But no, it's an opportunity I'll have to pass on, because being diplomatic and discreet is second nature to me - and I don't want to get sued. (The bastards know who they are though - and they know that I know.)
So if not whistle-blowing about the excesses of high-profile individuals of my acquaintance, what then? How about pollution in China?
I was horrified to see the newsreel footage of the smog cloud that rolled into Beijing this week. Having arrived, it stuck around - and not for the first time. It is just part of a bigger problem, for the smog blanket currently extends some hundreds of miles along China's eastern industrial corridor cloaking major cities in a foul soup of carbon dioxide, lethal particulates and hydro-carbons (see the image below).
This is not cloud, it's poisonous smog.
Last week I was bemoaning the 5,000 poor migrants who were drowned in the Mediterranean in 2016. By way of comparison, smog in China is supposedly responsible for 4,000 deaths per day - that's 3 every minute, or a staggering one-and-a-half million people every year! Unbelievable. The immediate culprits are the coal-fired power stations underpinning China's industrial revolution and the exponential increase in road traffic, especially in the cities. It's a chronic situation for the millions exposed and at risk on a regular basis: excess levels of mortality triggered by excess levels of air pollution. On the larger stage, it is state policy that allowed this to happen and greedy Western capitalism that has catalysed the catastrophe.That's my first rant of the year concluded. On to the first poem of 2017.
The idea came to me when I couldn't help overhearing (okay, listened in attentively to) an animated conversation between a group of lads in a pub discussing their relationships with their ex-girlfriends. This may not be its final form, but it will do for now.
I must stress it is tongue-in-cheek and pure fiction, bears not the slightest resemblance to my own life, plus any similarity to persons still standing or lain under a patio is spookily coincidental.
My Ex And Me
My ex and me we get on famously,
much better than we ever did
in pre-ex days.
Back then,
if we weren't at each other's throats,
we would wear each other down
with our constant niggling pre-ex ways.
Ex gratia, the hex is lifted -
post ex, she no longer vexes me.
Relief.
My exposition moving forward, this:
in brief, no ties, no grief,
my ex and me could just have great ex-sex.
Don't expostulate, my ex. Extend to me.
Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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