Fish and Chips

I like fishwrap exclusively with my fish and chips. Otherwise, it's the kind of publication that makes me sick.

Why am I telling you this?

Merely because of the recent scandal caused by certain photos taken of a naked prince.

Let me first tell you that, for once, I'm not going to do any research on the topic (garbage cans are perfectly well  - and useful - outside, but I'm not going to dive into their e-equivalent on the Internet).

I'm just going to tell you how I feel (why not? This is my blog, a window to my thoughts... Mind the draughts!).

CAUTION: Random thoughts ahead

First, I find that it's absolutely despicable that these photos ever got out. 

The twat [look! That awful word again... Must really mean that I like to use it when I'm angry] who took (and, I guess, sold) them is a pitiful biped, the people who bought and distributed the photos are greedy leeches, and the people who went looking for those photos or bought papers where they were printed should get a life.

I'll admit that I might be weird; I hate fishwraps (so much that I'm writing a short story against them right now) and I avoid so-called Reality TV like the Plague, the Inquisition and Ebola all wrapped together.

I cannot understand that "village" mentality where so many bipeds think they need to know what the people next door are doing. Get. A. Life.

There's quite a few people I admire and like, but I'd never go search their garbage cans in order to know what they do at home. I'm perfectly happy just looking for their next album/film/book/whatever. When I like someone, I want to hear about their career, not their private lives. I don't care about their private lives. I'm never going to meet them, become friends with them or... No! Wait! Hold the press! I did meet a few authors a few aeons ago when I was a reader, and... yep. I was always talking about their works - mostly. I politely asked about their families and loved one, and I was back to business because their private lives were none of my business!

I want to ask the plonkers that circulated the photos if they've already forgotten what their bullying did to Princess Diana. Apparently, they have forgotten.

The whole thing's despicable. Prince Henry's allowed to have a life and not be stalked. He’s not the public’s property or a State slave. 

Hell, I don't have a pretty gal to cuddle in my room (drat!!!), but if I had, I'd be really angry if our photo ended up on the Internet. And let's face it, everybody would.

It's not even as if Prince Henry asked for it. He was born in a royal family, and that should make his life hell? No, this is not right, decent or human.

I don't understand why bipeds buy fishwraps (then again, people - mostly women - get lapidated or jailed because others put their noses where their noses had no right to be).

One last thing. It should be Prince Henry, not Harry, and it should come from the media and the people.

I was too young to remember why and how Henry turned into "Harry", but he was baptised as Henry.

He's 27 now, and I can just imagine that if he were to correct anyone about his name, he'd never get to hear the end of it. Yet... Harry's a nickname. If His Royal Highness prefers "Harry", it'd be easier for him to say that it's all right to use that name, but let's imagine that he doesn't like it, then he finds himself in yet another trap.

We'd be so much better as a species if we tried to have some consideration for others - without being nosey.

A Piece of Advice for XYs

I still have steam coming out of my ears, so I might be just a bit... erm... harsh, but bear with me.

Here's what happened, I wrote something vaguely like: 'boys who open their mouths to speak (or pass laws!) about ladies' biology must learn to shut their mouths because they're not equipped, can't understand, and those are twats'.

This is what I think. 

I'm not going to tell men how to play with their equipment, or how to wash it, or how to deal with it from a medical point of view. Not my frigging business, and honestly, I don't care (never have, never will).

But... when I see little boys (because they can be 65 or 72, in their heads, they're stuck in nursery school!) trying to tell me what I can or cannot do, that brings out the Italian matriarch in me - the one with a rolling pin glued to her hand and the '210 Ways to Break Bones with a Rolling Pin' manual encoded in her DNA.

Why am I growling now?

Is it because some new piece of news hit the Internet and made me blow a fuse?

Nope.

I just got a nice message from a bloke I don't know.

A bloke who nicely said that he agrees with me..............................................

*drop of the other shoe*

But...............................................

[Part to be read with a very annoying voice in your head...] He really wanted to tell me that "twat" was a poor choice of word, because I've got to understand that it's slang for, I quote, "vulva". [/stage direction]

No frelling way! I didn't know that! Well, of course, I could have not known it, but I do.

And what if I happen to think that those boys are twats - because it's a word, an insult, I happen to like? 

And what if I think that it's an appropriate word for boys who do sound as if:

          a- They've got an unhealthy fascination with ladies' equipments

          b- They sound a lot as if they wish they had one of their own to play with?

Dear XYs,

most of you are really nice, and I quite like you, but keep in mind a few things:

          1- I can say "twat" and "cunt" all I like, I'm equipped (and I can bloody say what I want!)

         2- Stop assuming that I don't know the etymology of words (I've got diplomas in English: Old English, Modern English, Etymology, translation - and don't get me started on my M.St. in Mediaeval Palaeography! I mean there are things I do not know, yes, but stop thinking you know more because you're a man. Ta! Muchly.).

         3- I'm going to be charitable and consider that the bloke in question might have meant well, but he should think a minute about what he's just done, put himself in my shoes, and hear how bloody patronizing he sounded! Basically, he corrected me for thinking I might have wanted to say something else. 

Sorry, Cupcake, I meant that those boys are twats, and for correcting me whilst I don't know you at all, you're a cunt.

       4- If you, boys, think that I'm not behaving/speaking/looking/whatever like a lady... Fuck off! This is the twenty-first century, and the girls in my family are born with a rolling pin.

Keep in mind to treat XXs the way you expect to be treated, and we'll keep the rolling pins in the kitchen.

Otherwise... 

Cheers!

Dru, really pissed off

The Tale of the Other Bunny-Breeding Girl

Once upon a time, in a completely different kingdom, there was a girl who had many bunnies (in fact, she had so many bunnies that sometimes her house looked as if the floor were covered with soft fur).

She loved them all, and she could have kept them in her house, but one day, one of her friends encouraged her to show them to the villagers, and the girl opened her door and built special pens for the bunnies. Since she wasn’t doing this for gold, she placed a board near the bunnies that read “Free to good homes”.

The friend who had encouraged her to do this mentioned the bunnies to her other friends, and people started coming to see the bunnies.

Sometimes, the girl made a few mistakes, and there was a tiny knot in the fur of bunnies that had been put up for adoption, but it seldom happened, and the girl learnt better than to rush things.

In the first years, the girl had regular visitors who came to chat with her a bit before they headed home with a new bunny to pet and love, but things changed as more people offered bunnies-for-free and the activity became more usual, so to speak.

Bunnies-for-free became so common that the girl found herself with a lot of adopted bunnies, but they were almost all taken by people who didn’t even wait for her to show up and say “Hello!”. They walked by, took bunnies and left.

The girl could see that the bunnies were being taken (and loved, because she’d heard stories of breeders of bunnies-for-free who had to face criticism for offering bunnies in poor health, but not hers), but apart from a faithful tiny group of people, she no longer saw anyone.

Years and years after she started offering bunnies, and after she travelled to meet other bunny breeders who gave her tips to improve her work, the girl decided to try something new, and under the board that offered her bunnies, she added a piece of parchment that read: “Dear Visitor, why not wait for me to just chat a bit or leave me an address to contact you? I’d like some feedback on my bunnies. See you soon!”.

The piece of parchment was long gone with the wind when the girl decided that the silence hurt too much. She dearly loved the people who stopped by her house before they picked up a bunny, but these were a tiny fraction of the people who enjoyed the company of her bunnies.

It hurt.

It hurt, whilst it was supposed to be fun.

It hurt so much that the girl decided that it was time to change things for good.

She told her faithful visitors that her bunnies would be kept in a different place from now on, and that all they had to do to have one for free was to come see her and she’d take them to the new pens. She also warned them that the new bunnies were of slightly different colours.

On the board near the old pens, she added another piece of parchment that read: “Enjoy the bunnies; they’re the last ones I’m putting here. Thank you, and goodbye.”.

Then, it started…

First she found letters pinned under her message asking her to not stop breeding bunnies.

Then…

Then, at last, some of the people who’d been visiting the pens and taking the bunnies over the past years waited for her to show up when she fed the remaining bunnies.

The first one said, ‘I know I cannot force you to go on doing this, but it’d be awesome if you did keep doing it. Your bunnies are cute beasts, and I like them a lot.’

The girl was so utterly flabbergasted that she was properly stunned when she answered, ‘Ta! And sorry, but I can’t go on.’ Then she fed the last bunnies, and when she turned around, the visitor had already left.

There were a few more visitors like that. Always people who’d been taking bunnies for years and had never said a word until then.

Then, there was that visitor who said, ‘I’ve been getting bunnies from your pens for years, and I’m so sad to see that you’re going to stop breeding bunnies.’

By then, the girl was beyond sadness and frustration. She looked at that visitor and yelled, ‘If you liked them so much, couldn’t you bloody let me know once in all those years?! I’ve never seen you before. Where were you when I had no one to talk to? It’s too late now. You broke my heart!’

The visitor looked at the bunny-breeder and fled, thinking that she’d become mad, or that she thought she was important whilst she was just breeding bunnies-for-free, or that she was being unfair because she did see that the bunnies were being taken and that should have been bloody enough for that girl.

The visitor never understood. Neither did the others since they’d ignored the first plea for more communication.

The girl made sure that the first bunnies were all taken eventually, and she started breeding a new species of bunnies, and she was damn proud – not because she’d come up with a new species that she hoped her faithful followers would like, no (she was quite lucid on that head). No, she was proud for not hitting the strangers who asked her to go on breeding bunnies-for-free once she’d decided to stop doing that; she really wanted to, but she refrained from doing it… That, and she was busy chatting with the visitors of her new pens.

August 2006: Mensis Horribilis

Back in August 2006, I caught a cold that resulted in something that looked at lot (but was not) Bell's palsy.

In 2006, everything was a combination of weird things and complete bad luck. First, I’d had a major emotional shock in the spring, and I was still trying to recover from that, and then, as usual in the summer, I went to spend July and August with my relatives. Unfortunately, both months were quite cold (at least, by my standards) and back then, Mozer considered that I was a wimp if I put on a jumper when it was 18°C outside (now that she’s seen what her stupidity did, she doesn’t make fun of me if I say that I’m cold). [Yes, I was stupid enough to not put on a jumper, but why, in the first place, was she making fun of me for being cold? Frelling manipulator!]

For a few days, my right ear whistled from time to time, but I thought it was just odd, and I was quite cold. Then, it was time to head home and back to work. 

The day I left, I remember that the right corner of my lip was tickling from time to time, but I still thought it was something odd. I fell asleep on the train, and when I woke up, my speech was slurred for a minute or two, but I put that on exhaustion (I usually need about a week to recover from such a long stay in the country).

When I arrived home, there was nothing to warn me that the next morning I’d wake up with my face half-paralysed on the right side. My cranial nerve VII had frozen.

I was in a terrible state. I wasn’t hungry, and when I got up to get some water or visit the bathroom, the Earth was spinning too fast, and my balance was so awful that I nearly collided with walls (the first time I went outside to buy a few things, I almost hit a wall, which prompted me to unearth my grandfather’s cane in order to walk in a relatively straight line).

I waited for a couple of days, hoping that the nerve would come back to life (and I was in no shape to go anywhere: the first time I showered, I fainted briefly), and when it became obvious that there was no improvement whatsoever, I dragged myself to my GP (I realized later that I could have called him to come see me, but it hadn’t occurred to me since his surgery was across my street; truth be told, I was in no shape to think straight). When I saw him, he thought it might be a stroke even after I explained how I felt the bloody thing happen over days (mind you, no one in the medical ranks believed me until they saw the MRI).

He prescribed… *drum roll, please* aspirin and ear drops (incidentally, he was so focussed on me that the prescription was for a nose spray, and it was my chemist who spotted the mistake: I had to hop back to the surgery to get it changed). Three days later, I was still in the same state, and I was to go back to my classroom about a week later (I couldn’t speak properly and I was beginning to seriously worry: I had a temporary position, and if I didn’t go to work, I could kiss that position goodbye and my status was such that I couldn’t really go on the dole, or, at best, a jobseeker’s allowance would have been available for a few months, and then… straight under a bridge, or into the river).

I went back to my GP, who, by then, was openly making fun of my being paralysed. After long negotiations, he agreed to give me antibiotics and corticosteroids – for five days. What I learnt later was that he should have done that the first time I went to see him and the treatment should have been for ten days. The corticosteroids did some good, but not enough.

I went to see another GP, who told me it was too late, and we just had to wait. Still, wanting to cover his arse, he shipped me to a clinic where I had an MRI (that I had to pay almost in full, which still makes me growl because the bloody thing showed……… nothing: pretty normal since it was a twisted virus that had done me that, and it was not a stroke).

I went to see specialists, who were puzzled, clueless and generally at sea (seriously, twenty minutes on the Internet once I was well enough to sit at my desk taught me more about my condition than any of those “pros”!).

They told me I had to wait.

Then, it was time to go back to work, and I was shown the best and worst of mankind.

Here are a few examples:

Worst	Best
One colleague saw me walk in with my cane and tense face and ran to the staff room to tell the others how funny I was, and being complete plonkers, they ran to check my face for themselves. They thought that I couldn’t understand what they were doing!	A school secretary read the Riot Act to students she’d heard making fun of me telling them that I was a very good teacher, and one who was coming to teach them whilst I could have stayed home (I couldn’t afford that, but it was nice of her to lie about it).
People saw me walking slowly with a cane, but they rushed towards me, and I was the one who had to move away (note to self: if there’s a next time, use the cane to hit them).	My boss at job #2 did everything she could to make things easier for me.
On the bus, an old lady with a big bag, and obviously very tired, refused to sit down next to me. It was obvious that she was repulsed by the way I looked.	On the bus, an old gentleman came from the back to help and escort me to his seat (I haven’t recovered from that one!).

One of my colleagues at job #1 tried to warn me that healing might take time because he knew a man who’d had something like that for about a year. Back then, a year looked so bleedingly long.

I wasn’t really in pain. I was just awfully tired and sleeping like a happy log any chance I got. However, back then, if you’d told me that inhaling a kilo of cocaine, or flour, or whatever would have healed me, I’d have done it instantly.

Later, I heard and read about several similar cases. Nerve freezings that happened around the same time (I know a lady who’s still stuck on her sofa as the Earth keeps spinning way too fast when she stands). There might have been an odd virus around summer 2006.

Why am I writing this now? Because I’m almost (crossing everything that’s crossable) healed. Six frelling years later.

The nerve keeps improving, and my face mobility gets better and better. I am lucky that it’s still improving because after two years, the Faculty deems cases such as mine “hopeless”.

Why am I writing this now? Because the muscles on the left side of my face are a bit tense and I can’t bloody find if it’s just those poor muscles that are exhausted and tense after doing most of the job for six years, or if it’s something else (for once, the Internet isn’t helping, and my new GP is hundreds of miles away – and anyway, I find him too clueless for my taste).

I do wonder if my cranial nerve VII on the right is linked to the one on the left, and if the tension is a new symptom of my healing (incidentally, if such a thing happens to me again, I’ll blow a fuse).

There was an interesting side-consequence to all this: it showed me where my real friends are.

I’m glad I typed this testimony and got that off my chest.

Writing Research

For my original science-fiction plot, I'm currently doing a lot of research.

I'm planning to use a handful of words that might make my readers dive onto a dictionary (I'm having too much fun with my daily OED e-mails!).

I'm working on crime plots (for someone who's not really good at deductions sometimes, it's a bit of a challenge and it's taking time). Oh, and, yea, that is still for the Sci-Fi stories. ;)

I'm also working on a sort of bible for my main characters (and one of them decided to rebel and be tricky to write).

I'd like to have more time to work on these plots, but I do believe that the time I spend thinking about them and picturing them in my head is really important. The tricky character will take shape when she's ready to work fully in the plot, not a word before...

More updates soon-ish.

The Sound of Silence

I was quite tempted to call this post 'Bloody Bollocking Hell!!' (my favourite swearword, caught from a charming Londoner) because I'm angry and disappointed, or even to write one of my sordid fairy tales, but I decided otherwise.

So, in advance, sorry about the growl.

Over the past two years (at least!), I've been warning the readers of what one of my other literary incarnations creates that if they didn't say a word about my works, the plot bunnies would die. 

It wasn't an empty threat to get more reviews, it's really that silence was killing my plot bunnies, and now silence did kill the bunnies. 

I still have ideas (Shannon, your bunny is still in the run; I'm working on it, but you'll be the only one to ever read it), but the will to type something that won't even get a smiley as a review/comment is completely gone - all the more since I now have original bunnies that are loud and demanding (my Sci-Fi stories are beginning to look good, and original, and quite promising, but they're time-consuming).

About a year ago, I did some maths based on the numbers of comments and of hits on a certain site counter, and I ended up with an incredibly low percentage of reviews compared with the numbers of readers.

As I wrote in a prior post, I never expected long letters or love declarations when I posted a new chapter, but when you do post on a site with a counter and you see it turning, but you get silence, it hurts. For other kinds of works, you do expect silence, but for others, comments feed the plot bunnies.

I feel quite bad for the handful of faithful reviewers who stayed with me and reviewed most chapters (I'll tell them where to find this "new" me if they're interested in my style and ideas).

What made me blow a fuse is a handful of people who had never taken one second in MONTHS to contact me, who now write: 'Oh, don't leave, you're good.'

Couldn't they encourage me before? Apparently not.

Well, Lanor's got a lot of work to do, and things must have been meant to happen that way, but, hell, it does hurt a bit.

Not "Anyone"!

When I'm staying with my family, Thursday is market day. The day we head to "town" (*cough* what passes for a town in this hell-hole area / Sorry, but there's no town library, or cinema, or theatre. Basically, there's nothing) in order to shop for a whole week - at least.

So, this morning, we did that, and then we headed home.

I was carrying a few (heavy, according to my mother) things when she, completely out of the blue, said that she was worrying about my future because there would be no one to help me when I'm her age (since I didn't do what she did and selfishly spawned a slave).

The cherry on the icing on that cake was that she even sobbed a bit.

Inside, I was going half "what the fuck?" and half "bloody bollocking hell!".

I've decided that the (quite rotten) DNA has to stop with me; I couldn't look at a child and not feel guilty because of all the health issues, plus the slight tendency (I'm being kind) to depression. If I do live to a ripe old age, I'll be all alone (my mother had five brothers and sister, and she never planned ahead, far ahead, when she decided to have me. She was completely selfish; it's something I've known all my life because she never made a secret of it).

And then, her favourite line was back: 'You must find someone to marry you, so you won't be alone. Really, anyone. Even a plonkerish arsehole'.

Then, I left the room shouting, 'No way in hell!' (honestly, I was thinking, 'no FUCKING way in hell')

She's been free all her life, but since I'm going to be "alone" in the future, I should sacrifice my freedom, find some bloke with a lot of money (because she never mentions that I could be looking for a nice gal) and put up with everything in the name of security.

Nope.

Sorry.

I'd rather go kiss a black mamba than do that.

If I ever marry, it'll be for love, and with someone (whatever variety suits me as long as the person comes with a working brain and s/he's read the manual) who'd treat me as an equal and who would respect me.

Perhaps we should print more calendars in order to be able to distribute a few regularly? It's either that, or I'll have to get the century tattooed on my forehead...

The one good thing about my future is that I've got one good friend who promised to shoot me if I were to turn into my mother, and my chosen brother promised that he'd first try to put some sense into my poor skull if I were to mutate.

Who needs a rich twat when one has awesome friends and brother like them? Not I.

[All right, rant over, back to work...]

Of Bipeds as the Main Terran Parasites

I’m going to start this post with a weird story first (what a surprise? You’re getting used to the way I present things, aren’t you?).

I’m a fan of Star Trek (The Original Series). I’m a Trekker, or as I sometimes like to joke by blending the two possible words to call fans, I’m a Trekkerie or a Trekkier (I like both).

I long to live in a world like the one imagined by Gene Roddenberry. I’m not a total fan of Starfleet, but the Federation is a brilliant idea.

And here’s why I mentioned Star Trek: if we want to survive on Earth, and, one day, be able to go out in space and explore things beyond our solar system, we must stop behaving like parasites.

I’ve always thought that, but the idea of the Federation is what my brain cells were aiming for, without being able to come up with a single name and concept that could summarize my dream. In fact, I remember being shocked by tankers killing coast lines, the lack of elementary ecology in everyday life, and dolphins and whales being slaughtered back when I was as young as seven (and that wasn’t exactly yesterday – though I didn’t go to school with Conan Doyle, either!).

I can feel, like so many people (and a good number of them Trekkers, too), that we need to work together if we don’t want greed to kill us all. *points at the title of this post*

I’ve always felt that way, and I’m not going to change now.

Why am I posting this today, and where am I going?

Well, I could tell you that the numbers of wars (civil and otherwise) or the recent heartless attacks that have been reported from all over the globe made me sad to the point that I started typing, but they’re not what triggered this post (incidentally, I do wish that I could do something to help my fellow bipeds who are suffering, but I’m just too insignificant in the food chain to actually achieve much, but I try to do small things here and there, though).

I think I had a bit of a last straw effect this morning before the caffeine kicked in, and since I started listening to the news and reading the many newspapers from various countries that I devour each day (yep, I am that masochistic… or stupid… or a mix of both) my sadness and anger has increased a bit lot.

The tiniest disappointment for the day is political and linked to space.

Yesterday, Curiosity landed on Mars. It’s a success for NASA, but a slight acknowledgement of the cooperation involved in that success would have been great (because I heard that, at least, there were two elements on board the rover that came from Europe; there’s the Alpha Particle X-ray Spectrometer (APXS) provided by the Canadian Space Agency (CSA); there’s Russia's contribution, the DAN neutron detector, developed under an agreement between NASA and Russia's Roscosmos Federal Space Agency, that can search for water in shallow underground minerals along the rover's path… and I haven’t done full research on the topic!).

NASA’s damn right to be proud, and President Obama is right to be happy and proud (and since it’s a dangerous election year for him, he was strategically wise to use this fantastic feat in order to boost himself in polls).

Before I go on, allow me to be clear. Crystal clear. President Obama isn’t my president (wrong country, and entirely wrong continent even!), but he’s one of the few current politicians I like. I admire him for what he’s trying to do.

He’s not my leader, but I think I’m really a fan. 
Yet… when the ‘Statement by the President on Curiosity Landing on Mars’ starts with ‘Tonight, on the planet Mars, the United States of America made history’. I can’t help but be a tiny lil’ bit disappointed that the whole focus is on American success (election year, I get it. Some Americans thicker than millennial sequoias, I get it, too).

A part of me is dreaming of someone strong enough to include neighbours and allies, but I guess the Federation is still a rather far away dream (if Star Trek inspired its fans to create real things that were mentioned in the show, the humanity behind the Federation is not about to start showing in politics).

This is how we react between bipeds, and it’s not pretty, but it gets downright ugly when we turn to the ‘animal’ kingdom (because bipeds don’t want to be reminded that they’re just successful mammals).

Once more, I’m about to have epidermic reactions. I haven’t really done my research, but the general background is making my blood boil.

We cannot get along together, and we treat the other living creatures on this planet like possessions. I’ll even dare go a step farther and say that it really looks as if some bipeds think that they own the other creatures (because they’re oh-so-intelligent – whilst, in fact, it’s only because some bipeds invented weaponry that they're allowed such behaviour).

One thought even came to my mind recently, and I bet that most people would gladly flame me for coming up to that conclusion, but a lot of bipeds treat other creatures they deem inferior (fellow bipeds and/or other animals) like slaves (in my book, which might well be a unicum, I know, this is the only way to explain how some bipeds work).

I caught one article on the way wolves might be soon threatened again in Europe. Go read the article. I’ll wait for you.

<Musical interlude>

Done? Good.

As I see things, big farmers (200 sheep, that’s not a small farm, sorry guys!) are used to complain about anything and everything.

I’ve got a lot of sympathy for small farmers who are really struggling to make ends meet, but I do know several big farmers (my mama moved to the country), and I won’t waste the single ghost of a tear on them.

First, it’s as much the wolves’ territories as it is the bipeds' – only the bipeds are vocal and can call cowardly politicos that are going to think about the next election, not what’s right or important to do. 
If we just consider the average wolf, he might be killing a few sheep here and there (though a handful of farmers have been quick to cry wolf, pun intended, in order to get better compensations from their state or the E.C.), but he also eats the carcasses and rids forest and mountains of dead bodies that could very well bring some nasty diseases back into our lives (the same’s true about the bears, who don’t have a better reputation amongst farmers).

The thing is we need biodiversity. We need a bit of everything on this sad rock in order to have a balanced life cycle.

But what are most bipeds doing? They kill.

Exhibit 2: near Reunion Island, there have been about eight shark attacks in the past thirteen months, and three since January of this year.

Who’s being attacked? Surfers.

I do not wish them any harm, but I’d have more sympathy for them if they weren’t so damn vocal about slaughtering the endangered species to the last one, in a marine reserve, for Merlin’s sake!!!

Just like wolves and bears in forests and mountains, we must protect sharks in the oceans. They eat dead fish and other dead sea mammals and help make sure that our oceans don’t become a massive poisoned dustbin (we’re doing that with ships, boats and drillings perfectly well).

If the sharks could walk onto the beach to chew tourists as they mistook them for snacks, I’d somehow understand the angry reactions, but here, we’ve got bipeds who don’t want their fun spoiled (we’re not talking about starving bipeds vaguely attempting to catch one fish in order to feed their dying baby [Yea, I know, sorry about the drama, but I’ve noticed that if one doesn’t use strong and weird images, the message doesn’t go through too often; let’s blame that one on my students]).

I bet there are to be irate surfers, but there must be bipeds interested in tourism as well (the mayor of Saint Leu, Thierry Robert, looks very active. Perhaps he's truly concerned, or he's thinking of his re-election or of his future tourists), since the average tourist going to some exotic location demands that the ocean be as safe as a municipal pool (but jellyfish exist and have fun sometimes!).

I haven’t been able to find (in English or French) an accurate article on the topic. Some newspapers say that the Minister will be forced to agree to the slaughter, others that it’ll remain illegal to hunt the sharks.

I am firmly on the side of the wolves and the sharks. 
Perhaps it’s the Zen in me. Perhaps it’s the fact that I realized at an early age that everything’s connected on this planet and that bipeds are quite incredibly arrogant.

Bipeds aren’t the emperors of Earth.

Earth and her creatures do not belong to bipeds.

The sooner we realize this, the better for us if we want a future.

Right. Off my chest.

One day, when Japan will have angered me enough (well, just the Ministry responsible for the massacres), I’ll tell you about whales’ slaughters.

The Tale of the Bunny-Breeding Girl

Once upon a time, in a village in the North, a young girl was fending for herself.

She was all alone and living in a dilapidated cottage that was draughty in winter and damp and unpleasant in the summer.

The villagers paid no heed to her, and they didn’t help her because they all considered that, as an adult, she had to find a way to make a living.

She liked to walk, and one day, in the late spring, she found young bunnies that had recently been orphaned. She took them with her and brought the little ones to her home.

The young girl found a good place for the little ones, and she gave them good food, and she brushed them with care (they all had very long hair).

The bunnies were either white or grey, and they were very, very friendly, and incredibly cute. They somehow behaved like kittens. They followed their saviour everywhere and grew to be unusual pets.

In the winter, it was a bit difficult for the young girl to find enough food for her and her bunnies. At one point, she asked a few villagers if they wanted to adopt a few of her pets, but they laughed at her, saying that she was silly to care for balls of fur, and that she’d better eat them. The young girl was horrified, and she kept taking care of her extraordinary bunnies.

The following year, several things happened that changed her life forever.

First, her bunnies had baby bunnies, who were even cuter and tamer and more affectionate than their parents, and it meant that she had to try to find people to take care of them.

In consequence, she walked to the closest town with a bunny on each shoulder and one in her arms.

As it happened, one of the Royal Princesses of the realm, the favourite daughter of the King, was in that town, and from her carriage, the young Princess immediately spotted the young girl.

The Princess loved bunnies, and the ones who were with the young girl were so adorable that the Princess adopted the three instantly, which quite relieved the young girl.

The Princess didn’t buy the bunnies, per se, but she gave the young girl enough gold to feed herself and the remaining bunnies for a few years.

The Princess invited the young girl in her carriage and drove her back to the cottage, where the Princess was introduced to the other bunnies.

The animals felt that the new human being on their territory was very good and profoundly kind, and they welcomed the Princess warmly.

The Princess’s chaperone pointed out that they had to head back to the capital, but she hinted that the King probably wouldn’t object to other visits. The Princess and the young girl, when they bade each other goodbye, knew that they’d meet again.

The young girl was relieved to be able to care for her bunnies and to no longer have to worry about the immediate future.

Once she was back to the capital, the Princess gave one of the bunnies to her mother and another to her best friend. When she saw that her youngest sister was sad to not have a fluffy, affectionate bunny, the Princess gave her the third one.

The other Royal children longed for such bunnies, and since the King saw that his favourite daughter felt terrible for not thinking of providing bunnies to all her siblings, he sent a young knight to go fetch more bunnies from the young girl.

The knight was very efficient. He was so efficient that the King allowed him to go back to the North immediately to help the young girl restore her cottage.

From then on, the knight would always be found with the young girl.

When the courtesans saw how well-behaved and nice the bunnies were, most of them wished to have one. For a few of them, it was a fad, but for most, it was a real love for the charming creatures that came to their hearts or that came back to them after years secluded in the capital, away from the country and its marvels.

The courtesans sent envoys to the young girl, who started allowing her bunnies to breed freely in order to be able to have enough bunnies for those who wanted them.

The courtesans all gave fair compensation, and the young girl felt that she could marry her knight without being ashamed of her situation in life. The King, the Queen, and all their children (and all the bunnies) came to the wedding, which took place in the tiny church of the village.

By then, most of the villagers were trying to be friends with the young girl, but she kept to herself, and her husband could make sure that no one would bother them.

In the following years, the entire realm, and the neighbouring ones, discovered the young girl’s bunnies, and they all wished to have some.

Breeding couples even had to be sent abroad, and each new generation was nicer than the one before.

Now that the young girl was as rich as the richest Duchess of the realm (and that the King was considering making her an actual Duchess for contributing to the realm’s economy and renown), the villagers were sorry that they hadn’t been nicer to her in the past. By then, most of them ignored their feelings, a few were even a bit happy for her, but a small minority was outright jealous.

The jealous ones turned bitter. They said that the young girl’s bunnies were nasty creatures that should be ignored. A few even circulated recipes to cook the poor creatures (this remained only a threat and was never done to any of the bunnies).

The jealous villagers, as well as the people who didn’t know the young girl but were jealous of her good fortune, had only sour words and ill thoughts for all her achievements.

The young girl had a nice life, a good companion, good friends in the Royal family and abroad; her bunnies were loved, which was all she wanted, and she could take care of her bunnies in her nicely restored cottage. Life was good for her, at last.

Years went by, but the young girl’s reputation as one of the best bunny-breeders of her generation was still strong.

She was still going for walks into the woods, and one day, she found orphaned black bunnies, and she rescued them. The admirers of her white and grey bunnies encouraged her to breed the black ones, and she agreed to give it a try, even though they were rather different.

Even before she delivered the first ones to the world, all the jealous people started spewing bile, saying that she’d never be able to repeat the so-called (in their mind) miracle that she’d made years before. Their words were hideous and unkind: because they were incapable of doing what she’d done, but they wanted to believe that they could all do the same overnight.

The jealous ones could keep dreaming because they didn’t have an ounce of the young girl’s talent for loving and breeding her bunnies, and even in a millennium, they’d never be able to come up with what she’d managed to do all alone.

The young girl was about to give black bunnies to the world, and they’d be different, but they’d come with her love and skills, which guaranteed that they’d be awesome little creatures worth knowing.