for the first time is a huge step for Gibraltar.

I do hope that means a little gun boat diplomacy. Wait! Do we have any gun boats left? (Shh, the Spaniards may be reading this blog). After all didn’t Cameron (UK Prime MInister) announce some rather sweeping cuts to the armed forces?

Cuts are OK in all services, preferably ones I don’t use (eg education, housing, benefits blah blah), but this is the Ministry of Defence isn’t it? It should be defending the sovereign realm as a priority. Or should our armed forces be invading other countries where we have absolutely no right to be?

Perhaps it should be renamed the Ministry of Attack Other Countries under the Orders of the USA and the United Nations?

Whoever wrote Liz (QEII)’s speech made a decent job of including Gib and the FI though. Thank you.

[I'm not sure I would have written 'including by protecting' - too many gerunds too close together. 'Including the protection of' - maybe? Or That will include protecting' ?]

[Regarding queens, (regnant, I add hastily) I see that former Queen Beatrix (Netherlands) has resigned in favour of her son Willem. Hmm. I prefer the British monarchy ideal that it is a job for life that you are born into. Which is one reason why I wouldn't want to see some sleazy-arsed blood-sucking politician as head of the nation.]

However returning to our boys and girls men and women in blue, (the Royal Navy and our Senior Service – no! not cigarettes). We have a nuclear sub in Gib. Or maybe it has gone now. Who knows? You can hardly see them on Z berth. (The nuclear berth in Gib and not widely sign-posted).

Another press release:

The Government notes and welcomes the arrival in Gibraltar of HMS Talent, a Royal Navy, Trafalgar Class Nuclear Submarine.

Chief Minister, the Hon Fabian Picardo, said: “The movement of Royal Navy vessels is not a matter within the Constitutional competence of Her Majesty’s Government of Gibraltar.

All vessels of the Royal Navy and of allied powers invited into British Gibraltar Territorial Waters by Her Majesty’s Government are very welcome on the Rock.”

Nice little bit of gung-ho patriotism there Fabian, especially as the EU is still clinging to its decision that Gib/UK territorial waters belong to Spain. Shitheads.

No nuclear sub pictures available so I offer you a frigate.

HMS Chatham – type 22 batch 3 frigate

Continuing on the defence theme, and moving onto the boys and girls men and women in light blue, (the Royal Air Force – RAF). I see the scariest airport in Europe (Gibraltar airport) is about to be demolished to make way for a car park. Of course, we need more car parks in Gib because it is just such a huge place to get around that everyone needs a car, don’t they?

I like this old building. Whenever I visited it, I didn’t see any huge queues at the check-in desks, and it seemed perfectly adequate. The currency counter and toilets were also handy when I was walking over to Spain. And I thought the 1959 building added to the sense of nostalgia that some people like to find in Gib. And anyway, it’s as old as me. Should I therefore be demolished in favour of something bright, shiny and new? Don’t answer.

Monteverdi will shortly be knocking it down at the cost of £230, 318.01. And one penny? Who tenders with a price like that? Note to self, when pricing for Gib Govt, always put in a senseless price. And add one penny.

For more about the state opening of Parliament and the Queen’s role – visit Stephen’s good post.

They always start off so innocuously don’t they? Partner went off to buy a bolt to secure one of the front doors to our block and a new number plate as part of our redecoration of the entrance area.

I decided to do some exciting tasks like cleaning the bathroom and mopping the floors in the flat.

Partner fitted the bolt. Then there was a problem with the lock. This is one of those double door entrances. One is normally left bolted shut, and the other one has a Yale lock to enter.

Doors in rather nice deep grey undercoat. Many of us preferred this to the subsequent green gloss.

For the last two years, the lock hasn’t worked. The door shuts, but basically, if you pushed on it, the door would open without needing a key. This was due to someone, probably one of the Vamps and their pack, pushing on it some time ago. So it screwed the lock.

However, Partner had tightened up the top bolt the other day and to persons of average or feeble strength (unlike Vampires) a key was now needed to open the door.

But in a matter of days, this clearly didn’t suit someone, who either kicked or shoulder charged it, thus totally stuffing up the lock. We do have an intercom for the block but that must be too difficult to use.

I could still make my key work in the lock with a little judicious wiggling. Partner’s key wouldn’t work. The key of a neighbour who lives on our landing wouldn’t work. The Indian who stores something in one of the downstairs flats didn’t have any keys.

This was escalating. We had visions of half the block locked out. A number of our residents work whacky hours in gambling, which I should really call gaming, but it is still gambling so that’s what I’ll call it.

We secure the door, they come home at 3am or whatever, and can’t get in. Not clever.

‘I’m going for a new lock,’ says Partner. I agreed to ring the keycutter and see if he could cut 30 keys in a couple of hours (two per flat). He wasn’t in the ‘phone book.

‘Why didn’t you walk down?’ snarled Partner on his return with a new lock.

Right. So I’m just going to walk down and ask how many keys he can cut today. Walk home. Walk back down to give him a key to cut some copies. Walk home. Walk back to collect keys. Walk home. No.

I walked down with the key, prepared to bargain for anywhere between 10 and 15 keys. Not necessary. He agreed to cut all 30 by 5pm. He didn’t want a deposit.

Earlier this week one of the tenants had moved out. Apparently the leaseholder wanted to put up the rent so they had found somewhere cheaper.

They had also thrown out rather a lot of books. Seventy actually. Including a couple of Twilight novels which I do recommend. Sort of Buffyish, good vampires, sexual attraction and a few baddies kicking around. Or kicking arse. And then we move on to werewolves. Why didn’t the tenants buy all the series? I’m going to have to see if the library has the others.

Bags of books

‘We can give them away to people,’ I said generously to Partner.

‘We can sell them at a car boot sale for a euro or a quid each,’ said Partner. I did the sums and my generosity suddenly disappeared. Especially when I convinced myself how unsound it had been to throw so many books in the rubbish bin. We did give a few away. They were in German. I’ll read Spanish, French, Italian, Latin, but not German. Unless it’s archaeology.

New tenants were moving into the same flat yesterday. Partner had been chatting to the estate agent that he knows when she came to view the flat – and she described it as filthy.

I realised I needed to ring her. Not good to give new tenants keys to the block and them not to be able to get in when they turned up later because we had changed the lock.

‘Oh!’ she panicked. ‘I don’t have any details for them.’

What? No name, contact details, ‘phone number, anything? ‘They came from a foreign country and they’ve gone.’

Turned out to be Spain actually. That foreign country half an hour’s walk away.

‘And the cleaner is coming tomorrow and the painter is there now, they won’t be able to get in,’ she panicked even more.

‘I’ll go and speak to the painter,’ I said reassuringly.

‘But he only speaks Spanish!’ Her voice was going through the roof at this point and so was my patience.

‘Ningun problema.’

Somewhat later the new tenants did contact me. I helpfully informed him about the change of locks and said we needed to meet someone to hand over different keys for the front door.

After a little bit of the gentle roughseas interrogation, the new tenant said, in a snotty British voice, ‘And who are you?’

‘I chair the management committee for this block.’

‘Oh, I’m very pleased to meet you then,’ he said quickly.

‘Welcome to the block.’

Power. Don’t you just love it?

When I collected the new keys I asked if there were 30. The key cutter said he had checked them twice. I said I would check them too. Would you accept 30 pound coins without checking them? And these cost more than a quid apiece.

There were 30. Part cash, part cheque? I asked. Gib is something of a cash economy. Cheque will be easier for you, he said. True, but not really the norm in Gib. Cheque it was.

‘Name, address, ‘phone number?’ I asked. Name was a stupid question as it was on the cheque.

‘Just the ‘phone number.’ I could have made that up. I didn’t. I told him it wouldn’t bounce. ‘They all say that.’ He still took the cheque.

‘The door was kicked open,’ I said in conversation.

‘Tell me about it.’ I didn’t bother. He obviously already knew. ‘I’ll have to check out 30 keys now,’ I said. He laughed.

Back at the block, I checked out 30 keys. Twice. We collared at least half the block coming in and out at the time and dished out their new keys. We then ran up and down the block knocking on doors. I rifled through some personal paperwork and the ‘phone book to ring other people to let them know about the change.

By early evening we had contacted the residents of 15 flats and issued keys to virtually all of them. Everyone knew about the change.

How many people knocked on the door yesterday?

First up, the daughter of the new tenant, and we gave her the keys. Very nice girl. Extremely sociable and polite. We’d also given keys to another young teenager who lives in the block who we met in the doorway and she responsibly accepted them on behalf of her family.

Next to knock on the door was our lovely long-term non-payer. Biggest outstanding non-payer in the block. Nothing to do with the keys, but to discuss work he wants done affecting his flat.

He summonsed us up to his flat. Um, I thought he wanted to speak to me, not issue demands? By the time I got up there, Partner and him were already locked in an argument.

Whoa boys. I bought a bit of time and we went onto the roof to look at the source of the problem – a rusting old water tank.

‘I want to speak to you without HIM,’ said Mr Non-Payer.

‘Fine, your brother goes too, and it’s just one to one. We’ll sit on those chairs over there.’

The also-rans obediently departed. We sat on the chairs. Mr Non-Payer pulled out his notes and questioned me, writing down my answers to his questions.

Yes, we had approved the works. No, we wouldn’t carry out the works until he paid up in full. Board policy. No way are the rest of the block who are fully paid up, subsidising works for his benefit, when he is in arrears. He dutifully wrote all this down.

‘I’m not paying until the work is done,’ he said, in the soft Irish brogue.

‘The work isn’t getting done until you pay,’ I replied in hard Yorkshire.

Impasse.

‘If I pay, when will it get done?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know. Have to ask Partner. And when am I going to see some money?’

Whereupon he flashed me a one-er. Or however it is spelled. (A hundred quid).

He didn’t want to come into our flat of course. But having been summonsed up to his flat I was a bit tired of silly power games and told him to stop being so precious.

Partner told him the work could be done in a couple of weeks after he paid. This involves erecting guard rails to the roof, removing a redundant water tank, applying a waterproof membrane to the roof, and redecorating the affected interior of his flat. This work costs more than he owes.

I’d told him I would put it to the board for approval. I did that.

Partner said the work would be done and held out his hand. Mr NP didn’t want to shake. Or didn’t want to pay?

‘It’ll take me a couple of months to get the money to pay,’ he said.

‘What about the money you won on the Grand National?’ I asked. (Four grand I might add).

Pause.

Apparently he was taking his wife on holiday with that. Why do people have enough money to go on holiday but can’t pay block charges?

He went off to the pub. Natch.

Then we had the Vamp knocking on the door. Long-term readers, and those of you who read the link earlier, will know that the Vamp lives above us and used to live a night-time life and drag coffins around. She seems to have put that life in abeyance for now and has turned into a daytime Vamp.

‘What do you guys drink?’ she asked. Feminist cringe at use of you guys.

‘We’re teetotal. Tea, coffee, water,’ I said.

She looked horrified.

Partner took sympathy on her.

‘I drink San Miguel and she drinks Brut cava.’

The Vamp looked mildly relieved.

‘But what about something stronger?’

‘No,’ we both said.

Off she went, purse in hand and five minutes later, we had three large tinnies of San Miguel and a bottle of Brut cava in our hands. Thanks Vamp. She flew upstairs. Or whatever Vamps do. She’d already bit kissed me earlier.

How about that for appreciation of what you are doing? She’s fully paid-up on her block charges and she gives us something personally. Wonderful gesture.

Who was next to knock on the door? The new tenants. One daughter. Then the father. Then the mother, who came in and chatted to us.

She got Pippa’s sniff of approval. He wandered over leisurely to sniff her. He’d ignored Mr Non-Payer.

At this point I was rapidly losing it. Far too much social contact and herding residents to give them keys was worse than herding cats. Pippa and the Vamps could just have bitten everyone. Possibly an easier option.

We hung around waiting for another neighbour to buzz us so we could give her keys. Seven o’clock, she’d said. And buzzed at ten.

Result? Everyone notified, and all but two people issued with their keys (not around).

And I do this for nothing.

[It's a minor point that I chair the meetings and run the account and send out all the paperwork].

‘No, sir,’ said Partner doffing his cap and touching his forehead. Well, he might as well have done.

In fact, he had been planning to do some more work on the front doors of our block that he is currently repainting, because, bank holidays and weekends are a good time to do that sort of work as less people go in and out of the block.

But once, he’d given his word, that was that. So, no work today.

Back in a previous life, May Day, or rather the first Saturday in May, was a big event in my town. The May procession would come past our gates and at the sound of the noise, I would run up the drive to stand and watch the floats, the horses, the newly crowned May Queen, last year’s May Queen and everything else.

In the 1960s and 1970s it was a big event, and took at least half an hour. Not only did we see the procession on its first parade out into the world, for some reason it also came back our way, so we got two bites of the cherry.

It started in the early afternoon (I think) and came back a few hours later. My parents were out at work but sometimes, depending on when they came home, say 5/5.30 pm, they would catch the end of it. Often holding them up because of the traffic.

In my mid teens, one of their pub friends was chair of the committee for the centenary. Somewhere there was a rather tasteless Maypole Centenary commemorative plate that they had to buy. I would have quite liked it now but thought it was vile at the time.

Apparently maypole dancing started in the 1850s. So ours must have started some twenty years or so after that.

I wanted to be a maypole dancer. I really did. But there are some things money can’t buy. Maypole dancing was done by the kids from the council estate who went to the local village school. I went to the posh private paid-for school in the city. No maypole dancing for me in a pretty white frock winding my way up and down and around with red, white and blue ribbons.

The village also hosts the World Coal Carrying Championship. Rather them than me. Here’s the link about both events.

My father, the formerly active trade unionist, was not pleased when May 1 was introduced as a bank holiday in the UK. Nasty socialist holiday, or something like that, he uttered. He was still suffering from paranoia that the impoverished Tony Benn was going to nationalise the banks and take all his money. (Hello Cyprus).

Here in Gibraltar we don’t have a maypole. We do celebrate Workers’ Day as do more than 80 countries around the world.

Apparently it is to commemorate an incident in America where workers were fighting for an eight hour day back in 1886 in Chicago.

[Inserts irony]. And how many of us have worked for more than eight hours a day for no extra pay, or are still expected to work more than eight hours with overtime at some dubious rate, or otherwise will be sacked? My partner was working ten hours a day on scaffolding last year. Eight hours a day and two hours compulsory overtime. I worked until midnight and/or later in the health service on urgent documents and then delivering them to board members (no extra pay for me).

Nothing changes.

This is a bit like Boston. Three people died there, four people died in Chicago and the world goes into orbit.

Eleven people (minimum) were killed back in 1819 in Manchester in the UK. Whoever marks that? Peterloo for those of you who haven’t heard about it.

More irony.

I entertained myself by listening to five speakers at today’s May Day rally in Gibraltar.

Manuel Cortez

A Gibraltarian who apparently has made it in the unions in the UK. General Secretary of TSSA (a transport union). Either he was wrong or wiki was. He told us three people were killed in Chicago in 1897 fighting for the eight hour day.

I have a lot of confidence in union leaders who get their facts wrong. Wiki may not be the best source of info, but it’s good enough for a quick blast.

He went on a jolly union solidarity trip to Greece and was horrified to see people queuing up at soup kitchens and raiding dustbins. Really? That he was horrified, I add quickly. I’m sure there are no poor people in London needing soup kitchens. And I can tell you the places to get free meals in Gib too. We all raid dustbins. What’s wrong with that? It’s called recycling. Rich git union leader.

A guaranteed crowd pleaser. Let’s have a go at banks. Lloyds TSB bailed out to the tune of two billion. And we are all paying for it. True. But what are you doing about it?

Next up, Stuart Borastero. From the GTC (Gibraltar Trades Council), and the teacher’s union. NASUWT whatever that stands for.

Talked about bullying and harrassment. Gave a few stats. Eighty per cent of UK managers admit to knowledge of bullying. The cost of a tribunal is £16K and rises every year by 25%.

I’m not sure the chief minister likes me taking notes. Or photos. Or anything about me. He’s the one on the left. Cortez is next to him. Stuart Borastero is speaking.

Our next speaker was Wendy Cumming. President of the Gib Civil Service union (GGCA). ‘Fellow workers’ she addressed us. Up the snotty roughseas nose right away. What’s wrong with colleagues, or co-workers? Long discussion about working hours, which was relevant given the original reason for Workers’ Day, but given how many people are unemployed, nice to be able to argue for less working hours with pay.

She was the only one who needed notes to speak. Need to notch up a gear with the political rhetoric darling.

Then we had Victor. Victor Ochello from Unite. We know Victor of old. He stuffed up a claim of ours against a previous employer by not referring us to the union legal officer.

Good speaker. Spoke in Llanito. Never let it be said that Gibraltar is English speaking. Told us about how there was a crisis in Europe. Never! I hadn’t noticed that. Union membership has apparently gone up by 21%. I didn’t notice him saying anything else of interest or relevance.

Finally, our chief minister spoke. Fabian Picardo. Carefully dressed down for the occasion in jeans.

He didn’t fall into the fellow workers trap. ‘Compañeros, compañeras,’ he addressed us. Er, then he did do the fellow worker one. ‘Fellow workers, men and women,’ for the benefit of all the dull ones there who didn’t understand the Spanish.

‘This government is going to deliver on no bullying, improving conditions for care workers and new working hours for civil servants’.

Fabian Picardo speaking and Manuel Cortez now glaring at me.

I was waiting for the bit about we’re going to crack down on frontier workers who cross the border daily for black money. I wonder why that one didn’t arrive?

He referred to a previous comment by Victor about the recent clothing factory deaths in Bangla Desh. Don’t buy cheap clothes from Bangladesh because you are continuing to perpetuate the system and are abusing workers’ rights. I think that’s what he meant anyway.

1. So where do we buy our clothes from? China or Indonesia?
2. Globalisation is what it is. Do you seriously expect people (apart from me) to go hunting out ethical goods?
3. Some people can’t afford expensive clothes. Or rather they can only afford cheap clothes.

This gratuitous reference to Bangladesh left a bad taste in my mouth. I looked at the five speakers and wondered where their clothes had come from.

Sadly there was no opportunity for questions. About their shopping habits or what they were doing to stem the flow of cross-border workers at the expense of locals.

We all need a few freebies. Or cheap clothes from Bangla Dash. Sadly the pencils had gone when I walked back :(

M’aidez? I don’t think so.

Note: for those who don’t know, my partner and I have both been/are active members of trades unions. We also voted for this government.

It’s great being good on rhetoric. A little constructive action would be rather good too.

Good article about the Bangladesh incident

Chief Minister’s May Day Press Release

So that left Sunday in which to mop the floor, write the board papers and dust the furniture.

Gone are the days when I could spring out of bed, jump in the shower, throw a couple of rashers of bacon in the pan with a tomato, eat, wash up, and be out of the door in 20 minutes.

A neighbour once said to Partner and I, that I woke up thinking. (Didn’t endear her to Partner after that). These days I don’t even wake up for at least an hour. Let alone think.

Waking up consists of reading and replying to overnight comments on my blogs when North America has been up and active, and reading any new posts on fave blogs, although probably leaving my comments on theirs until later.

So Sunday morning saw me with my nose stuck to the screen. Literally. Saturday night hadn’t been too busy on the blogosphere so I resorted to solving a geocaching puzzle. All those no longer interested in this part can skip to the next section of this post.

However. For the benefit of non-cachers, geocaches involve finding pots of tat treasure using a GPS and with a given set of co-ordinates. Sort of like olde-fashionde treasure hunting using OS co-ords. (OS = Ordnance Survey for non-Brits, our former extremely good mapping system. Unsurpassable).

A puzzle cache means that you don’t get the co-ords, you have to solve a puzzle to find out what they are.

So, there were two images that meant nothing at all to me. I started by counting similar looking bits on the puzzle but that didn’t work.

I emailed an expert friend, who mailed back and asked if I had seen the 3D images. Uh? What 3D images?

So I decided to take Partner’s advice and looked up the website on the bottom of the images. Stereogram. Sounds like a record player to me.

Apparently not. Sort of like black and white optical illusions, the old vase and face one, or the young beauty and the old crone one. But these are in 3D. Never seen one before in my life. Sheltered life me.

How to see the 3D part of it though? Apparently you can make yourself cross-eyed and that shows it up. Well, I have enough problems with being short-sighted so I’m not messing around with my eyes more than necessary so that was out.

Alternatively, you can stick your nose to the computer screen and slowly draw away whereupon the 3D image pops out. Well, it did for me, although not for Partner. Perhaps being short-sighted does have amazing advantages.

So I’m left with a 3D heart and a prehistoric reptile. On a second look, I decided the reptile could be a car. Either way, at this point I was feeling distinctly sick after looking at whacky images for far too long and decided to leave it alone and ponder how to convert a heart and a car into numbers.

As I’d been wasting time diligently researching cryptic puzzle-solving, I remembered one of the obvious ones was to substitute letters for numbers. So I did. There is a little gizmo on the site that lets you check your guesses so I gazed at the screen expectantly. I nearly fell off my chair. Congratulations you have solved the puzzle!

‘Oh,’ said Partner, leaping out of the chair. ‘Let’s go and find it.’

At which point I thought about more dishes to wash, another lunch to cook, furniture to dust and board papers to write. I had, in fact, mopped the floor.

What the hell. Off we went.

Here is the interesting part. There had been a pic of the location on the geocache site, and as Partner had been to the location before when he delivered a CV (not that he got a reply), he just knew exactly where to go. I probably didn’t need to solve the puzzle after all.

There were a lot of rocks. Once on the breakwater the GPS went haywire. We clambered up and down. I spent most of my time worrying that I was going to drop a) my iPhone b) my camera c) my ID card d) my keys e) anything else in my pockets, that had no zip or button, down some irretrievable hole. Oh and the GPS too.

The road to hell, but not paved with good intentions

I figured having solved the puzzle it would be one of life’s ironies that we wouldn’t find the cache. I didn’t. But he did.

Anyway, I did watch a British Airways ‘plane taxi-ing around for take-off, and vroooom up it went.

Ready for take-off

Described as one of the world’s most dangerous and scary runways. Um, it’s not exactly got a bad track record for accidents. Or rather lack of accidents. So it’s short, and goes into the sea. So what? Apparently we are fifth most dangerous in the world, beating Hong Kong into sixth place and the most dangerous one in Europe. But we have had no deaths apart from the suspicious Polish incident in 1943. I remember the Hong Kong airport from years back, and haven’t used the Gib one. But statistically, how can one incident, 70 years ago make it one of the most dangerous in the world? Anyway the BA ‘plane took off OK.

And there were lots of boats too.

Sailing by

So another day of good intentions that didn’t come to fruition. But does it matter if something else takes its place?

Moving on down other roads to hell, or to paradise, depending on your perspective.

Terrorism

I’ve read a little about the Boston bombing both on news sites and blogs. Maurice wrote a thoughtful piece and it reminded me of terrorism over the years.

Here’s a quote from Reuters about the two brothers behind the bombing:

The brothers spent their early years in a small community of Chechens in the central Asian country of Kyrgyzstan, a mainly Muslim nation of 5.5 million. The family moved in 2001 to Dagestan, a southern Russian province that lies at the heart of a violent Islamist insurgency and where their parents now live.

But as I commented on Maurice’s blog, who hasn’t lived with the fear of terrorism?

M62 coach bombing in 1974 – UK, Provisional IRA

This was a bomb placed in a coach carrying off-duty British armed forces and their families. Twelve people were killed, nine soldiers and three civilians. Thirty eight other people were injured.

Tucked up safely in my little bed, I awoke to hear a loud boom. My view at the time was that it was on the M62 which crosses the Pennine hills between Lancashire and Yorkshire. I thought it must have been one hell of a bomb for me to have heard it.

In fact, only now, looking at Michelin, have I realised how close it was. Ten miles, half an hour’s drive away at Hartshead Moor service station. No wonder it sounded loud.

My first awareness that terrorism could come quite near to home.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_terrorist_incidents_in_Great_Britain

Baader Meinhof

This was an active revolutionary group in Germany when I was at university and often hit the headlines because of assassinations of prominent capitalist and judicial figures.

When I had a passport photo taken to visit Amsterdam with a friend from university he told me I looked like a member of the Baader Meinhof gang. Black pullover and steely cold expression.

Red Brigades

Famous for the killing of Aldo Moro, but stuck in my mind because of the bombing of Bologna (Italy) railway station which killed 85 people and injured more than 200 people.

In fact, they denied the bombing and it was later attributed to a neo-fascist group. Who knows?

But at the time I embarked on my Euro-rail and world trip, it was still in my mind, and when I went to Bologna, I did not hang around the railway station.

Bhopal

No, not a terrorist group although some might consider an irresponsible company causing thousands of deaths and injuries to be worse.

Baader Meinhof and The Red Brigades between them managed around 120 deaths.

Look what Union Carbide achieved in India:

The Bhopal disaster, was a gas leak incident in India, considered the world’s worst industrial disaster. It occurred on the night of 2–3 December 1984 at the Union Carbide India Limited (UCIL) pesticide plant in Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh.
Over 500,000 people were exposed to methyl isocyanate gas and other chemicals. The toxic substance made its way in and around the shantytowns located near the plant. Estimates vary on the death toll.
The official immediate death toll was 2,259. The government of Madhya Pradesh confirmed a total of 3,787 deaths related to the gas release. Others estimate 8,000 died within two weeks and another 8,000 or more have since died from gas-related diseases.
A government affidavit in 2006 stated the leak caused 558,125 injuries including 38,478 temporary partial injuries and approximately 3,900 severely and permanently disabling injuries.

I mention Bhopal because I was there not long after the incident. Our train stopped there. I tried to hold my breath, but the train stopped for too long.

Pesticides eh? They kill in more ways than one.

And back to the UK with the Manchester bombing in 1996 where 212 people were injured but no-one was killed.

I was no longer visiting Manchester, but I had done in my university years, and I’d walked those streets and visited that shopping centre. There is something very spooky reading about a bomb blast in a place you used to frequent and your heart goes out to the people injured in that explosion.

In London, in the 1980s, our government building was on a constant state of alert, and I often took the tube in trepidation thinking what a horrific way to die a bomb blast in the tube would be. And in 2005 it happened and a combined attack on the tube and buses resulted in 52 people killed and more than 700 people injured.

Bombs have been placed on the underground for more than 100 years.

The year before, Spain suffered a much worse attack with a prime-time commuter attack at the beautiful Atocha station in Madrid in 2004. Another place I had frequently visited, either to go to Madrid, or to pass through en-route to the UK. Nearly 200 people were killed and 1800 people were injured.

And in Spain (and France), we have ETA, fighting for an independent Basque country, and currently with a ceasefire status, although not sure how long that will last with the hard-line Rajoy government. ETA killed more than 800 people using similar tactics to PIRA and the left-wing revolutionary groups.

Terrorism doesn’t go away. Whether it’s political or religious, it’s here to stay.

Another blogger’s experience of terrorism – Wrong time, Wrong Place A good read, if that’s the right description.

According to Michael Collins (Irish) who used Lenin’s quote:

The purpose of terrorism is to terrorise.

I learned this from my voracious reading of Jack Higgins’ novels. Mr Higgins doesn’t waste time writing his books. Characters are given different names in different novels, but they all use the same language, the same guns, the same silver cigarette case because they all smoke, and they rarely have sex. Too busy killing people I suppose.

Jack Higgins novels. Plots – someone tries to kill someone else and usually succeeds.

He must copy and paste for each novel and just change a few names and the location of the plots. Still, they are an easy read. And make the fight against terrorism seem so simple when a few latter-day James Bonds save the world. I wish.

To end on a bright note.

The road to hell.

Just thought I would also point out that Chris Rea comes from Yorkshire.

But if that one is too gloomy, try the road to nowhere.

Partner fired up with enthusiasm to go and hide a geocache of our own. Groan.

Dishes to wash, floor to mop, furniture to dust, lunch to cook, board papers to write and we spend an hour and a half wandering around the block – that is normally a 15 minute walk – looking for a place to hide a cache. I think we’ll back off the caching for a while.

But we found these adorable mastiffs very tough guard dogs.

I’m happy for a photo.
I’m not.

Hello friend :)

Far more interesting than looking for holes in the wall to hide silly geocaches.

I am of course, always instructed not to touch strange dogs. Er whose hand is in the photos below? Not mine. I did stroke them of course and did little scratchies. Beautiful dogs with such a friendly temperament.

Hey, get out of the way, that hand is for me to sniff and lick

But where are you going? :(

Back up to the flat, and the local re-enactment society was just finishing outside the Governor’s house. Off I skipped for a couple of pix.

‘COMPANY DISMISSED!’ as soon as I got there, and they all flopped about. Oh well.

At ease

Pipe band outside the guardhouse

The orthodox Jews had obviously been dismissed from schul too.

Going home

And on our evening dog walk, we heard some barking, so we stopped where we were to let another small dog go past. Pippa likes all dogs and people unless they are aggressive. Otherwise he does tail wags and sniffy sniffies.

‘Fucking wolf over there,’ shouted one of the party.

‘Oyé,’ said Partner, which is what gibbos say for oiga ie listen. Pronounced oijay.

‘There’s no need for that.’ That was pretty moderate for Partner.

It was a dog we didn’t know, so we stood waiting up the street so that they could continue and we get insulted?

What is wrong with wolves anyway, might I ask? Damn sight more civilised than people.

But do you really need to shout insults at people (and their dog) who you have never seen in your life before for no good reason? Who are respectfully waiting for you to go past in case your small dog is aggressive (some small dogs are).

And yet the other night we met a different small dog (16 years old). Sadly for Pippa, she wasn’t interested in a new boyfriend (even a toyboy at a mere 12 or so).

The dog’s person correctly identified Pippa as GSD/husky cross, and said what a lovely dog we had. What a contrast.

Wolfdog. Just snoozing in the sun and happy with life

ETA Should have said, I wrote this post with Yvonne in mind. Thanks Y for your encouragement.