We've done it again: flung ourselves across the world in an aeroplane and wound up somewhere else, somewhen else. It's a bizarre thing to do, at once both numbingly routine and mind-bendingly exotic.
I get annoyed by some of it, obviously. The way the chap in front swings his seat back into my face before we've even taken off, for one thing. Another is the utter disconnection from the outside world; hopefully soon we'll look back, agog, at Internet-less flights the way we currently remember the days of smoking on planes.
The other thing that irks me is the way time goes out the window. Not the jet-lag inducing missing hours, but the lack of consensus. Time becomes fractured: some passengers are working off the destination time, others still clinging to where we took off from; some try to sleep immediately, some are determined to stay awake. And then there are the passengers who are making connections from or to a third continent and who knows what their clocks are set to.
The airline has its own ideas of course and will dim the lights, or serve you lunch in an attempt to help the transition. But all the while the sun or stars are peering in under open blinds, ever-shifting guides offering their own opinions.
The bare facts of our flight are that we left Houston at 4pm and landed 9 hours later in London at 7am. The advantage to losing six hours en route is that the journey passes very quickly, if only in hindsight.
My favourite bit of the journey is breakfast. It's the beginning of a new consensus. One can't argue with croissant and coffee and, with even just a light dusting of sleep, it is relatively easy to convince one's brain and body that some sort of night has been squeezed into the impossibly small space the schedule allowed.
Tell a lie, that's my second favourite part. The best bit is obviously getting out of Arrivals and into the grey concrete embrace of the Terminal 3 car park. If that sounds like sarcasm, be warned: I am VERY excited to be home again. The coolness of the breeze, the Belisha beacons, the indecent haste with which roads twist in the confined space, warping into an epidemic of roundabouts, these are the first delightful impressions of Britain.
And now we're safely with my in-laws. The boys are buzzing, full of energy, and the gentle sun is shining. The afternoon ahead offers the irresistible prospect of a quick pint with one old friend and a mad dash into London to see a show.
I couldn't sleep, even if I wanted to.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
High Time
I'm packing and just had to ask myself if I have a sweater. I make that three reasons why it is high time I went back home for a bit.
1) it's too hot in Houston
2) I'm talking to myself
3) it's a jumper.
1) it's too hot in Houston
2) I'm talking to myself
3) it's a jumper.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Could AV Been
On the whole, I'd much rather have a government that I disagreed with than an electorate that disagreed with me. And right now I have both. At least when a government gets things wrong I can moan about it or swear at the television; the chances are that I will find someone sympathetic to discuss it with. But the mistakes or delusions of fellow voters are sacrosanct and one is not allowed to query them, let alone over rule them.
Nothing, conversely, feels better than when one is part of a national consensus that sweeps a new government into power. That last happened in 1997 and it was very exciting. The resulting Labour administration did pretty well, tackling child poverty, investing in health and education, and so forth, but expectations were not met from the off: Labour's landslide was so great that Blair cooled on a commitment to offer a referendum on AV.
With the Tories enfeebled and dejected and other reforms taking place, such a referendum might have been accepted - although there would still have been strong resistance from Labour. And what if AV been in place for the last three elections? Well, AV doesn't prevent landslides, in fact it can exaggerate them, so Blair would certainly have been returned convincingly in 2001 and the 2005 election would have resulted in a slightly greater Labour majority than actually occurred.
What would have changed, then? Well, the Conservatives, who nearly fragmented anyway under Iain Duncan Smith, would have faced a catastrophic collapse in numbers of MPs. Certainly they could have slipped into third place behind the Liberal Democrats. Yes, the Lib Dems, remember them? The old ones I mean, the good ones who opposed the war in Iraq, and Trident, refused to countenance tuition fees for students and were honest about wanting to raise taxes on higher earners to pay for things like schools. Whatever happened to them I wonder?
Here's what would have happened in 2010 under AV. I think the Tories would have been in a weaker position than this after 10 years of AV, but even here the chances of a Lib-Lab coalition are much stronger and any Lib-Con pairing would have been much more balanced. A 'big three' cabinet post would have had to go to them (Cable as Chancellor anyone?) And I doubt very much that the Lib-Dems would have felt compelled to ditch core policies like, say, opposition to tuition fees. And what else might Clegg (or Huhne?) have demanded from Cameron as the price for cooperation? Maybe even a referendum on a switch to STV?
Nothing, conversely, feels better than when one is part of a national consensus that sweeps a new government into power. That last happened in 1997 and it was very exciting. The resulting Labour administration did pretty well, tackling child poverty, investing in health and education, and so forth, but expectations were not met from the off: Labour's landslide was so great that Blair cooled on a commitment to offer a referendum on AV.
With the Tories enfeebled and dejected and other reforms taking place, such a referendum might have been accepted - although there would still have been strong resistance from Labour. And what if AV been in place for the last three elections? Well, AV doesn't prevent landslides, in fact it can exaggerate them, so Blair would certainly have been returned convincingly in 2001 and the 2005 election would have resulted in a slightly greater Labour majority than actually occurred.
What would have changed, then? Well, the Conservatives, who nearly fragmented anyway under Iain Duncan Smith, would have faced a catastrophic collapse in numbers of MPs. Certainly they could have slipped into third place behind the Liberal Democrats. Yes, the Lib Dems, remember them? The old ones I mean, the good ones who opposed the war in Iraq, and Trident, refused to countenance tuition fees for students and were honest about wanting to raise taxes on higher earners to pay for things like schools. Whatever happened to them I wonder?
Here's what would have happened in 2010 under AV. I think the Tories would have been in a weaker position than this after 10 years of AV, but even here the chances of a Lib-Lab coalition are much stronger and any Lib-Con pairing would have been much more balanced. A 'big three' cabinet post would have had to go to them (Cable as Chancellor anyone?) And I doubt very much that the Lib-Dems would have felt compelled to ditch core policies like, say, opposition to tuition fees. And what else might Clegg (or Huhne?) have demanded from Cameron as the price for cooperation? Maybe even a referendum on a switch to STV?
A Bad Night
Well, that was a shitty night of politics.
In the English local elections, the duplicitous Lib-Dems had the stuffing kicked out of them for being in the national government, whilst the Tory vote didn't really suffer at all. Labour made up some ground, but from such a low base that it hardly matters.
Worse still, having previously exterminated the Conservatives, Scottish voters turned on the Liberals as well. But, this being Scotland, they didn't have to put up with supporting an uncertain Labour party - there's the Scottish Nationalist Party to vote for instead! The SNP did so well that, all of a sudden, independence from the UK is back on the agenda, three years after the economic crisis seemed to have kicked it into the long grass for a generation.
I'm not sure whether Scotland would be better off as a separate country and I don't really care. I know that it would be disastrous for - well, what would you even call what was left? England, Wales and Northern Ireland? It's hardly 'Great Britain' (a term specifically coined after the union of England with Scotland) and it's certainly not a United Kingdom, there being only one crown left to share between the residual components.
Never mind sorting out the divorce settlement would tie up the governance of Britain for several years. What share of the national debt would the Scots take on? Should they retain part ownership of our nuclear weapons? Are they really going to compete separately in the Eurovision Song Contest?
And the cherry on top of this cake of electoral crap is the sure fire failure of the nation to embrace a change to its voting system. First Past the Post is here to stay for a generation at least. Is AV a rubbish way to elect a government? Yes it is. Is it better than FPTP? Yes it is! Do we get any closer to the Holy Grail of fair elections that is the Single Transferable Vote (STV) by sticking with FPTP? No we do not.
So a Bad Night for Britain. Most worryingly, the Tories have come out of this quite well which, when you consider the way they are merrily eviscerating public services, is an absolute disgrace.
And it's four years to the next Westminster election. If the Lib-Dems continue to be made an example of by voters whilst the Tories are allowed to get off scot free, then there's a good chance of a Conservative majority in 2015. Labour certainly have neither said nor done anything to suggest they're ready and I doubt they'll manage it before the election after next at the earliest.
And the Lib-Dems? Full disclosure: I was a member from around 2000 until, well, until Nick Clegg got elected leader actually. I think that had they propped up Labour a year ago they would be in a worse position now. The Tories (and especially the Tory press) would have spent the last year in an apoplexy of rage and vitriol. Perhaps it would have been better to let the Tories try to govern as a minority, but that too would have let the Lib-Dems vulnerable to criticism for refusing to the opportunity to be a grown-up party of government, willing to compromise or take hard decisions.
As for what happens next, well, they are in very serious trouble. Oblivion beckons. It may be that they can more openly oppose their coalition partners from now on, but the damage to their reputation has been done and it is probably irreparable. They will try and tough it out, as all politicians do, but perhaps the failure of the AV referendum is a good excuse for them to publicly change tack. If Clegg were to resign as leader, he would take a great deal of the poison with him, especially if Cable or Huhne (and who else is there?) were to take over. The new leader would have the chance to reset the relationship with the Tories and with voters, but he would almost certainly not want to walk out on the coalition. Only the Tories benefit now if Cameron calls an election - the other parties have no money to mount national campaigns and Cameron would find it easy to sell the country the line that it needs strong, single party government.
They have to try and regain some credibility and opposing the Tories from within the government is the only option. I don't think Clegg can do that and he should go. The sooner, the better.
In the English local elections, the duplicitous Lib-Dems had the stuffing kicked out of them for being in the national government, whilst the Tory vote didn't really suffer at all. Labour made up some ground, but from such a low base that it hardly matters.
Worse still, having previously exterminated the Conservatives, Scottish voters turned on the Liberals as well. But, this being Scotland, they didn't have to put up with supporting an uncertain Labour party - there's the Scottish Nationalist Party to vote for instead! The SNP did so well that, all of a sudden, independence from the UK is back on the agenda, three years after the economic crisis seemed to have kicked it into the long grass for a generation.
I'm not sure whether Scotland would be better off as a separate country and I don't really care. I know that it would be disastrous for - well, what would you even call what was left? England, Wales and Northern Ireland? It's hardly 'Great Britain' (a term specifically coined after the union of England with Scotland) and it's certainly not a United Kingdom, there being only one crown left to share between the residual components.
Never mind sorting out the divorce settlement would tie up the governance of Britain for several years. What share of the national debt would the Scots take on? Should they retain part ownership of our nuclear weapons? Are they really going to compete separately in the Eurovision Song Contest?
And the cherry on top of this cake of electoral crap is the sure fire failure of the nation to embrace a change to its voting system. First Past the Post is here to stay for a generation at least. Is AV a rubbish way to elect a government? Yes it is. Is it better than FPTP? Yes it is! Do we get any closer to the Holy Grail of fair elections that is the Single Transferable Vote (STV) by sticking with FPTP? No we do not.
So a Bad Night for Britain. Most worryingly, the Tories have come out of this quite well which, when you consider the way they are merrily eviscerating public services, is an absolute disgrace.
And it's four years to the next Westminster election. If the Lib-Dems continue to be made an example of by voters whilst the Tories are allowed to get off scot free, then there's a good chance of a Conservative majority in 2015. Labour certainly have neither said nor done anything to suggest they're ready and I doubt they'll manage it before the election after next at the earliest.
And the Lib-Dems? Full disclosure: I was a member from around 2000 until, well, until Nick Clegg got elected leader actually. I think that had they propped up Labour a year ago they would be in a worse position now. The Tories (and especially the Tory press) would have spent the last year in an apoplexy of rage and vitriol. Perhaps it would have been better to let the Tories try to govern as a minority, but that too would have let the Lib-Dems vulnerable to criticism for refusing to the opportunity to be a grown-up party of government, willing to compromise or take hard decisions.
As for what happens next, well, they are in very serious trouble. Oblivion beckons. It may be that they can more openly oppose their coalition partners from now on, but the damage to their reputation has been done and it is probably irreparable. They will try and tough it out, as all politicians do, but perhaps the failure of the AV referendum is a good excuse for them to publicly change tack. If Clegg were to resign as leader, he would take a great deal of the poison with him, especially if Cable or Huhne (and who else is there?) were to take over. The new leader would have the chance to reset the relationship with the Tories and with voters, but he would almost certainly not want to walk out on the coalition. Only the Tories benefit now if Cameron calls an election - the other parties have no money to mount national campaigns and Cameron would find it easy to sell the country the line that it needs strong, single party government.
They have to try and regain some credibility and opposing the Tories from within the government is the only option. I don't think Clegg can do that and he should go. The sooner, the better.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
The Shock of Death
On the 15th of April 1984 I watched Tommy Cooper die on live television. The sixty-three year old comic, whose health had been deteriorating after decades of heavy drinking, suffered a heart attack and collapsed on stage in the middle of a performance. The audience, already splitting their sides, were sent into hysterics at what they supposed to be a prat-fall, so that his last seconds of life were carried away on a roaring wave of laughter.
At the time I thought that was a fantastic and appropriate send off for a such a beloved comic, although the truth, of course, is more ragged and less satisfying. In the darkness, behind the curtain, frantic efforts were made by friends and crew to revive him whilst, on stage, Les Dennis and Dustin Gee were forced to try and carry on the show until the next ad break. The incident was covered on the evening news but, although pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, confirmation of his death wasn't released until the next morning.
It's still the only death I have ever seen. I'm not acquainted with the shock of death, barely cognisant of grief at all. The people I've known who have died have all been elderly and ill. I've held tight to the certainty that it has been right and good that they have died, and to the hope that medical science has been able to make their passing as comfortable as possible.
Elisabeth Sladen died yesterday. I saw the news on Twitter and instantly rejected it. Some fool had got it wrong and would be utterly humiliated for saying it out loud. I unfollowed, disgusted. But then it came up again, from a more reputable account. Still I refused to accept it, remembering what had happened with Gabrielle Giffords: pronounced shot dead online and now walking and talking in a Houston hospital. I checked the BBC, who had nothing. Googled her. Still no corroboration. I spent thirty minutes hitting refresh on five different websites, willing the incomprehensible news to be untrue. But gradually reality hardened, hypothesis solidified into irrevocable certainty.
I'm sure some of you won't know it, but Lis Sladen was an actor. I never met her, but she had been marvelling me, making me laugh and, above all, scaring me my entire waking life. She played the character Sarah Jane Smith in the television show Doctor Who, originally from 1974 to 76 and then returning frequently thereafter, until she got her own spin-off show in 2007. To say that she was universally loved and admired would be an understatement. The press have resorted to the cliché that she was 'the best Dr Who girl', but it's such a belittling description of her contribution to the show. Sarah Jane was never a screaming bimbo. In an age of bubble-wrap aliens and cardboard sets she sold the reality of the drama. More than any other actor, Sladen was always utterly convincing; threats that should have been laughable became terrifying. At a time when being a Doctor Who fan meant ridicule, she earned the eternal gratitude and devotion of a generation by taking it seriously.
The awful shock is that nobody knew she was ill. Her new show, The Sarah Jane Adventures, is still in production, part way through the fifth season. Coincidentally, like Cooper, she was also sixty-three, but you don't need me to tell you that it is not the age it was in 1984. Her character had always possessed an indomitable youthfulness that hadn't diminished as she got older and it seemed impossible that she wouldn't go on making TV for years yet.
By all accounts Lis Sladen was a delightful person, very private, modest, with a wicked Scouse sense of humour and a profound yet unpretentious dedication to her acting. Left only with what she achieved on screen I can only say that I am utterly bereft that she has gone. Her death comes just as fans around the world were excitedly awaiting the new series of Doctor Who on Saturday. Just like the Doctor himself, the show continues, endlessly regenerating whilst its mere human contributors grow old and die. It is a miserable loss.
For nearly forty years Sarah Jane has been a powerful and positive female character for what was primarily an audience of young boys. How wonderful that my own sons have been able to watch her in action, that they should get to watch such brilliant television - an adventure series where the alien-fighting hero is a single mother in her sixties. Not for nothing is Doctor Who the best television in the world and a great deal of that is because of Elisabeth Sladen.
At the time I thought that was a fantastic and appropriate send off for a such a beloved comic, although the truth, of course, is more ragged and less satisfying. In the darkness, behind the curtain, frantic efforts were made by friends and crew to revive him whilst, on stage, Les Dennis and Dustin Gee were forced to try and carry on the show until the next ad break. The incident was covered on the evening news but, although pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, confirmation of his death wasn't released until the next morning.
It's still the only death I have ever seen. I'm not acquainted with the shock of death, barely cognisant of grief at all. The people I've known who have died have all been elderly and ill. I've held tight to the certainty that it has been right and good that they have died, and to the hope that medical science has been able to make their passing as comfortable as possible.
Elisabeth Sladen died yesterday. I saw the news on Twitter and instantly rejected it. Some fool had got it wrong and would be utterly humiliated for saying it out loud. I unfollowed, disgusted. But then it came up again, from a more reputable account. Still I refused to accept it, remembering what had happened with Gabrielle Giffords: pronounced shot dead online and now walking and talking in a Houston hospital. I checked the BBC, who had nothing. Googled her. Still no corroboration. I spent thirty minutes hitting refresh on five different websites, willing the incomprehensible news to be untrue. But gradually reality hardened, hypothesis solidified into irrevocable certainty.
I'm sure some of you won't know it, but Lis Sladen was an actor. I never met her, but she had been marvelling me, making me laugh and, above all, scaring me my entire waking life. She played the character Sarah Jane Smith in the television show Doctor Who, originally from 1974 to 76 and then returning frequently thereafter, until she got her own spin-off show in 2007. To say that she was universally loved and admired would be an understatement. The press have resorted to the cliché that she was 'the best Dr Who girl', but it's such a belittling description of her contribution to the show. Sarah Jane was never a screaming bimbo. In an age of bubble-wrap aliens and cardboard sets she sold the reality of the drama. More than any other actor, Sladen was always utterly convincing; threats that should have been laughable became terrifying. At a time when being a Doctor Who fan meant ridicule, she earned the eternal gratitude and devotion of a generation by taking it seriously.
The awful shock is that nobody knew she was ill. Her new show, The Sarah Jane Adventures, is still in production, part way through the fifth season. Coincidentally, like Cooper, she was also sixty-three, but you don't need me to tell you that it is not the age it was in 1984. Her character had always possessed an indomitable youthfulness that hadn't diminished as she got older and it seemed impossible that she wouldn't go on making TV for years yet.
By all accounts Lis Sladen was a delightful person, very private, modest, with a wicked Scouse sense of humour and a profound yet unpretentious dedication to her acting. Left only with what she achieved on screen I can only say that I am utterly bereft that she has gone. Her death comes just as fans around the world were excitedly awaiting the new series of Doctor Who on Saturday. Just like the Doctor himself, the show continues, endlessly regenerating whilst its mere human contributors grow old and die. It is a miserable loss.
For nearly forty years Sarah Jane has been a powerful and positive female character for what was primarily an audience of young boys. How wonderful that my own sons have been able to watch her in action, that they should get to watch such brilliant television - an adventure series where the alien-fighting hero is a single mother in her sixties. Not for nothing is Doctor Who the best television in the world and a great deal of that is because of Elisabeth Sladen.
Friday, 18 March 2011
Backwards
Thanks to the magic of technology, I am writing this on the road. Literally, somewhere along the I-40, eastbound, just shy of Albuquerque and heading for Santa Rosa, New Mexico.
It's roughly ten at night. On either side, the desert is a flat black slick despite the light of the full moon high above us. It sits behind a veil of diaphanous cloud that stretches almost to the horizon. The boys are asleep behind us. Laura is driving. We are coasting along on the ceaseless thrum of our wheels on the road, over which we can just hear Flanders & Swan dropping another hat. The cabin is lit by orange dials and passing cars.
I love this bit. Even as a passenger I still relish the sense that we are making progress, chewing up miles and states and gradually, forcibly, bringing our destination closer.
Satisfying though this is, it can't and doesn't detract from the fun we have when we stop and look about. We managed to do a lot of this today as well.
We sauntered around a thousand year old lava flow at Sunset Crater, AZ. It looked freshly ploughed, an avenue of great chunks of clinker and black sand from which these beautiful Ponderosa Pines had sprouted.
And then we clambered around some similarly aged cliff-dwellings, hewn from the wall of the (modestly sized) Walnut Canyon by ancestors of the Hopi tribe of Native People. It was a strenuously peaceful walk: the cool stone weaves between the sunlight and the shadows of trailing trees. The only sounds, the wind and the caws of ravens.
But before all that we had to tear ourselves from a grander canyon. Long ago, in the dark, we got up, wrapped ourselves in all our clothes and set out to watch the sun rise over the rim. Funnily enough, in the dark the abyss isn't anywhere nearly as scary and I was able to perch happily on the low wall above the drop to wait for the sun to peep. The sky faded to grey and below us the rippling folds of rock gradually materialised from the murk, like leviathans swimming up from the depths. And then finally a needle of orange light pierced the gloom and the canyons burst into colour.
It's roughly ten at night. On either side, the desert is a flat black slick despite the light of the full moon high above us. It sits behind a veil of diaphanous cloud that stretches almost to the horizon. The boys are asleep behind us. Laura is driving. We are coasting along on the ceaseless thrum of our wheels on the road, over which we can just hear Flanders & Swan dropping another hat. The cabin is lit by orange dials and passing cars.
I love this bit. Even as a passenger I still relish the sense that we are making progress, chewing up miles and states and gradually, forcibly, bringing our destination closer.
Satisfying though this is, it can't and doesn't detract from the fun we have when we stop and look about. We managed to do a lot of this today as well.
We sauntered around a thousand year old lava flow at Sunset Crater, AZ. It looked freshly ploughed, an avenue of great chunks of clinker and black sand from which these beautiful Ponderosa Pines had sprouted.
And then we clambered around some similarly aged cliff-dwellings, hewn from the wall of the (modestly sized) Walnut Canyon by ancestors of the Hopi tribe of Native People. It was a strenuously peaceful walk: the cool stone weaves between the sunlight and the shadows of trailing trees. The only sounds, the wind and the caws of ravens.
But before all that we had to tear ourselves from a grander canyon. Long ago, in the dark, we got up, wrapped ourselves in all our clothes and set out to watch the sun rise over the rim. Funnily enough, in the dark the abyss isn't anywhere nearly as scary and I was able to perch happily on the low wall above the drop to wait for the sun to peep. The sky faded to grey and below us the rippling folds of rock gradually materialised from the murk, like leviathans swimming up from the depths. And then finally a needle of orange light pierced the gloom and the canyons burst into colour.
Thursday, 17 March 2011
Down
I've never been good with heights, particularly, but I'm often okay. Good enough anyway to cope with the Empire State Building and castle turrets.
I can't cope with this. The thought of the spectacular drop off the side of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon is enough to turn my vital organs to jelly. Even here, at a relatively safe distance of a mile or so from the edge, I'm not comfortable. I may never be comfortable. Maybe just knowing it is there, behind me somewhere in the desert, will be enough to interrupt my sleep from time to time for the rest of my life.
My sense of scale, having already been tested by the journeys and vistas I have experienced around America, has now been tortured too. The canyon is ten miles across and more than a mile down. A mile down. A beautiful, magical, breath-taking mile down. But you wouldn't want to take the short cut.
Apparently people only fall very rarely, but you'd never believe it from the way people skip and prance around the paths, or swing their legs out over the precipice, just to have their photo taken. The wilful ignorance or denial of their own mortality is taken as a personal affront, obviously. It's bad enough that I have my children with me ("Dad, puhleese, I DO know what I'm doing"), but every step or pose struck by my fellow visitors is like a knitting needle jabbed straight into my jangling nerves.
I can't help it. People may only fall very rarely, but when they do, they always fall to their deaths. The potential is what terrifies me, the sudden irrevocable moment where a holiday turns to a tragedy. I am a big scaredy cat according to my kids, but I can't help but think that the Grand Canyon would be even more beautiful and amazing experienced from the bottom. The only way to find out is to come back here and walk down the cliffs of course, but I can't help but be convinced I would become happier with every step.
I can't cope with this. The thought of the spectacular drop off the side of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon is enough to turn my vital organs to jelly. Even here, at a relatively safe distance of a mile or so from the edge, I'm not comfortable. I may never be comfortable. Maybe just knowing it is there, behind me somewhere in the desert, will be enough to interrupt my sleep from time to time for the rest of my life.
My sense of scale, having already been tested by the journeys and vistas I have experienced around America, has now been tortured too. The canyon is ten miles across and more than a mile down. A mile down. A beautiful, magical, breath-taking mile down. But you wouldn't want to take the short cut.
Apparently people only fall very rarely, but you'd never believe it from the way people skip and prance around the paths, or swing their legs out over the precipice, just to have their photo taken. The wilful ignorance or denial of their own mortality is taken as a personal affront, obviously. It's bad enough that I have my children with me ("Dad, puhleese, I DO know what I'm doing"), but every step or pose struck by my fellow visitors is like a knitting needle jabbed straight into my jangling nerves.
I can't help it. People may only fall very rarely, but when they do, they always fall to their deaths. The potential is what terrifies me, the sudden irrevocable moment where a holiday turns to a tragedy. I am a big scaredy cat according to my kids, but I can't help but think that the Grand Canyon would be even more beautiful and amazing experienced from the bottom. The only way to find out is to come back here and walk down the cliffs of course, but I can't help but be convinced I would become happier with every step.
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