In a parallel universe . . .

So, today at Coyote Daily we are so very lucky to be speaking to the world's very first trillionaire! Mr Pylon Rusk. 

'Mr Rusk. Thank you very much for being able to spare the time to talk to us; I'm sure you must have at least a million things to be doing at this and every minute.'

'It's an absolute pleasure to be interviewed by your excellent environmental team at Coyote. Yes, it's true I am busy, but time must be taken to spread the word of how everyone can help preserve our magnificent planet with all its wonderful peoples, birds, insects, mammals - sigh. What a place! Why would anyone have such a crazed idea of living somewhere as inhospitable as the red sphere of Fartz. I have heard that certain folks are thinking of sending a space vessel there - what an absolute waste of our precious resources, if we should even call them resources, hm? I mean who are we to plunder this planet when it is for everyone and all creatures.'

'Indeed. You are so right. And this is obviously why you have had such incredible success - your benevolence to all beings, your insight into the natural world; the fact that so many ultra wealthy persons have dug deep into their own bank accounts, even cancelling orders for new mega-yurts, giving the money to Rusk Enterprises for it to be used in education, the arts, organic seed banks, and your latest program: Land-X, providing help millions of peasant farmers across the world improve their crop yields with lost techniques of irrigation, natural soil improvement and encouraging biodiversity balance.'

'It's what I always dreamed of, my friend. To be able to help everyone, not just the farmers in our country, but all peoples, and to learn from them too.' Shakes head slowly as a single tear rolls down a cheek. We always have so much to learn.' Sniff.'

Presenter hands over (clean) tissue. 'Would it be all right to ask the few questions we had prepared now?'

'Yes . . . yes. Sorry, please go ahead. I just get a little emotional sometimes when I think of how incredibly lucky we all are to exist on this one perfect sphere - did you know that all scientists now agree that The Earth is the only planet in any galaxy to have just the right balance of all atmospheric elements to support life? I mean what are the chances of this - this microscopic fluke that allowed us and all other lifeforms to develop here . . . and to think if the wrong people had been in control it could have all been so utterly trashed, burned and wasted . . .'

Reporter delves for another tissue, blows nose, stuffs tissue back in pocket and nods enthusiastically. 'Yes. You are so right, Mr Rusk.' Imagine if Sir David Atomburger, or that upstart, Feta Thumburger had your influence and monetary power! The damage that could have been reeked!

'So, my first question does have to be who makes your magnificent clothes. We so love the tweed suits and homburg hats.'

'Ah! a subject close to my heart. The tweed is manufactured on the isle of Davies - it was a dying industry but with my teams help we have managed to re-start production, using all the original techniques and encouraging the workforce to sing the much-loved dipping of wool in sheep urine procedure songs. The fact that I wear the products has endorsed the industry and we are able to plough back ninety percent of the turnover into the island and its people.'

 (Shelby bros suit)

'Fantastic!' And the hats?'

'Second hand, my friend, from the Blue Triangle and other charitable outlets, sometimes Veentread. I must admit to having a small obsession with second hand . . . one has to have a vice, hm?'

'Of course. And our listeners most popular question - what was it like visiting our glorious president in the egg-shaped office?'

'A day to store in the memories . . . what a guy! Such generosity. D'you know, he wanted to promote my new range of solar powered tricycles on the front lawn! Even bought one for his wife, Melancholia. She loves it!'

'How did he cope with the kids? It all looked pretty harmonious from where we were filming.'

'Great! he was so interested in our fostering success. I bought all twenty six of them with me, and he gave them all wonderful hand crafted wooden toys that his Son in-Law, Jarhead makes in his artisan workshop that he shares with other members of the family. They do so much for the environment. You know they have just donated six billion dollars to desert greening in the Sudan - incredible.'

'And not to mention all that work for protecting the Barrier Reef. Just amazing.'

A tinkling ringing sound starts up in the waistcoat of Mr Rusk. He slips a hand into the pocket and draws out a polished silver watch on a chain. 

'Oh. I'm so sorry. Unfortunately I do have to be leaving you. We have a conference call on the subject of the water bird rehabilitation zone on the old Cherbobble nuclear site. Land-X has pledged over three million as it's such a crucial place for wildlife - which is returning! Hurrah! Can you imagine how crazy people must have been to ever have let such an utter disaster take place! Lucky for us we have our no-forever squabblings, and mutually assured happiness president, Hm?' He places an envelope on the studio desk, 'A little gift of my appreciation for the marvellous environmental and anti-racist work you do at Coyote Daily. So long.'

Mr Rusk strides to the studio door while the Coyote host opens the envelope and sobs. He shows it to the camera which zooms in, his voice recounting the contents. 'Two million dollars for our latest project, Make M'erca multicultural again. This is just too much, what a guy . . .' He smiles shakily, straightens his rainbow tie and waves to the camera. Thanks guys for tuning in. Tomorrow, we welcome Seth Bathos to hear all about his superb new project from Copse: next month - possibly- delivery and the rebirth of ecologic donkey transport. 

Bucolic car boot sale

Or as we say here: Vide Grenier - emptying one's attic.
Compared to the boot sales I remember from the UK days, most V.Gs are set in small villages, usually on sunny days, where you can wander, perusing the usual glut of hastily bought and subsequently dumped Get Fit equipment, clothes, shoes, fois gras funnels, records, video cassettes that nobody wants, terrible paintings, plants, kittens, jam, fondu sets, etc, etc.
The last V.G I went to before departing back to the UK for a few days (where I didn't go to a car boot sale - not for the want of trying) was in the grounds of a local church edifice: the Basilique Notre Dame de Marceille    
I paused before walking across the grass, stunned at the tranquility of the sight before me; each stall of utter crap transformed momentarily in the morning sun to a lost scene of pastoral beauty as happy peasants traded their goods for a few rustic coins, and the purchasers wandered contentedly back to their donkeys, (large 4x4s).

Hey . . . d'you wanna cabbage?

I was just walking the dogs back from the school amble a couple of days ago and this guy popped out from behind a tall gate and said the above (in French). I wondered if 'chou' was also used as a local word for indulging in something deviant as he was looking a bit shifty. Then I realised he was one of our neigbours from over the train tracks. I've only spoken to him a couple of times, not because either of us are unfriendly, but we just don't cross paths very often.

I followed him into the garden and he pointed to a row of magnificent cabbages growing in dark rich loamy soil.
I was immediately wildly envious as our garden's crappy vine soil won't grow such things. Put in a baby cabbage plant and it sits there, growing in a sort of arrested state, perhaps a nano-millimetre every month, not actually dying off, just not really getting any bigger. Eventually, plucked from the crusty soil about a year later having ingested a bath-worths of water, off to the kitchen.
Nice folk invited round for dinner say things like: "Mmm, so fresh, such a condensed cabbage taste, you can always tell when something's organic by the number of slug holes in it." - In this case more hole than vegetable.
Anyway, Monsieur vanished to a shed, came back with a large knife and proceeded to remove one of the cabbages (pictured here with a key to show its monster proportions). He put it in a bin liner and presented it to me: "Voila, madame."
       "Merci bien, Monsieur!"
       "It is my pleasure, madame . . . we never eat cabbage."
What?You grow these things, well, just toss a few seeds about - they grow into Women's institute vegetable show specimens, without a single word of encouragement from you . . . and you don't eat them! Merde alors! "Vraiment . . . really? How strange, monsieur," Grrrr.
He then told me many interesting stories of the various roads in that part of town: who's donkey lived where in 1933; what Madame Dupont sold in her shop on the corner, and how there used to be a fabulously beautiful stone arch and ramparts at the end of the road before the hideous fire station was constructed in the 1980s. It was all really fascinating. I would like to go back and write this valuable history down. He had been born in the house behind us; his parents and grandparents had lived there and had no doubt always grown magnificent cabbages, which in another era they certainly would have eaten.
I walked back clutching the bag and shouting at the dogs as they wandered off in search of unspeakable things to consume.
How wonderful, I thought, (as we passed our own sorry looking, weed-strewn veg patch), it would be to look back in time at that garden when his grandparents were using it as their main food source, chickens, pigs, fruit . . . and cabbages.