Sorry – I Thought She was Dead

Thankfully, I had eaten my breakfast. I hope anyone reading this has finished whatever meal they might be eating too – this is not a pleasant subject.

I see Belgium have submitted plans to the EU to allow undertakers to dissolve bodies instead of burying or cremating them.  They would apparently pressurize the corpses and then dissolve the bodies in some sort of caustic soda and then, the utterly horrible bit, the resulting ‘liquid’ would be flushed into the sewage system. Yuck!

This has happened in Belgium of course, because of a land shortage for burials and the pollution which comes from cremations, but I see that this ‘process’ is already underway in some US states, specifically Maine, Colorado, Florida, Minnesota, Oregon, and Maryland.

However, for those worried that the traditional urn containing the ashes of their dead relatives might now be a thing of the past, fear not. The article goes on to say that the ‘liquid’ following the dissolving bit can be strained and the resulting mush can be dried out and put in an urn in the normal way. ‘Way to go’ as they say in the US or should it be, ‘what a way to go’?

My mind went into overdrive when I read the article. What for instance would I now do if I was staying in a London hotel and got up in the middle of the night for a drink of water? In days past, if I didn’t have a mini-bar, I used to think long and hard about drinking from the tap in the bathroom, as I knew that London tap water had been through the sewage system seven times on average before it came gurgling out through the hotel pipes. The ‘system’ as they call it means that in a worse- case scenario, the water I would be drinking had been drunk and ‘passed’ 7 times through someone else’s body – probably not the same body, but bodies nonetheless and I don’t mean dead ones!

But now, in addition to knowing I was drinking someone else’s purified urine (or worse), I would be wondering what that little bit of grit was. Was it a he or a she? What did they die of? And what was the gritty bit? Yuck again!

If however they introduce this body disposal system in France, of course, they’ll take it to the extreme as they always do. Over here, unlike in the UK, unless things have changed, you can buy virtually any type of caustic soda or acid – off the shelf in your local DIY store. Indeed, I have a great collection in my garage – sulphuric, hydrochloric, nitric etc etc. You name it and want to dissolve it – I’ve got it.

I can just see some old guy who’s been wanting rid of his nagging, domineering wife turning to this ‘disposal system’ and when the Gendarmes arrive to question him about the reported disappearance of his wife, he’ll just say he thought she’d died in her sleep and she’s now dissolved - in accordance with the law. It’s a brand new twist on ‘dissolving a marriage’.

J, be afraid – be very afraid!

The picture by the way, is of the acid drum which the notorious ‘Acid Bath Murderer’, a certain John George Haigh, used to dissolve his victims. Read the gruesome story at the URL below:

 http://usersites.horrorfind.com/home/horror/bedlambound/library/haigh.html

Phew !

Within the last 10 days – it’s gone from:

….. 22 degrees to 32+ air temperature

….. 22 degrees to 29 degrees – pool temperature

….. Closed patio doors to them being open 24 X 7 and as I write this at 4.30am, it's till 27 or 81 degrees!

….. Fans on 24 X 7

….. Mad, scatty cats dashing everywhere to quiet, listless moggies desperately hunting shade

….. no mosquitos and few wasps to loads of both – everybody’s itching with the former and ducking for cover with the latter

….. green green grass on the terraces to a brown stubble

Yes – the long awaited summer weather has arrived and about time too although one of the problems we’ve had is that with no gradual build-up to the hot sunny days and overbearing humid, sticky nights, it all seems a bit of a shock.

From people gathering round the hot plates at BBQs to keep warm, we’re now all gathering round the ice coolers and we’re still talking about the weather and, we’re still complaining.

It’s got so bad that I’ve had a beer. At a BBQ last Sunday, faced with the choice between chilled Rosé and an ice-cold can of beer, I chose the latter which is most unlike me, having a sophisticated, educated palate for fine wines and all! Still, it hit the spot as they say.

Thankfully the weather has picked up for the arrival of my brother, our cousin and her husband later this week. I had feared wrapping up when we ventured out, trying to find somewhere relatively sheltered but now we’ll be able to sit out on the terrace at The Midi all afternoon and eat, drink and be tanned – all in one.

The other benefit of course, is that it’s just far, far too hot to do any work outside, well gardening type work that is. Within minutes, the sweat is pouring off me and the pool beckons and that’s it for the afternoon. I’ve even been taking Shadow down to the river for a cool-down. I normally have to push him in to get him wet, but these days as soon as he sees the water, in he goes, swimming around quite happily. The trouble comes when he heads for the earth in the fields adjacent to the river. Why do dogs have this need to roll in dirt when they’re wet and then come into the house and spread it all around? Mutts!

Still, we haven't reached the blistering 43 degrees it hit last year on Corsica - thank goodness. 43 degrees - I mean that's something like 110 in old money !

Jailed for Telling the Truth

I’m afraid I’m heading for the place in the picture – Grasse prison. As if living out here wasn’t bad enough, they’ve introduced a new law which means that men, or more particularly, husbands, can be jailed for insulting their wives.

Couples who insult each other over their physical appearance or make false accusations about infidelity, to name but two examples, face jail under a new French law making "psychological violence" a criminal offence.

The law – the first of its kind – means that partners who make such insults or threats of physical violence face up to three years in prison and a €75,000 (£60,000) fine.

French magistrates have slammed the new legislation as "inapplicable", as they argue the definition of what constitutes an insult is too vague and verbal abuse too hard to prove.

So, here we go …….

Wife - ‘Darling – does my bum look fat in this?’ Husband - ‘Yes darling, I’m afraid it does.’ €50,000 fine and a year in prison!

Husband - ‘So when did your mother take her degree in sorcery and witchcraft?’  €60,000 fine and 2 years in prison.

Husband - ‘Call that dinner – even the dog wouldn’t eat it.’ €75,000 fine and 3 years in prison (because it’s about food and the French love their food).

‘Are you having another Lesbian lunch in the Midi?’ €30,000 fine and 6 months in the slammer.

And the most common verbal psychological attack I can think of coming the other way is, ‘are you watching the football again?’ Now this is uttered so often in our house that only a life sentence and an unlimited fine will be a deterrent!

The picture above (sorry it’s so small) is of the local prison near Grasse. This is probably where I’ll go when I next insult my wife. It seems to be quite a civilized place compared to some of the other “maison d’arrets” in France. In the last few weeks there have been decapitations and one prisoner killed his cellmate and ate his lungs, so J - think carefully before you get me banged-up.  I may lose my head and say something nasty but if you press charges, I might just end up losing my head! 

Henley and the Gorgeous Billionairess

It must be the Royal Henley Regatta this week as there’s pictures of the boater-wearing men and elegantly dressed women all over the papers.

J and I lived not far from Henley which is on the River Thames and despite its proximity to Maidenhead, I don’t think we ever went together. I attended a few times in my capacity as a host for IBM and BT, where I took a selection of my own clients, but it would have been nice to have gone with J, but only if all the corporate goodies had been available – the Pimms and Champagne tent, the private cruiser to follow the races, the fancy tented dinner afterwards etc etc.

Two Henley stories come to mind.

The first involved some ladies from San Francisco who were doing a house exchange with me at the time and one of the things I’d suggested they do was to go to Henley. I told them it was a ‘fancy event’ and to make sure they were dressed appropriately, which for some reason, they thought meant shorts, t-shirts and trainers! Needless to say they were refused entry but nevertheless set up ‘camp’ just outside the gates, had their picnic, listened to the music and generally people watched all day. They said they still had a great time despite the sartorial setback.

The second story involved a client I was told to get to Henley when I worked for BT. He was quite an important guy and my boss wanted to ‘press the flesh’ and try and get a big contract moving. Nothing I did during the day worked. He wouldn’t drink, he picked at his lunch, wouldn’t engage in conversation, and even when Sir Steve Redgrave and Matthew Pincett, Britain’s Olympic rowers and guests of BT, were presented to him with all their gold medals hanging from their necks, he was a pain in the ass.

And then I recognized somebody. A few years previously, I’d been sent out to San Francisco to sort out a deal and had to work with a small Russian software house. After the deal, the software house were inundated with orders (nothing to do with me I hasten to add) and a couple of years later I’d read that the four founders had sold the business for $2 billion! And the guy I recognized, Anatoly, had been one of the founders.

I went over to Anatoly alone just in case I was mistaken, introduced myself and we had a good old chat. He told me that he’d set up another software company and he and his co-founder were just about to sell that for $4 billion and just then his co-founder arrived – an absolutely stunning Russian lady, all hat and heels.

After a few minutes I asked if they’d like to come on the BT boat for the next race which they said they’d be delighted to do – all I had to do was get my client sufficiently motivated to join us.

I went back over to him and he asked who I’d been talking to (obviously meaning the female) and I said quite nonchalantly, ‘oh - just a couple of Russian billionaires’. Well, he was off like a whippet and the rest of the day was a flurry of jokes, champagne and great chat, and when we eventually bumped into my boss later in the day, my client couldn’t have been nicer or more communicative.

It’s amazing what introducing a reluctant client to a gorgeous, Russian billionairess can do!

PS – faux pas of the week – I’m at a 4^th July BBQ and this guy introduces himself. ‘Hi – I’m Richard.’ ‘Hi – nice to meet you, I’m Tom.’ ‘ What part of America are you from Tom?’ ‘Actually, I’m Scottish.’ ‘Must be a pain always being thought of as American?’ ‘Not as much of a pain as when people think I’m from Ireland – where are you from Richard?’ ‘Cork actually.’                                                                                                                                                                                            

Revenge of the Creepie Crawlies

It just had to happen. After writing my bit on those horrible bugs which clog up the filter baskets in my pool and having the temerity to have a go at one of them for hanging onto my finger when it was dead, they got me back on Friday. I was bitten by a snake. Well I think it was a snake. I don’t know anything else which bites you and leaves two puncture holes. Someone suggested it might have been a spider but it would have had to have been a bloody big spider to leave those holes so far apart!

I was rushing back on Friday having had my ears examined (again) by a specialist (Mr Jeaubert) and after an hour of poking, prodding and hooking me up to a machine which blasted various sounds through my ears and brain (what else was the electrode on the front of my forehead for?), he said, ‘your left ear is fine, your right ear is not normal.’ I felt like saying that I’d told him that at our first meeting a few months ago. ‘There’s nothing I can do for you’, he added. I felt like saying to him that my specialist 20 years ago said that but then thought that maybe medical science of the old earhole had advanced. Anyway, he charged me €110 for the privilege of telling me what I already knew and said I should come back in October, presumably so that I can pay him even more money to tell me that my ear still doesn’t work!

Anyway, I was rushing back to watch the Andy Murray match at Wimbledon (having completely forgotten that Holland were playing Brazil in the World Cup) and stopped where the workmen, who are laying cables in the roads  had discarded some wood. Despite only having boat shoes on with no socks and therefore at the mercy of prickly bushes, I wandered in to the undergrowth.

I threw the first couple of pieces over to my scooter when there was a scratch of some sort on my left ankle. I’d been there on Thursday and had had a slight allergic reaction to some of the pricklier bushes but nothing serious and nothing like the excruciating pain which was now coursing through my left leg. I immediately thought it was a snake (I’ve been bitten before and kind of recognized the pain) and went back to see if I could find it which would tell me if it was an adder (I’m a goner) or a grass snake (ok but a bit sore) but there was no sign of it and I didn’t fancy poking around in the grass with a stick just in case it gave me a second dose.

My left leg was now almost useless so I thought I’d better get home, not that there was anybody there, but at least I’d feel better dying in my own place! 

A couple of hours later the pain had subsided or maybe it hadn’t as I watched Rafael Nadal beat Andy Murray in straight sets but I did take a photo marking the puncture marks with a pen so they’d show up on the photo.

Our cat Lucy died of a suspected snake bite about a year ago and she had appeared to be ok for a couple of hours and then convulsed in agony and was put down by the emergency vet so I may yet be in danger.  

Is that J phoning the vet ??????