In London - Crossing from the Tate Modern
to St Pauls (via the Millennium Bridge)
> Return
| No responsibility is accepted for linked third party video or media content - see Terms of Use and Copyright. |
We have 31 guests and no members online
> Return
| No responsibility is accepted for linked third party video or media content - see Terms of Use and Copyright. |
In February 2011 we travelled to Malaysia. I was surprised to see modern housing estates in substantial numbers during our first cab ride from the Airport to Kuala Lumpur. It seemed more reminiscent of the United Arab Emirates than of the poorer Middle East or of other developing countries in SE Asia. Our hotel was similarly well appointed.
It's the summer of 2010; the warm nights are heavy with the scent of star jasmine; sleeping bodies glisten with perspiration; draped, as modestly requires, under a thin white sheet. A light breeze provides intermittent comfort as it wafts fitfully through the open front door.
Yet we lie unperturbed. To enter the premises a nocturnal visitor bent on larceny, or perhaps an opportunistic dalliance, must wend their way past our parked cars and evade a motion detecting flood-light on the veranda before confronting locked, barred doors securing the front and rear entrances to the house.
Yet things are going missing. Not watches or wallets; laptops or phones; but clothes: "Did you put both my socks in the wash?" "Where's my black and white striped shirt?" "I seem to be missing several pairs of underpants!"
Julian Assange is in the news again.
I have commented on his theories and his worries before.
I know no more than you do about his worries; except to say that in his shoes I would be worried too.
But I take issue with his unqualified crusade to reveal the World’s secrets. I disagree that secrets are always a bad thing.