Drive into any village in France and you will find a Great War memorial, usually larger than the WWII memorial, simply because, when WWII came around, there were fewer men left to die.
I loved the trappings of the holiday as perhaps only a child growing up in the tropics can love them: the snowy landscapes of greeting cards; the fireplaces and twinkly yellow lights glowing in the December dark of favourite books and films; the carols on my family’s Bing Crosby and Jim Reeves records; the Christmas pudding and fruit cake my Aunty Edith made; the whole comforting Englishness of it, at once familiar and exotic, reliable and exciting.
I am at the tiny police base in my parents’ neighborhood in Kuala Lumpur. I’ve come to report the loss of my Identity Card, a document Malaysians must carry at all times.
“The blonde angel,” the Greek media christened her: this little girl “discovered” during a drug-and-weapons raid in the Roma settlement near Farsala in central Greece. Within days, the story broke in every major European newspaper.
I want to write a blog post about Everything. The blog post to end all blog posts, the blog post that will unify all the properties of blog posts. It seems, at a time like now, not only necessary but unavoidable, or at least the attempt seems unavoidable.