My housemate has gone away. In truth, he's a bloody nightmare. He plays his music too loud, he shouts (although both 'Stalin' and his half-breed cousin both shout loudly the entire time, yokel clodhoppers, bumpkins, know-nothings: "Is there a telephone in this village?" It's like Borat here, back woods). In any case, when this stranger was making his case for British citizenship he stated that his favourite movie was Saving Private Ryan. I bought it for him for Christmas, but he hasn't come back since he became a truck driver. In any case, I recently rewatched this movie.
It reminded me of the time I lived in Normandy. I remember, once, taking a walk near a highly secure military installation. I had not the wit to notice a particular sign, which, when translated read, "Beware, mines." It was among the more harrowing experiences of my life. When you realise that you have walked into the middle of a mine field, everything comes into focus. You become acutely aware of your own mortality. I had to retrace my steps very carefully, looking for blades of grass that had been broken by my footfall, knowing that even one single mis-step would mean that that was me. Boom! Bought the farm. Adios.
I made it, but it was close. I later learnt from speaking to Didier Deman that the Germans made meticulous maps, noting every single mine to a precise location, but the Allies would only mark vague areas. This is, at least, better than the Italians did (who didn't mark anything at all). Even so, it was a brush with Thanatos (Death), which I shall never forget.
I am trying my best to learn about the law, which is itself a minefield. It's not easy. It's twelve years of studying down the drain, but that's okay: this is not Renaissance Italy or Elizabethan England. It's Dark Age Britain, where education means nothing except slavery and exploitation.
Max.
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