Whither France? Whither the Euro?

This Dominique Strauss-Kahn business - couldn't have happened to a nicer chap, could it? Another Master of the Universe, believing himself untouchable, brought down by his unruly loins. But to the girdle do the gods inherit... It's said that his aides warned him to amend his predatory ways while in the US, where you can't reasonably expect to get away with that kind of thing (unless your name's Kennedy). Clearly he took no notice, and his imagined untouchable status cut no ice with the no-nonsense judge who dispatched him forthwith to Rikers Island.
The beauty of it is that this will destroy the French Socialists' chances of winning anything for quite a while, and, with Monsieur S-K (and his deputy) gone from the IMF, that body will come to its senses and stop the endless bail-outs of Europe's basket cases. In the long run, Monsieur S-K's ill-advised pounce might kill off the Euro, at least in those countries where it was never going to work. Here's to a future of drachmas, escudos and cheap Mediterranean holidays - merci, monsieur!

Hats Off to Moldova!

What with the rush of events, and the sunshine, and the gardening, and the unaccustomed joy of having my daughter home - and married - my blogmind has recently lapsed into torpor, largely indifferent to the passing scene and incapable of forming much in the way of coherent thought. Only one thing could rouse it to return to the blogscape - the Eurovision Song Contest, always a landmark event here on Nigeness, which launched two years ago in the stunned aftermath of Russia's infamous victory. And talking of stunned aftermaths, here's the Daily Mail's characteristic we wuz robbed take on last night's Azerbaijani triumph - though technically it's an Ireland wuz robbed take. Jedward, in their deranged and uncoordinated way (identical twins who can't make a single movement in synch!), did give one of the few memorable performances of the night. Azerbaijan's was deeply forgettable, just a fairly slick bit of bland Europop - but that, alas, is the way Eurovision is going. The heats having weeded out most of the ethnic nutjobs, the finalists tend to turn out dreary stuff, mostly in English (the international language of pop!). Most of the fun is now in the staging and design, which tends to be appalling, in a kitschy camp way - and here too Jedward beat the rest, as they pranced around against bright, ever-changing graphics in their strange, big-shouldered suits, channelling Britney Spears, the Pet Shop Boys and Gilbert and George simultaneously. This was Eurovision lunacy of a high order, and few of the other entrants got near it. After a promising start - a smug blond kid from Finland singing a terrible song about saving the planet, and a touch of ethnic eccentricity from Bosnia and Herzegovina (a lively band led by a man who looked like Alan Sugar crossed with Eric Idle, with much random dancing, blasts of brass, etc) - the entrants were mostly bland and dreary, apart from Moldova, whose enthusiastic band of men in 6ft-tall fur hats briefly brought things back to life. A disappointing contest then, which Graham Norton's torpid commentary did little to enliven. The German staging was interesting - each entrant nation was represented not by a cheesy film of its attractions but by dreary footage of an exile from that country who lived in Germany. Hmm... The German after-show 'entertainment' - provided at great length by a tall man in a tight checked suit and porkpie hat who sang, among much else, a song titled I Love Four Of My Five Kids - injected a little last-minute Euromadness. But it was too little, too late. Next year in Baku! That might be fun...

Vernon Again

While in Derbyshire, I was also introduced to a most delicious liqueur that I'd never come across before - Noyau de Vernon. It's made from the kernels not of apricots (as amaretto and various others are) but of cherries - and it certainly tastes of cherries. In fact it's rather like a cross between kirsch and amaretto, but without the sharpness of kirsch or the sweetness of amaretto - and it's got a good 40% kick. If you spot a bottle, buy it - as I would have done, had I but known, last October, for Vernon was the very town in which my brother and I found ourselves locked out of the hotel. Small world.

Dingy in the Dale

Well, here I am, back from Derbyshire, restored in body and soul, and ready for anything (except the grim prospect of saying goodbye to my daughter and new son-in-law and returning to work next week). In the course of the Derbyshire visit, I finally saw my first Tortoiseshell of the year - I was going to say 'spotted', but it was my sharp-eyed cousin who spotted it, basking sleepily beside the path along Milldale, a beautiful dale north of the famously scenic Dovedale. It was a day of intermittent sunshine, with showers (or short sharp downpours) never far away - we later got caught in a notably heavy one. When the sun shone, Orange Tips and whites were flying in numbers, with the odd Peacock, Speckled Wood and Brimstone - and then the Tortoiseshell. It was a faded beauty, long past its prime - but the extraordinary thing about this sighting was that barely a foot away from the Tortoiseshell was my old friend the Dingy Skipper - a fresh and bright (dingy indeed!) specimen, also basking in blissful abandon, wings fully spread. The sight of these two so close together is one I never thought to see. And, to complete the picture, a fine Orange Tip was basking on a leaf a few yards away, and in the background a Green-Veined White fluttered around prettily. My cousin, armed only with a mobile phone (I was, as usual at such times, cameraless), closed in, first on the Tortoiseshell, then the Skipper, neither of which stirred, even with the cameraphone a few inches from them. The results were a beautiful but blurry picture of the faded Tortoiseshell, and the fine image of the Dingy Skipper that adorns this post.
And now I intend to head for the Surrey Hills...

A Day - and Night - to Remember

Well, I am happy to report that the Big Day went swimmingly and joyfully. It was, like my son's wedding two years ago, one of the very happiest days of my life. Unfortunately the swimmingness didn't last quite to the very end, as, in an eerie replay of my own experience in Normandy last year, they found themselves locked out of their hotel in the small hours, in all their finery, with no one answering the night bell or night service number. They ended up trudging down to the other local hotel, only to find another late returner in identical plight there, after which the three of them returned to the after-party and attempted to get some sleep in a house without a single internal door (they're away being 'dipped') and with a dog who likes sharing a human bed. Truly a night to remember... But they bounced back with admirable good humour, and are now in Edinburgh on a 'minimoon' that will include a brief stay on Orkney, which I look forward to hearing about. And me I'm off to my spiritual second home - beautiful Derbyshire - tomorrow, but only for a day.

Consolations

A spot of illness being (like death in the old joke) Nature's way of telling you to slow down, it brings consolations with it. My recent bout gave me the opportunity to lie around reading Penelope Fitzgerald's letters (which are quite wonderful), to sit in the sun in the garden - and to do a good deal of productive and enjoyable gardening at a leisurely pace. Something about gardening feels so right, so natural - and it is immensely therapeutic to body and mind. Holly Blues are flying in all the gardens around here, with the odd Speckled Wood - and, not being able to get out for a proper butterfly walk, I thought that would be it. But no - in the scrubby grass bordering a path beside the railway (classic suburban edgeland), I spotted yesterday a Common blue, which obligingly landed for some minutes, wings folded, allowing me to make a firm identification while admiring its lapidary underwings. An uncommonly beautiful butterfly, the Common Blue - and that was my first of the year, taking my species count to 13, though I've yet to see a Tortoiseshell. There's a nice picture of a Common Blue on this post from last year. And now, busyness calls...

Apologies...

to those coming here recently for their daily dose of Nigeness, the tonic to the nation ('Since discovering Nigeness, I have used no other' - A. Person, Porlock). The 'cold' mentioned in the last post developed into what we medical men refer to as a humdinging stinker, which even deprived me of my voice for the whole of Sunday. I'm as good as over it now, but have also been beset by the inevitable busyness attendant on the Daughter's Wedding on Friday. Not technically a Wedding (the formalities having been attended to last month in New Zealand) but a Blessing. But then, as Groucho said, If it looks like a wedding, talks like a wedding and quacks like a wedding - it's a wedding.
As before, I shall be working up my speech from the finest models - and I anticipate another Happy Day. Normal blogging will be resumed soon, then - after the Big Day.