Parries → First time in this house all day 

Here in Britain the top of the national agenda should be Wimbledon but instead it has been fatal flooding, then botched terror attacks by foreign-born doctors, and now today the relief of BBC journalist Alan Johnston’s release from Gaza. Britain, the middling nationstate with the mightiest legacy, is as caught up in the whirlwind of jihad as Israel.

One newspaper column—in the Murdoch-owned Times no less, not The Guardian nor The Independent—tries to explain why a foreigner working in the NHS might become a terrorist.

Nowhere can inequality be so devastatingly stark as in a well-resourced British hospital where a well-fed patient, preparing to have her varicose veins removed, complains to an Iraqi doctor whose medic brother was killed for treating bomb victims back home; or a Malawian nurse whose young child died of an easily preventable disease; or a Zambian whose life expectancy at home would be lower then the age of the woman in the hospital bed – where she complains to these people treating her that the food sucks or she hasn’t got enough pillows or painkillers.

Ludicrous, eh? Admittedly, this is not mainstream, even if published in a mainstream newspaper.

As for Hamas, a very impressive job, getting this guy freed. Their first step in power has been a successful one. Though I saw a previous impressive sign: all the masks came off during media shots of them doing their thing—this one now directing traffic.

Today I’ve been indoors all day, the first time since returning from the US and entering our new place. Up to now I’ve been haunting the local cafes and pubs for internet access, but now the laptop’s picking up an unprotected wifi network here from the house! Great! Nonetheless, not leaving the house all day is the other extreme of discomfort from not having one’s own spot.

Since Davide was here to visit I’ve had a renewed taste for spaghetti. Hadn’t touched it in months but he conjured some up so quickly and easily and it was so tasty. I also pointed him to our moka (actually three of various sizes, all untouched since moving to the UK) and some coffee I’d brought from Italy that hadn’t been opened for six months, and I’d forgotten how good it is—mixed with milk it’s better than any Americano I’ve had at £1.50 a pop here around town. Also bought a finjan and Turkish coffee from the new Taj shop. Daniel’s influence—it’s the only coffee he makes at home.

Meanwhile I’m warming perhaps to the new home. It’s substantially bigger and I actually have a room to myself for the first time since Sapir. It’s pretty barren without the dogs mind you, and wall-to-wall carpeting is despicable. But the outside is nice. Whereas in the previous place I had a patch of sky to look up to, I now have a long narrow strip—the entire block of back yards. And once again I have a place that’s quiet for birds and trees and seagull racket. Though at the front of the street there’s the occasional shockingly loud sound of people as they pass by while speaking. Yet we’re in the centre of Brighton, a significant enough town to appear on the weather map on TV—the next town over that appears is Southampton. So that’s good.

GTD goes well. Everything work-related is being collected and I’m being reminded of tasks at the proper time—hey it’s only taken me a decade to get in order.

Happy birthday, America. 231 today!