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The flag of hypocrisy.

  Why I don't 'do' flags anymore. Once again, we will be judged by our social media profile. Are we on the 'right' side? Do we have the flag of the oppressed posted so everyone can see how compassionate we are? At the moment, the Palestinian flag is the 'go-to flag' to cover the cracks of hypocrisy we here in the West are so keen to hide.  Don't get me wrong, Palestinians need our support. The only hope for future peace in the region is a two-state solution, and one day, let us hope both sides will agree on it and get around the table to accomplish it. Meanwhile, thousands are dying, and protest is needed. But let us remember there are not just two sides involved in this conflict. For example, I have noticed that a lot of people who vehemently oppose Israel seem very quiet when it comes to Iran - and their involvement with Hamas, and also their treatment of women within Iran. We 'progressives' like to think we are always on the right side, but ar...
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  What The F**k is going on?  Is the world going crazy ? No, but the people are, at least the people in the ‘first-world countries’ (a highly debatable term).  It seems that problems arise when there is less and less trust in traditional politicians and political parties , it is then that we start electing politicians to office who claim to be against conventional politics and ‘the ruling elite’ (the fact that they are usually wealthy and have been sitting in the shadows of traditional politics for years doesn’t seem to deter us from voting for them).  So it seems we live in times when we have become increasingly childlike. Despite all our education and knowledge, we want the people in charge to ‘get on with it!’ without bothering us with their checks and balances and ‘painful facts’. “Do your job! “Solve MY immediate problems and get it done whatever way you think best. “This becomes the shortcut for ‘oligarchs’, ‘strongmen’, and ‘petty dictators’. Is it too much ...
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The New Guy.

  The New Guy. A new guy has taken up residence in our street these last few months. He’s also in the drinking game. He sits in the small square near the library. I pass him each day on my way to the newsagents. He drinks beer from cans and lines up the empties as if it’s some kind of competition, and he’s counting.  His clothes are clean but ruffled. His face is tanned; he could be a teacher or even a writer; each time I see him, he gets older.  Now and then, a woman sits beside him; she looks like the social worker type. Usually, she’s talking while he stares into the distance, drinking.  Once, I saw her give him a packed sandwich from the local bakery; when I returned, she was gone, and the sandwich lay untouched on the bench next to him, the following morning, birds were fighting over it.
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