"A king tide", the reporter explained, had Brisbane residents worried there might be further flooding. Something to do with the combination of high water and a still swollen river. Still, didn’t justify the abusive language. Children might be watching.
A passing aberration I told myself. Feeling for a politician. Anna Bligh. Queensland’s Premier. Morning press conference. Bit of a quiver in the voice. But she kept it together. To be fair, flood my cottage with mud and raw sewage, deprive me of sleep and I’d get a bit emotional. She’s got an entire State to contend with. Huge swathes devastated.
Amongst the saturation news coverage of the Queensland flood disaster, there’s been the odd glimmer of incidental humour. A piece this morning. Dwelling briefly on a flooded Brisbane milk factory. Before quickly focusing on the city’s submerged “XXXX” brewery. Extensive aerial footage. You could sense the tears.
Who knows whether the end is in sight. For the wet season continues into April. But do hope television schedules return to normal sooner rather than later. Can’t wait to catch a new Aussie reality show “Conviction Kitchen“. Not sure if it’s actually meant to be ironic…
Wet season it might be in Queensland – top right chunk of Australia – but some regions to the south have suffered the worst flooding for almost half a century. And seem to be pretty stoic about it.
I’m hopeful the waters will have subsided by the time I reach there. But, if not, perhaps I could take some inspiration from the above video… Except the beard that is.
[Please note Ken is not responsible for the content of other websites – material posted can change after the usual suitability checks have been carried out. If there’s a problem, please let him know via the ’contact’ page. With especial thanks to Peter for providing the video clip link]
Catching up with news on the web. Finally found an internet broadband connection that doesn’t ressemble dial-up on a go slow. Or a flight out of Heathrow. Not quite good enough for Skype mind. Could hear my parents loud and clear, but gather I sounded like a Dalek. Must pick up some throat lozenges in the morning. Admittedly, I’ve an aversion to stairs. But that’s solely down to being wedded to Emma, my trusty steed.
Alas, found the news a little disappointing. Few flakes of snow and the UK grinds to a halt. Actually, I gather so has much of Europe. But I bet the Swiss railways still run on time.. Then there’s the Democratic Republic of North Korea. Which is the real let-down. It is still there.
Just like Wikileaks. Individuals aside, a story with just about everything. Conspiracy theories. Evading sustained efforts to close it down. Claim and counter-claim as to risk publication of the diplomatic cables poses. Well nigh impossible to establish their release has resulted in loss of life. But actually damaging rather than just embarrassing? Surely anything that’s likely to deter candour behind "closed" diplomatic doors is a bad thing? And with only about one percent out there so far, looks like being a saga that’ll run for longer than it took Iraq to form a coalition Government…
But, with Christmas approaching rapidly, Season of Goodwill and all that, time to finish on a lighter note….so click on Somerset County Gazette article
This season’s final noodle crop….
Laudable enough. The Green Cross Code. Wait until it’s safe to cross. Arrive alive. Just wouldn’t work in China. You’d be stranded. Problem is right filtering is usually permitted. At the same time as pedestrians are given a green light to cross. Tufty would be road kill.
Like the Chinese Highway Code. Either so short as to be of little consequence. Or so fiendishly complicated as to be rendered useless. No one seems to know who’s got right of way. If such a thing exists.
But the Chinese are an inventive people. An elegant solution. Literally. Pair yourself up with a beautiful woman. Nobody ever runs them down.
He spoke excellent English. His was a fast growing economy, but what of mine, he enquired? Chinese television painted a fairly grim picture. So I sought to explain….
“Something has to be done. There at least seems to be general agreement on this point. But as for what that something is, well, that’s the first stumbling block. Most blame the previous administration racking up a huge deficit. So big they’ve had to divide it into chunks. For example, there’s what they now call the structural bit. The part that never goes away, unless you repay it. Some advocate doing just that, as you might were it your own credit card. Others argue spending more is the solution. You hope they haven’t got cards.
Even those who agree the debt should be repaid are divided on how quickly to do it. Those who argue for prompt repayment suggest it shows the markets we’re still credit worthy. So, presumably, we could borrow lots more money, and start all over again. Others are pushing for more gradual repayments, but as they were largely the ones that got us in the situation in the first place nobody’s listening to them.
A motley crowd of characters, claiming to represent the ordinary man, have sought to fill the vacuum. They seem to agree the problem’s someone else’s fault. Bankers mostly. Certainly not theirs. And whatever is to be done about it, that’s fine provided nothing actually changes. Pay, conditions, working practices, the usual stuff. It’s starting to look like a Greek tragedy…
They’d been the odd bold utterance from a senior public servant, a few politicians. Suggesting there might actually be some inefficiencies in the system. To be rooted out. Only to retract or diminish, offer profuse apologies, a day or so later.”
He looked baffled. And quite unimpressed. How could your Government let this happen? Time to return to the road I thought. Didn’t want to get bogged down in quantitative easing. Or fiscal stimulus. Not before lunch.
Some blame the male chromosome for many of the world’s ills – wars, flood, famine, pestilence. Whilst overlooking that most pernicious of woes to beset roughly half the human race. Man flu. Surprisingly for such a virulent, debilitating illness it’s a remarkably poorly understood condition. But suppose that’s no different to the Great Plague that struck London in seventeenth century. The mistaken notion that killing stray cats and dogs would curtail the spread of the rat borne disease merely exacerbated the situation.
Admittedly I’d not contracted bubonic plague, but I’d an undeniably strong bout of man flu. For such a prevalent illness I was a bit surprised my pocket medical book had inadvertently omitted any reference to it. But all the familiar symptoms were there. Even found a website to help confirm the diagnosis. Endless self-pity, lethargy. Barely the strength to operate a TV remote control. If I’d had one. And a bit of a sniffle. Consoled myself with the knowledge that at least my Will was in order.
What had surprised me was that I might succumb to such a condition in the Gobi. Suppose I should have known better, a desert’s sole defining feature being precious little rainfall. Everything else, intense heat in the day, bitterly cold nights, sandstorms, violent electrical storms. All are possible. But no sign of dusky, veil clad maidens bearing gifts of Turkish Delight.
[With thanks to the creators of www.manflu.org.uk]
“Chicken’s off” she explained. Hopes dashed. I’m quite fond of mutton, a staple in much of Central Asia, but there’s nothing like a change. I’d been encouraged by a menu in English, an extensive choice of dishes. But it wasn’t to be. Just mutton, done in fifteen extremely different and interesting ways. In wine, piquant, Italian, stewed, Georgian, in orange juice, in soya sauce, Arabic, Turkish. And then I’d lost the will to read on.
At least I could wash it down with a cool beer. I’d noticed the small party of Japanese tourists on the other tables had one each. And there was a bar in the corner of the hotel restaurant. But, I was told, it didn’t actually stock alcoholic beverages of any description. Like my fellow guests, I’d have to go to the shop down the road.
Undeterred by the main course and refreshments, I made another foray into the menu in hope of desert. Found fruit salad amongst the salads, and rice pudding. Alas, you guessed, no fruit, and the rice pudding? Afraid that was in the breakfast menu. No chance.
Still, I’d found there was pancakes with honey to look forward to next morning, even tea with milk. Another fifteen choices for breakfast. On paper. In fact there were three. Fried eggs with sausage, two different styles. Or omelette. But no milk for tea, which did make me wonder what’d pitch up if I plumped for the last option.
[Author’s note: Described in a well-known guide book as the best place to stay in Turkistan – for less than fifteen pounds per night, add about six for breakfast and dinner combined, such as it is – I was beginning to wonder if the Hotel Yassy had a twin. Staff are friendly enough, but there’s a lack lustre feel to the whole place. Tepid water only in the mornings, and you hope they’re rust stains on the towels. Toilet paper soft enough. Recommended only for its comedy value. And the air-conditioning in Room 307. But don’t try and reach it by the lift – that regularly stops between floors]
Rapport. “Salam Aleykum!” – welcome in Azeri – I exclaimed. Handed my passport to the Azerbaijani border guard, deliberately opened on the photo page. “Manchester!” I said, pointing to my place of birth written on it. “Manchester United!” he replied. Seemed to be working. Not that I’d anything to hide. Documents all in order. Just wanted to avoid undue hassle, unexpected taxes to pay and the like.
The Customs Officer felt obliged to inspect my luggage, opening one of the smaller front panniers. For the unwary, a bit like opening up a self-inflating life raft. Well, maybe not that bad, but enough to deter him from prying any further.
With a nod I was permitted to pass, my visa stamped. Past an array of civilians milling around the fairly dilapidated border post. Off into Azerbaijan. Tenth country en route, first of the ’Stans. Here we go.