Where I have really fabulous ideas for posts but by the time I get home am too tired to actually write said posts.
Instead, I give you this strangely current piece of Thatcher-era puppet comedy.
Actually, to that I will add that I am reading Philip Gourevitch's We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. It has lived on my bedside table for a month or two, and I finally convinced myself to read it last weekend. It's a book onto which much praise has been heaped. The praise is all justified; let me leave it at that. When all is said and done, it is likely to be the most depressing thing I will read all year. I think people must be relieved when they read a book like this, relieved that someone has captured some of the story, that someone has done something with the unspeakable trauma, relieving others of that duty. Genocide in 256 pages, discreet, closeable. Finite. Like a holocaust museum, with its reassuring implicit message that it houses and confines atrocity which is not found in the world outside it. Like a Greek tragedy, it'll bring the reader emotion, maybe guilt*; you cry, it ends, you go home.
Maybe you even tell yourself that some people got saved, or liberated, or whatever you choose to call it. I respect Gourevitch for not letting the reader feel like this is a closed chapter. Yeah, even now.
*"The Belgians issued racial identification cards to every Rwandan, giving preferential treatment to Tutsis for positions in education, politics and business." see Wikipedia on the subject