Air India, not Air Canada

I wrote a letter to the editor recently and although they called to say they would publish it, they did not. I guess it was because it was Christmas and they wanted to be warm and fuzzy. As you can imagine, my letter was a little too "on" to make that cut. Here it is, for your reading pleasure:

"Dear editor,
"While appalling and sad, the bombing of Air India flight 182 has never struck me as a "Canadian" tragedy. It happened to an Indian aircraft carrying mostly Canadians of Indian descent and was the result of a vicious religious holy war which persists today. How is that really Canada's fault? And yet we have been shouldering the responsibility and apologizing for it for 25 years. I think it's time for Canada to let go. The same hatred still thrives in these communities -- witness the warning given the B.C. premier to fear for his safety when he attempted to participate in an indo religious and cultural festival last summer. And look at the violence rained upon Ujjal Dosanjh whenever he speaks out. Blaming Canada and ordinary Canadians does nothing to heal such profound divides."

And I totally mean that. I was always uncomfortable with the whole Air India deal. Really, that flight could have taken off from Seattle and the result would have been the same. What's "Canadian" about that!!?? 25 years and millions and millions of $$$$$$ spent on looking into it and the families are still not satisfied with our hand-wringing. They bleat on. I guess it's more money they want in compensation. It's always money.

Have not been blogging lately because with only two followers and no feedback, I start to wonder why I am doing it? Seriously, I know how I feel on every topic about which I blog (how's that for perfect grammar!). But the Air India thing begged exposure, so I have started again.

B and I are off to England to visit his mother and surprise her on her 92nd birthday. I have never met the woman and we have been married for 30 years. Not that it's complicated, but whenever he visited, I always thought it would be better for one of the kids to go instead of me. We never had money -- B's hideous divorce from his money-mad crone/harridan/harpy ex made sure of that. (Sorry to still carry that grudge, but the woman inherited millions and really didn't need our paltry public-service pennies, from which we then had to wretchedly wring support for the four kids in our custody.) But I digress.

We have been thumbing through the latest London guide books and I conclude that everything starts at 100Ls -- a coffee, a taxi ride, a pub lunch, a drink..........everything. I told B to think of 100Ls as $10 and he'd have it about right. If you go out for dinner, then everything is 200Ls -- never mind throwing in a glass of wine or three. But as luck would have it, last time we were there I watched a facinating documentary on the BBC about the very high quality of London's tap water. Evidently, it has to do with these huge gleaming chrome and enamel machines, covered in beautiful dials and gauges of the kind only a dedicated British machinist could have fashioned at the turn of the century. Generations of skilled stationary engineers have been trained down the years to operate these magnificent beasts and the result is wonderful tap water out the other end.

At dinner that evening, when the waiter was scaring us into buying a $40 bottle of perrier, I asked for tap water with the complete confidence of knowing that the pepto bismol tablets I kept at the ready would not be called into service. The waiter then admitted he knew that and pronounced us pretty clever for not having fallen for his pitch. (G-d! I am really on a grammar roll here.) Must be the booklet sent me by my daughter filled with photos of bad grammar and spelling on public signs throughout the US. More on that later.

Speaking of the US, how perfect that they turned the Tucson tragedy into high and tacky entertainment. The other night I was damned if I could find a channel that was not pre-empting everything for Obama's performance at the memorial. What a show! Even the CBC fell for it. But why should we be surprised that the CBC was all over it. The only thing missing was Peter Mansbridge down there in person, weeping into a microphone. Isn't he the biggest egomaniac you have ever seen! We knew his parents and he definitely inherited his self-adoration from his mummy. His father, Stanley, was a perfect gentleman.