Greetings, fellow Triumvirs and visitors to The High Post. New Year greetings are in order, Auld Lang Syne and all that. I have no doubt Rich is taking the cup of kindness now, even (perhaps especially) at this late hour. And old acquaintence with Joffre will ne'er be forgot, yea, though I haven't spoken or emailed with him for weeks, or seen him for more than a year.
In a troubling reminder that there are more problems with the world than the watery chaos ringing the Indian Ocean, this story from Jane's (Not Just Ships) gives startling statistics surrounding the soldierly slavery suffered by children in despotic "armies" around le monde (how was that sentence for a sibilant series?).
In other news, the Van Someren family has recently been enjoying the apocalyptic jubilance of "Dr Strangelove, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb." It struck me that in some ways the film is an idea of how P.G. Wodehouse might have dealt with the modern world. Of course, part of the joy is that he never did (e.g., Bertie still lives in a swanky London flat in the seventies, drives a two-seater in the early days of Japanese imports, and employs a manservant decades after architects ceased including rooms for them in their plans). Nevertheless, sometimes with inconsistency comes humor, even joy. Somehow, I can see B. Wooster messing about in the War Room, shooting it out with Gen. Ripper, and even riding along with the SAC lads on the '52.
And on that happy note, I leave you for the evening.
In a troubling reminder that there are more problems with the world than the watery chaos ringing the Indian Ocean, this story from Jane's (Not Just Ships) gives startling statistics surrounding the soldierly slavery suffered by children in despotic "armies" around le monde (how was that sentence for a sibilant series?).
In other news, the Van Someren family has recently been enjoying the apocalyptic jubilance of "Dr Strangelove, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb." It struck me that in some ways the film is an idea of how P.G. Wodehouse might have dealt with the modern world. Of course, part of the joy is that he never did (e.g., Bertie still lives in a swanky London flat in the seventies, drives a two-seater in the early days of Japanese imports, and employs a manservant decades after architects ceased including rooms for them in their plans). Nevertheless, sometimes with inconsistency comes humor, even joy. Somehow, I can see B. Wooster messing about in the War Room, shooting it out with Gen. Ripper, and even riding along with the SAC lads on the '52.
And on that happy note, I leave you for the evening.
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