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Showing posts from December, 2009

Now I see him, now I don’t: a May-time mystery for Christmas

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I wish I could open, “on a mid-December afternoon, in a grey and grainy light...” But I can’t. It happened on one of this year’s bright May mornings. And I wish I could say I was feeling particularly whimsical, romantic, suggestible or dreamy. But, tell the truth, in a grim mood, I was trudging to meet an erstwhile colleague to talk about my difficult relationship with a third party in another organisation, a dim-witted brute with an over-partiality for red tape and tight trousers. So, heading towards Newgate Street, I go through the rose garden in the ruined nave of Christ Church. On the other side of the road, a man is sitting on a low wooden stool, painting. He is in early middle age, robust and square jawed. He wears wide leather boots, the colour of fresh-shelled chestnuts, with navy trousers tucked into them; a big blue canvas shirt, a tan leather waistcoat and a black leather pillbox hat. I cross the road. He looks up at me – piercing dark eyes – and I smile. He doesn’t. Passing

Hopes going down, the real man stands revealed

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I don’t know if you read the story about poor Paul Hopes? Why do I call him poor? In three years he spent nearly £4-million on fast cars, fast girls and five-star hotels. Big problem: it wasn’t his money. So now he’s in custody waiting to be sentenced after pleading guilty to 18 charges of theft. Paul managed the purchase ledger at Toys ‘R’ Us in Maidenhead, Berkshire, UK, a chain whose exchequer he clearly saw as his personal plaything. His story is well told by Ben Marlow and Robert Watts in The Times . What jumped at me was this: The 58-year-old accountant, with greying hair and a double chin, appeared to live a life of suburban normality... “It’s all been a big surprise,” said one of his colleagues. “We just knew him as ‘Paul from finance’. He was a quiet, likeable chap. He just didn’t strike you as that sort of person. Look, in all the time I’ve worked in the same building ... getting arrested is the one memorable thing I can remember him doing.” And why did that portrait leap ou

White City, Forbidden City: how we tried to help the Beeb and got swatted

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I fear I may be turning into an avatar of Gabriel Betteredge, the venerable house steward in Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone who has an eccentric dependency on Robinson Crusoe . “When my spirits are bad – Robinson Crusoe . When I want advice – Robinson Crusoe . In past times, when my wife plagued me; in present times, when I have had a drop too much – Robinson Crusoe . I have worn out six stout Robinson Crusoes with hard work in my service.” In my case, the oracle is an Oscar-winning documentary called The Fog of War , which has become for me and its other students a significant educational resource . The film, made in 2003 when its protagonist was 85, is subtitled “eleven lessons from the life of Robert S. McNamara”, and if you want to know briefly what the lessons were, I’ve précised them into a short slide-show . In a way, the doc is a factual version of Dr Strangelove . McNamara, the once-vilified Secretary of State to J F Kennedy and L B Johnson, had grandstand places for the fire-