Still portraying himself as the victim of a sting, rather that somebody who employed five “ladies who please” to assist in his strange fantasies, the righteously indignant FIA President has hired a firm of private detectives to investigate who was responsible for lifting the dustbin lid on his “eccentric” games. A finger has already been pointed at Ron Dennis (surprise, surprise, I wondered how long it would be!), but what if it turns out to be someone closer to home?

Just like the failed attempt to gag the NOTW and block the accessing of the video from France, it seems to be a case of closing the stable door long after the horse had bolted, trampled the flowers and knocked over the vicar.

What was Max thinking when he went to keep the appointment in the basement dungeon - that he was going to talk to the local branch of the WI about road safety and the reasons for banning traction control from F1?

As well as not being in Bahrain and Spain, I didn’t hear any mention of him being in Turkey, too, but he has promised to be at the Monaco GP, an event that will be eagerly awaited by many F1 fans.

Now, why have the FIA appointed an “independent” expert to decide whether or not Mr Mosley’s basement antics had a Nazi theme? First of all, does it mean an expert on Nazi-themed sado-masochism? Surely not. Secondly, the FIA’s press release said, of the expert’s opinion, that “should the FIA Extraordinary General Assembly so decide, this opinion will be available to the member clubs of the FIA on 3 June (the date when the 222 members of the FIA will vote for or against Mosley remaining in his role as President).” So does this mean that the opinion may not ever be seen by the members????

Another question that comes to mind is why the club members should need the opinion of an eminent QC to decide whether the President’s rumpy-pumpy-spanky-hanky-panky behaviour was Nazi-themed. Do they not have eyes? Ears? Are they simple-minded? Surely they could draw their own conclusions by watching the video?

It seems very odd to me, but maybe I’m missing the point.

It’s an overcast day with a hint of drizzle, the kind of weather I find perfect for weeding. The funny thing is that all the time I’ve been bent over, plucking and tugging beneath grey skies, a phrase has been running through my mind: “On this white and dusty path, beneath the blazing August sun …” Wishful thinking, maybe?

The line comes from a poem written by a local man, more than 60 years ago, and although I am not a great lover of poetry it has stuck in my mind for years, since a copy was given to me by one of our French neighbours, an adorable old lady.

It is a hot day in August 1944. A man is driving his oxen along the road, urging them to move faster, not to drag their heels, but to get a move on as they pull their load of beets and hay through the village, past the watching German troops. Come on, he encourages the sweating, straining animals, let’s look bright and lively, not like a funeral cortège. He smiles, and sings to encourage them.

Once they are out of the village, however, his tone changes. You’ll think me strange, he tells them, asking them to walk slowly, as he allows himself to weep for his dead son, whose body lies hidden beneath the straw and hay. The oxen somehow understand that they are pulling the young man whose voice they knew and loved, taking him home to his weeping mother. Be careful how you go; mind the holes and bumps on the road, so you don’t bang his head against the cart, says the father.

The poem was written to commemorate the death of a young man from a hamlet a kilometre from where we live. Wounded at the battle of Champagné St Hilaire, he died of his wounds the following day, in the arms of a friend, in the bloodsoaked room of the café-restaurant at Joussé, département 86.

LES BŒUFS 14 août 1944

Sur la route blanche et poudreuse

Sous ce chaud soleil de mois d’août

Avancez! mes bœufs, avancez!

La cariole est voyageuse

Lourde à trainer, mais malgré tout

A l’aiguillon, obéissez!

A me suivre, vous êtes braves

Mais bien trop lent à mon désir

Avancez! mes bœufs, avancez!

Nous transportons des betteraves

Du bon foin qu’on hume à plaisir

A l’aiguillon, obéissez!

Passons au travers du village

Devant ces allemands balourds

Gais et fiers, et le pas léger

C’est un innocent attelage

Mais de sa récolte trop lourde

Il me faut vous encourager

Avancez, mes bœufs, avancez!

L’ennemi m’a-t-il vu sourire?

Ne soyez pas si nonchalants!

Pour vous aider, je chanterai!

Ne prolongez pas mon martyre!

Mes bœufs, vous êtes ruisselants

De peine, mais moi je ne pourrai

Plus longtemps donner le change

Vous paraissez trop ténébreux

Mener un train d’enterrement

Avancez! mes bœufs, avancez!

Vous allez me trouver étrange

Ne plus me comprendre, mes bœufs

Allez lentement, doucement!

Vous voici maintenant en plaine

Allez posement, noblement

Laissez mes larmes lentement

Couler. Laisser crever ma peine.

Vous vous traîner péniblement

Ayant compris obscurément

Vous que charmait sa voix si forte

Que sous cette paille et ce foin

Cachant à tous mon desespoir

Doucement, mes bœufs, avancez!

C’est mon fils mort que je rapporte!

Mon fils! Ma raison de demain

Mons fils! Qui fut à son devoir

Mons fils! Lequel aimait tant vivre

Et qui partit pour le maquis

Pour que sa France de nouveau

Soit une France grande et libre!

Mon fils est mort pour son pays

Que pouvais-je donner plus beau?

Il fut blessé dans la bataille

Et ne mourut qu’au demain

C’est pourquoi, dans mon tombereau

Avancez! Mes bœufs, avancez!

J’emporte, cache sous la paille

Un francais, mon fils, au dédain

Des SS, de la Gestapo!

Mais que sa pauvre tête inerte

Ne heurte pas la tombereau

Evitez les trous, les cahoots.

La route est maintenant deserte

Le mère attend votre fardeau

Avec ses pleurs et ses sanglots

Avancez, mes bœufs, avancez!

14 août, 1944. Lendemain de la bataille de Champagne Saint Hilaire. Evocation de la mort du volontaire Robert Armand en les bras de Mitsou dans la chambre ensanglantée des Lhuguenot, Café-restaurant de Joussé (Vienne).

Mai 1945 – Jean Coste

There’s a lady in Tajikistan who has a remarkable little business - she buys carrots, chops them up, packs them and sells them at a profit! How enterprising is that? Apparently carrots are a major ingredient of plov, one of Tajikistan’s most popular dishes.

The lady’s name is Omina Abdujalilova.

Omina is looking to raise a loan of $600 to buy appliances for her home, to improve living conditions for her family. So far she has raised $475, and just needs another $125. Individual loans can be as little as $25 - (currently only €16).

You can read about, and help Omina, by clicking here

Edit: Three hours later - Omina has now received all the loans she needed! But there are dozens more people like her looking for similar loans here: Small businesses in developing countries

“We got a note from our people in Germany, telling us that a German woman who has been followed by the police for much time and who is “collecting” dogs from different association is mistreating the dogs and also other animals.

Following is the text of a message received from a bona fide source involved in animal welfare. They ask for vigilance regarding a German woman who mistreats animals and is living in France (Dept. 39 is the Jura, in the Franche-Comté region):

After changing many times her home she has now moved to France. She is always offering herself as foster home and tells to be engaged in animal rescue. She even contacted us some time ago.

Please beware of this woman and please pass this information over to any French association you may know!! If possible also enclose her to any BLACK LIST.

Her name is Patricia, and she has moved to département 39.

She has a friend called PETER who “works” with her.”

After returning from a 10-day working trip to England, I’ve much catching up to do, so I’ll start with the “but” news.

The publisher who had expressed interest in my latest manuscript has come back with a fairly positive response, but …………………………… they have some reservations and want changes made before making an offer. I need to know how extensive they would want these changes to be, and whether I would be happy with the end result.

I’m certain that if this was my first book, I’d be jumping through hoops, bending over backwards and running up the down escalator to satisfy the publisher’s wishes without question, but with three books already published I’m no longer desperate! I recognise that publishers know what they can sell - that’s their job - and writers must listen to their advice and suggestions. At the same time, it’s important to me that the book which ends up on the shelves has not been changed to such an extent that it bears no resemblance to the book I originally wrote.

So it’s up in the air at present, but nevertheless encouraging to have positive news during very difficult times in the publishing industry.

Please keep puffing.

What is the purpose, exactly, of reclining chairs on ferries?

I had assumed that they were to enable passengers to relax and have a sleep after a long drive, but from recent experience I realised this is a very stupid idea.

Firstly, it is supremely uncomfortable on the neck to lie in the reclining position, with one’s feet, having nowhere to rest themselves, doomed to dangle in the air unless the legs are long enough to let them reach the floor (mine are not). From the ceiling, blindingly bright lights beamed down like interrogation lights onto the face of recliners. From the adjacent children’s bouncy area blood-curdling shrieks and extreme-decibel squeals pierced the eardrums. (I was awed when I saw that there were just two tiny tots creating all the noise). Ahead, the television mumbled, not quite loud enough to hear what was being said, but loud enough, in the short but blissful intervals between shrieks and squeals, to invade the head.

There is another recliner lounge on the higher deck - just behind the bar where less tired travellers were clinking cups and glasses and talking and laughing (nothing wrong with that), and adjacent to a heavy door that opened with a very loud groan and closed with a very loud slam and through which a constant stream of people went in and out for no apparent reason. This room also boasted a large television, which a thoughtless idiot turned on and flicked from channel to channel for several minutes, waking those few lucky souls who had managed to find comfort in the bosom of Morpheus, before wandering off muttering bad-temperedly to himself.

Trying to snatch half an hour of sleep in one of these torture chambers was just about the most frustrating experience I can remember; so instead I bought a cup of hot chocolate and looked for a quiet place to sit and read my book (Sebastian Faulks’ “Birdsong” - very highly recommended). In every lounge there was a television, offering a viewing choice of either French game shows or a football match. The one lounge that didn’t have a television was next to the gaming machines. I realised, sadly, that there are no quiet places on a ferry.

On a previous trip I had booked a cabin, with the intention of having a few hours peace. This strategy was a failure as the people in the next door cabin alternately talked or hurled themselves against the cabin wall.

For future reference, when travelling by ferry: Mental note, reinforced by a written one: Next time, bring earplugs and a blindfold.

Blogging has taken a bit of a back seat over the last few days, as I am off to England for work on Wednesday, TOH has been away for five days - leaving me to do all the things he normally does as well as all the things I normally do - and there are all sorts of ends to tie up before I go.

Still, in between chores I’ve been starting to upload some of my photos to My Flickr album. If you want, you can have a look.

If Firefox is your browser, then I highly recommend the add-on called “PicLens”, which is a superb image viewer. (Unfortunately, it doesn’t yet work with Linux).

Right, back to packing and organising. Bye for now.

This week Motorsport South Africa joined in the call for Mr Mosley to resign following his starring role in a splendid 5-hour orgy with five hookers, which culminated in a nice cup of tea.

Mark Webber is the first F1 driver to have the balls to openly say that Mr Mosley has brought the sport into disrepute - an offence for which Max is usually eager to apply the most draconian punishment. However, he refuses to see that his private “eccentricities” - as he so coyly describes his sado-masochistic proclivities - have no adverse reflection on his position as the President of the world’s most prestigious motoring organisation.

But surely, Mr Mosley, it’s all about image? The Spirit of Ecstasy sits on the bonnet of the Rolls Royce. A prancing black horse decorates the Ferrari. Would a Barbie doll make an acceptable substitute, or a rocking horse? They wouldn’t be taken seriously.

To avoid the possibility of embarrassing the King of Spain, Mr Mosley will not be attending the forthcoming Grand Prix in Barcelona. Instead he will go to Jordan, whose King has also let it be known that he does not wish to meet Mr Mosley.

Did anybody else get the impression that Simon Smith was only too glad to be on the end of Sir Alan Sugar’s pointing finger last night? Methought he didth protest too little as he became the latest Apprentice to be fired. Poor fellow, with Claire “Funny eyelashes” Shoutingallthetime and Transparentlytricky Alex Sillyname on his team, he never had a chance.

De la Rochefoucauld and Franklin both pointed out, a century apart, that tricks and treachery are the weapons and defences of the incompetent and dishonest, a truth consummately illustrated in the current series. From the moment he so unwisely volunteered himself for the task, Simon’s failure as a project manager was written on the hairy face and suspiciously pink lips of Alex Sillyname.

Really, there are a few seriously horrid people amongst the current crop of hopefuls.

My take was that Sir Alan had a soft spot for Simon, who was a baby bunny in a cage of ravenous weasels, and gave him a rope ladder so that he could escape, whilst lining up gobby Claire and sneaky Alex for a few weeks of stress and humiliation to delight the audience. Would Sir Alan actually want to hire somebody who shows themselves to be as untrustworthy as Alex? Somehow I doubt it.

Gripping stuff, isn’t it?

What an adorable boy.

Can’t help a small tear escaping.