I am immersing myself in things Malaysian at the moment, in preparation for the forthcoming Burgess conference in Kuala Lumpur. That’s one of the reasons I’ve changed my banner to a picture taken last year in Kuala Kangsar. So I was intrigued by this book: it must be the only English language detective story set in KL, I imagine. The detective is Inspector Singh, a Sikh seconded to Malaysia from Singapore in order to investigate the killing of a leading businessman, apparently by his estranged former model wife. My heart sank when Singh was described as a maverick in the opening pages (do fictional police forces contain any non-mavericks?) but the story soon picked up, and engaged me enough for me to finish it in two days. The author, Shamini Flint, is a former lawyer and also an environmental activist, so it’s no surprise that aspects of Sharia law and a subplot concerning illegal logging are integral to this novel. The picture of KL that emerges is one that will be familiar to those who have been there- certainly, the bustle, the grime, the contrasts, the traffic were all elements I noticed on my visit, and are all evoked well here. My one criticism of Shamini’s use of local colour is that she usually feels obliged to explain quirks of behaviour, or cuisine, as if she doesn’t quite trust her reader to accept her knowledge. I wondered if it was the heavy hand of an editor with an eye on the anglophone market. Singh, whose character maybe owes something to HRF Keating’s Inspector Ghote, keeps one step ahead of his Malaysian colleagues in a murky tale of corruption, bluff and passion. I enjoyed it, and look forward to the next in the projected series, to be set in Bali. Shamini Flint is obviously very much a genre writer, and there’s nothing wrong with that- but the burgeoning Malaysian literary scene contains some seriously impressive writers, and I will be turning to them in a future post. Meanwhile, this is a promising beginning, and Singh is a distinctive addition to the crowded detective story marketplace.
This post is completely self-indulgent, though Petal will be interested. Boris is the head of our household. He had some kind of accident last year – exactly what we still don’t know – and for a while there, things looked grim. But he was soon back to his old self, bossing us about and demanding fish. Here he is anyway, meditating above and surveying his domain below. If you like this, go to Petal’s blog, where her Fidel, who looks very much like a young Boris, is currently starring.
Partly posting this so I can get another picture of my second favourite animal species on the blog two days in succession, and partly to record my admiration for Dr Crippen, whose blog is well worth a look. Key quote: There have been deaths in Mexico. There has been one in the US. Our Indian partner said: “There were 2,000 deaths, mainly children in Africa and Asia, yesterday.”
Our medical student looked shocked: “I didn’t know swine flu had reached that part of the world.” “It hasn’t,” said our partner. “I’m talking of deaths from malaria. But that isn’t news, is it?”
We were silent for a while. Time to get things in proportion.
The trickle of stories about the way MPs abuse the expenses system is now a flood. What’s noticeable is the entirely predictable excuse that all of them offer- we didn’t break any rules. They are so removed from the ordinary lives of their constituents that they can’t see that’s not the point. The rules (made by them of course) permit all kinds of clearly unjustifiable expenditure at taxpayers’ expense. It’s a gravy train, pure and simple. I was amused, then actually annoyed, when it was revealed that Jacqui Smith was upset with her husband / employee for his claiming of porn films on her expenses, not because of the embarrassment, but because she had apparently spent a week going through her expenses, and was confident they were legit according to the rules. Well, I rather thought her job was to run the Home Office- who was in charge when she was trying to find her bath plug receipt? I am a fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, and follow the blog of its director, Matthew Taylor. So when he weighed in with his thoughts on the matter, I posted a comment. My solution is this: First, the government should requisition, buy or otherwise acquire about 500 central London flats, at a cost of a day or so bank bailout. This would also give some stimulus to the housing market. MPs whose constituencies are not within reasonable commuting distance of Westminster are allocated a flat. Furnishings are provided (I’m sure John Lewis would oblige). And, er, that’s it. No allowances, no claims to be made. Maintenance to be handled either by contractors who bill the House of Commons or via a dedicated team appointed by the state. Utility bills paid. MPs in London suburbs given a travel warrant to get them back home. Matthew objected: “But might it not cost more. There would be up to £300 million to buy the flats and then the cost of managing them, maintaining them, and servicing them. And if it was overseen by the House I’m not sure it would be the most efficient of services. Also, there would anyway have to be transitional arrangements as t wouldn’t really be fair to ask existing MPs to move out of homes they had lived in for years.”
I think this is revealing- his instinct, perhaps understandable, since he is a former aide to Tony Blair, is to protect the MP. I replied: Well, yes, I suppose £300m would be a lot- but that’s assuming each flat would cost on average about £600k. On one website, I found 55 flats in Central London at under £300k. Even so, the cost would be small change compared to the money the govt is currently spending on bailouts etc. Maintenance would obviously cost – but at the moment with MPs claiming for every last bath plug, I’m sure it would be cheaper. And if it were handled by an agency of the Commons, it would create jobs, apprenticeships etc. No need for transitional arrangements. If this system were introduced at the next election, all qualifying MPs would get their allocated flat. Those who had a second home could sell it, keep it, whatever. They just wouldn’t be able to make any claims for it. No reply from Mr Taylor. And fair enough, there’s no reason why he should. I think the political classes need to realise the depth of the anger felt by what they would call in their patronising way “hard-working families”. MPs receive a salary beyond the wildest dreams of 95% of the population for a job that doesn’t require their attendance at their place of work – which is open on fewer days than an Oxford college – and which allows them to take any number of extra jobs, directorships etc. On top of that, there’s the bottomless expenses fund. It stinks.
Update: Andrew Rawnsley says it all much more gracefully: “Harriet Harman has been shoved before the cameras to try to defend the indefensible. She bleats that it was “all within the rules” as if the rules were not of Parliament’s own invention, but had been handed down by God to Moses on Mount Sinai. All her exposed colleagues have likewise protested that everything they did was “within the rules” as if they were powerless to resist an invisible hand that forced them to sign the claim forms. Not every MP felt compelled to scoff at the trough. Hilary Benn, Ed Miliband and Alan Johnson emerge as acmes of frugality who make modest and entirely reasonable claims for performing their duties. The unblemished MPs should be furious with the avarice of their grasping colleagues who have tarred the whole political class with a reputation for being seedy and greedy.”
I bought some supplies in a nationally known store the other day. I won’t identify the store, but the words “Marks” and “Spencer” appear prominently in their name. The cashier waved the goods across the barcode reader, and then asked me for £24.13. Unusually for me, I had actual cash money on my person, so I proffered a £20 and a £10 note. The cashier opened the till, and gave me 87p. I said “Erm, I think I gave you £30.” She shot back, rather too quickly “No, you gave me a twenty and a five.” “Oh,” I said, beginning to doubt it myself now, “I thought I gave you a tenner as well as the twenty.” At this point, she rang furiously for the supervisor, who waddled over at leisurely pace. I said that I might well have been mistaken, and she said again that it was definitely a fiver, because she had to put it in a special drawer. A very brief conversation with the supervisor then ensued. The supervisor tapped in something on the till, the till opened, and the cashier handed me £5 and my receipt. The supervisor, who hadn’t even acknowledged my presence, waddled off. I said to the cashier that if there wasn’t a £10 note in the wrong place, I would accept that I’d been wrong. No, that wasn’t possible: I had to accept the extra £5. No-one said it, but the underlying implication was that I’d tried it on, and they would just write off the loss. So now, I feel guilty at having extracted £5 from this enormous company. What struck me was that, in the olden days, the cashier would probably have put the notes in a clip on top of the till while she rang the purchase up, so it would be very clear what had been tendered; and she would also have probably said “Twenty five pounds” when I gave her the money- two checks to ensure that the transaction was transparent. I’m still not sure whether she was right or I was. The upshot is that, if I use that store again, I will always pay by card. And my favourite charity is £5 richer.
Chez Topsyturvydom, we are very pleased to see Charles Lambert occupying the guest slot over at the mighty Normblog. Charles has chosen Christopher Isherwood’s little known book The Memorial, which I must admit I don’t know. I would be curious to read it though, as Charles has whetted my appetite with this description: “It’s an odd amalgam of faux-modernism and the traditional novel, as though Isherwood still hasn’t made up his mind what kind of writer he plans to be: Virginia Woolf or Hugh Walpole.” Still trying to imagine what a combination of Walpole and Woolf would look like…
My car is being repaired. The insurance company phoned to say it should be ready on Friday. You might predict that such an exchange would go: Company person: Mr Spence? Just phoning to say your car should be ready on Friday. Me: OK, thanks. In fact, it goes like this: Emily (for it is she): Hello, this is Emily from Megacorp insurance speaking. May I speak with Mr Spence? Moi: Yes, speaking. Emily: Is it all right for yourself to give you an update on your car repair, sir? Me: Yes, please do. Emily: OK, first I need to go through security. Can you confirm your full name, please? Me: Robert John Spence Emily: Great (she thinks it’s great that I know my own name?) Now, can you give me the first line of your address? Me: 3 Acacia Avenue Manchesterford Emily: And the postcode? Me: MZ56 OPQ Emiy: Fantastic. (she thinks it’s incredible that I know my own address?)Now I have to inform you that all calls may be recorded for security and training purposes. Is that all right for yourself? Me: (wearily) Yes.(thinking- what if I say no, I can’t be recorded, as I believe that a part of my soul will be taken away from me?) Emily: OK, now I am phoning to update you on the current position with your car. The current position is that….(long pause whilst she searches for something on screen) your car should be ready on Friday. It may not be ready by Friday, but Honest Joe’s garage are telling us it should be. Me: Oh, right. Emily: Are you satisfied with that update, sir? Me (under my breath): Ecstatic. (Louder) Yes, thanks. Emily: Is there anything else I can do for yourself, sir? Me: Please go away. (I didn’t really say that- I said No, thanks. Goodbye) End of call. That’s what I call service.
