So Begins The Task

I am still absorbing the hugeness of my father's death. There have been various administrative hurdles to negotiate - a reference to the coroner's office, a reference back from that office to the hospital (basically telling them to get on with it and not to pass the buck) and, at last being able to register the death. Registration took place this morning and then it hit me - I had in my hand certification that this moral giant is dead. Now we can start to plan a fitting memorial.

Dad, at his beloved School

So, private grief aside, what is the world up to as it faces a brave new year? Quite a lot actually. America took it upon itself to execute an Iranian alleged mass-murderer. The world thereby shivers in the shadow of war. It would be nice to have greater (no, any in fact) faith in the U.S. President who ordered the act. It is possible to do the right think for entirely the wrong reason. The defining story of 2020 will be America's response to the opportunity to eject Trump by the ballot box. The fabulously ill-judged impeachment of this wretched man will be the prelude to the democratic denouement.

South East Australia is ablaze and it is apparently my fault. And yours. What are we going to do about it? Should my next car be a hybrid?

Scotland worries me. Actually, scratch that - Scotland annoys me. You may remember that a matter of a few years ago we had a 'once in a generation' referendum on Scottish independence. The nationalists lost that vote 45/55. Those same nationalists have just (by an ironic fate) achieved 45% of the vote in Scotland in a national election. The remainder voted for various hues of unionism. According to La Sturgeon this gives her (please bear in mind that she was not even a candidate in these elections - at least Salmon took the fight to Westminster) 'an overwhelming mandate' for another referendum. Beam me up Scotty.

Let's finish on an optimistic note. Last Saturday prior to the two Aston Old Edwardians fixtures against Aldridge RFC, sixty plus players and officials and a large throng of spectators were whistled to attention and stood in a solemn silence in memory of Brian David Roberts. He would have loved that and, yet more, he would have smiled to see the old ground so full. Furthermore he would have allowed himself a brief triumphant glow in face of the results which saw Aston win on both pitches by a combined margin of just eight points. The sun shone and perhaps, just perhaps, God was in his heaven.