The balance of the weekend.

I finished Cartledge's Spartan Reflections. There are some very interesting sections, particularly those on institutionalised pederasty and the status of women in Spartan society.

This morning I rose early to listen to the rather bizarre conclusion of the test match. How often does a losing side hit three sixes in the last three overs of its second innings?

Later to the Kensington market which was unwontedly quiet and where I found kippers; not the boil in the bag fillet thingies but the real whole fishy thing with eyeballs and all. I don't think I have seen them before in Toronto. Lunch at Sky Dragon which had an excellent selection of dim sum for a Monday lunchtime including some quite excellent blanched sprouts of some unknown sort. They were green and tasted like baby spinach but were crunchier. There was also a dish that was like a potsticker but with beancurd skin as the wrapper; unusual and very good.

The long hot walk home just had to be broken at C'est What where the excellence of Al's Cask Ale was once again impressed upon me. If only they had a patio. The balance of the afternoon has been spent dozing and soaking up the humidity and bengal lurv.

Silly thoughts

Rereading Plato's Republic for the umpteenth time I suddenly realised that Thrasymachus' whole argument could be summed up by the following ditty from Charles Bowen:

The rain it raineth on the just
  And also on the unjust fella.
But chiefly on the just, because
  The unjust steals the just's umbrella.

A belated thought

This is a song that has been in my repertoire (such as it is) since the night I heard Dick Gaughan sing it in London a few hours before I nearly killed myself in a car crash. I'm minded of it by a combination of the death of Ronald Reagan and more reports in today's press that the US government apparently feels it is not bound by either the Geneva conventions or the UN convention against torture.

( Words : Hamish Henderson
Music : 'The Bloody Fields of Flanders' )

Roch the win i the clear day's dawin
Blaws the clouds heilster-gowdie owre the bay
But there's mair nor a roch win blawin
Thro the Great Glen o the warl the day
It's a thocht that wad gar our rottans
Aa thae rogues that gang gallus fresh an gay
Tak the road an seek ither loanins
Wi thair ill-ploys tae sport an play

Nae mair will our bonnie callants
Merch tae war whan our braggarts crousely craw
Nor wee weans frae pitheid an clachan
Murn the ships sailin doun the Broomielaw
Broken faimilies in launs we've hairriet
Will curse 'Scotlan the Brave' nae mair, nae mair
Black an white ane-til-ither mairriet
Mak the vile barracks o thair maisters bare

Sae come aa ye at hame wi freedom
Never heed whit the houdies croak for Doom
In yer hous aa the bairns o Aidam
Will fin breid, barley-bree an paintit room
Whan MacLean meets wi's friens in Springburn
Aa thae roses an geeans will turn tae blume
An a black laud frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o the burghers doun.

©Hamish Henderson