09.29.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 8:20 pm by Sarah
Minister for Finance Brian Lenihan rang RTE boss Cathal Goan to complain about Liveline’s programme last Thursday week. The government was outraged because Duffy suggested that customers shouldn’t trust the banks. The plebs were panicking. It was irresponsible, the government felt, to create alarm amongst the general public by discussing the stability of our banking system on the airwaves. What sanctimonious drivel. What Lenihan was really saying was, “Cathal, please – not in front of the children”.
It’s called a credit crunch because banks have stopped giving each other credit. They’re afraid to lend each other money and right now, not even Henry Paulson’s $700 billion can fix that fundamental lack of trust between banks, regulators and politicians. So let me get this straight: they don’t trust each other, but we’re supposed to?
Regular readers of this column will know that I have little patience for the hysterical over-reactions of the ill-informed, but on this occasion callers to Liveline were not inventing anxiety – they were accurately reflecting the worries of the establishment.
Until the past fortnight, I’d been observing the global financial meltdown with the same insouciance one has when watching news reports of drug gang assassinations in far-off suburbs. It’s dreadful of course, but its only bad guys killing each other. What’s a few thousand Wall St brokers to me? I have a zero tolerance approach to financial risk and refuse to even take out a pension as I won’t expose my savings to the risks of the stock market. I confess, I’ve been feeling a bit smug about that decision lately.
Then an innocent bystander is killed by a stray bullet. I began to get the uncomfortable feeling that my cash on deposit was entering the line of fire. Why did people keep mentioning the bank where my SSIA money sits quietly gathering dust and a miserable interest rate? Of course, I know that the government wouldn’t let a bank go under. Of course I know that even if a bank did collapse deposits would be safe. The papers assure me that rumours of an Irish bank’s demise are the work of dirty rotten short sellers who thrive on the misery of others.
But up until last weekend, the only cast iron guarantee I had was that 90% of customers’ deposits up to a limit of €20,000 were actually secured by the government. I didn’t want to lose 10% of my money. I didn’t want to lose 1% of my money. Then Lehman Brothers employees emptied the chocolate vending machines on their way out the door. The butterfly was flapping its wings in China. Was the earthquake coming? I began to ring my establishment friends looking for a little assurance. I didn’t get any.
The insiders I spoke to were doing plenty of panicking. Business people, stock-broking types and financial journalists either didn’t want to talk about it which was bad enough or warned me to get my money and stuff it in the nearest mattress.
I fretted and rang around some more. “Look”, the men-in-suits said, “Even if your bank goes down the tubes, you will probably get your money. But it could get tied up in paperwork for months though so you should get it out now while you can. Try the Post Office.” I hadn’t even heard Liveline. My own phone lines were live with the financial anxiety of those-in-the-know. So where did Lenihan get off complaining to RTE?
He’s the one who turned green when he got a look at the books after his big promotion. Does he expect us to believe that his civil servants and central bankers are dining out on long lunches and wondering what all the fuss is about? No: panic is for the insiders who can take steps to protect themselves when the pyramid scheme comes crashing down. The function of the public is to pick up the tab. To keep the system working, we have to be the last ones to know that the money is gone.
The Minister says, “Trust me”. The Regulator says, “Trust me”. The bank’s CEO says smoothly at the AGM “Trust me”. Why? What have any of these people done to deserve our trust? We are where we are because none of them did their jobs properly. The entire history of banking and investments is one where the insiders run off with the cash and the hoi polloi lose everything. Not this time Minister.
The same day as the Liveline show, Financial Regulator Paddy Neary had issued a soothing statement saying that Irish banks were sound, but that meant nothing to me. It’s his job to say things like that, especially when they’re not true. When they start making statements you know things must be really bad. It’s also the Regulators’ job to make sure that banks don’t over leverage their debt. It’s also the Regulators’ job to make sure that banks don’t lend too much money to people who might not be able to pay it back. If the global financial meltdown has shown anything it’s that Regulators have been taking a 10 year nap instead of doing their job. So excuse me if I don’t hold their statements in high esteem. I don’t trust Regulators any more and that’s their fault, not Joe Duffy’s.
On the Friday afternoon Lenihan went on telly and informed us that bank deposits were not in danger and despite persistent questioning from the only man in the country with sense – George Lee, he insisted that speculation about raising the state guarantee on savings was unhelpful and not even that important. I liked the body language, but it wasn’t enough. I rang my bank and told them to transfer my money out first thing Monday morning.
On Saturday, Lenihan raised the deposit guarantee to €100,000. So tell me this, Minister: were you economical with the truth on Friday or did you get up on Saturday morning and suddenly change your mind as you munched your cornflakes? Are you fickle or a fibber? I think the decision had been made on Friday. Don’t get me wrong, it was the right move and I decided to leave my money in the bank after all. But he should’ve done it four days earlier, and he shouldn’t get upset when we talk about trust. He looked us in the eye and told a porkie on Friday. And he thinks we should trust him?
“There, there” he’ll say. “Daddy couldn’t say anything on Friday. He had to wait til the markets closed. Here’s a lollipop. Go and watch cartoons”. I don’t want to watch cartoons. I want the truth.
The FBI is beginning investigations into the whole mess and we can look forward to some high profile perp-walking. Jailing bankers is a strategy I like. Trusting them? Don’t talk to me. Talk to Joe. He’ll tell you what’s going on.
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Posted in Domestic/Relationships, Sunday Times Columns at 8:14 pm by Sarah
In a horizon-broadening move, I bought tickets for No Man’s Land at The Gate. My sister readily agreed to come along even after I briefed her on what to expect. “This is Pinter, so its not going to be fun: uncomfortable silences and plenty of bleakness. On the other hand, one of the guys from Little Britain is in it”. On arrival we greeted The Art Collector whom she’s met once before and only then I realised I hadn’t warned her about one important aspect of the evening: there would be kissing. He leaned forward; she leaned back. He kept going and she rigidly offered a cheek. When my other friend, the Cultured Software Executive wilfully ignored her horror and lunged, she broke into a sweat and made a hasty departure to the Ladies so she could compose herself.
The next day the Brother rang in distress. He’d just been to a corporate lunch. “What’s the story with the kissing? I hardly know these people and they’re all kissing. What am I supposed to do?”
We’re not of kissing stock. Not with each other and not with strangers. In fact, an aversion to unnecessary physical contact meant my granny was appalled by the introduction of the Sign of Peace at Mass. My father used to poke her in the side and make her shake hands while we giggled at her outrage. Honestly, mocking your poor granny at Mass. We’re definitely going to Hell. Once, when the Brother in America was heading off, we made our goodbyes by nodding significantly from across the room and I believe I raised a hand in a rather jerky attempt at a wave. My then fiancé looked on in horror. “What’s wrong with you people? You won’t see him for a year. You’re supposed to hug or something.”
“We’re not like that,” I snapped. He looked aghast and before he could start thinking about the terrible mistake he’d made by getting involved with my family, I changed the subject.
Of course I’ve moved on since then and have grown accustomed to the expectations of people with different approaches to meeting and greeting. The problem is there are no rules. Time was when only Arabs or Soviet leaders engaged in male to male cheek kissing but now even that certainty has gone. Playful back-slapping has given way to hugging and I’ve heard that in some circles, non-homosexual male kissing is quite the thing. Let the blame-storming begin: the Celtic Tiger and the telly. If it’s not the continental home-owning brigade then it’s an overdose of The Sopranos. Look, France and Italy have much to offer; the weather; the food; the wine. And while its great value to bring home the Rose at €4 a bottle, could we not leave the kissing there? The “a trois” is torture with the wrong people.
It’s creating social chaos. No one knows with whom or when and social context is no use at all. Some people are kissers and some are not. Others kiss some of the people some of the time. Our cosmopolitan lifestyles have curdled horribly with our agricultural backgrounds and the result is a thousand micro-cultures of etiquette and potential embarrassment. Who doesn’t dread the awful moment as your greeter’s lips zero in on your face and your hesitation, though split second, is long enough for them to realise they’ve badly miscalculated the nature of your relationship.
Maybe you offered one cheek and then rashly withdrew, only to realise the kisser is now smooching the space where your other cheek was just a second ago. You can dart back in but the whole process is shambolic. Have you shown yourself up as a hick? Did they presume too much? Oh God, please make it end.
I’ve tried to work out where my own boundaries are but there’s no logic. With some I’m a natural but I can’t figure out the distinguishing factor. It’s not a case of affection or lack thereof. I don’t kiss college friends of whom I am very fond, yet I frequently find myself grimacing as I kiss people I don’t really like at all. Maybe someone should put us out of our misery? My sister said a new friend in their group started kissing and everyone was too polite to object. Much to their relief, one of the gang returned from a year in Australia and put a stop to it. “Woah! Since when did we start kissing?”
The problem is it all happens so fast. You meet, one party goes for it, the other instinctively responds and then someone has second thoughts. There’s a screech of brakes as you realise its too much, too soon and too late to pull back. You finish the act but you both know its all been a horrible mistake.
Citing “When in Rome, do as the Romans” is no help since one never knows where one is. Dublin 4 isn’t the only place that’s a state of mind. I’ve discovered though, that geography is important.
During what we ironically refer to as “Summer”, I attempted a Sunday Lunch. I imagined one of those events where there would be sparkling repartee and admiration for my cooking. As usual expectation and reality were distant cousins. The risotto turned into rice pudding and inviting my urban metrosexual friends to Enfield created an unexpected moment of self-revelation. When one was making his departure I automatically put out my hand. He burst out laughing. “What are you doing shaking my hand?” I laughed too, astonished. When we meet in town it would never occur to me to shake hands. We always kiss, but now that we were on my home turf I had instinctively reverted to type. The woman was firmly back in the bog.
On the bright side (or is it?) the Brother in America seems to be making progress. When he leaves now we make a desperately pathetic effort at affection. We aim for a hug, though its turns more into patting the others back while keeping our arms so rigid that actual bodily contact is practically imperceptible. It’s excruciating, but hey, we’re trying.
Generally its better to avoid the whole business by engaging in a Western style Quick Draw. If you thrust your hand forward for shaking quickly and dramatically enough, it might put the kisser off completely. The pre-emptive rejection of their gesture might throw them, but it’s better than the embarrassment of banging cheek bones and getting all flustered.
The trick is in seizing the initiative. It’s a bit like the advice my friend the psychoanalyst gives when boarding a bus. Don’t automatically sit beside an empty seat because a smelly odd person might take it. Make sure you choose who to sit beside. If you’re not a kisser, don’t be discombobulated by a presumptuous lovee. Preserve your dignity and put out your hand because sometimes, the old ways are best.
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09.11.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 10:37 am by Sarah
xkcd
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09.09.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 2:33 pm by Sarah
HOW can you criticise Adi Roche? Last Thursday night she appeared on television in an almost unbearably poignant documentary about the hardship children face in Belarus. Her Chernobyl Children’s Project has harnessed the good will, money and energy of hundreds of equally well-meaning, generous families who host children’s holidays here. So how do you tell Roche and those families that their project is capable of harm, and that there are better ways to help those needy children? Gently, but firmly.
It’s time to state bluntly that the story of the Chernobyl Children’s Project is not a simple one of a fairy godmother saving the lives of sick children. The story of Chernobyl is considerably more complex than the one we perceive every time a plane full of pale, cancer-stricken children lands in Ireland.
Roche described as shocking the decision by the Belarusian government to prevent children travelling to Ireland, or other host countries, for an annual holiday. The ban is indeed an over-reaction, and international pressure may have it over-turned. But the Belarusians have a point.
The ban was provoked by the failure of Tanya Kazyra, 16, who was on her ninth and last visit to a family in California, to board a return flight from San Francisco on August 5. She told Associated Press: “I love my motherland and my grandmother. However, my life there is hard. And I have a family here.”
Who could blame her? Belarus is a poor country, still devastated by the aftermath of the fire at the Chernobyl nuclear power station in 1986. When children from there are brought to a rich western environment for a few weeks, and showered with the best of everything we have to offer – medical treatment, sympathy, nice food, new clothes and toys – well, is it any wonder they don’t want to go back? How can they face back into their old lives once they’ve seen that faraway hills are very green indeed?
The Irish government would be rightly annoyed if a well-intentioned American philanthropist took children out of Temple Street hospital to Florida or California, showed them Disneyland and showered them with treats, and then the kids refused to come home.
Giving them a holiday seems like a charitable act, but Adi Roche has to face a number of realities. The first is that, contrary to popular belief, the World Health Organisation (WHO) has conclusively proven that cancer rates and congenital abnormalities in Belarus are no higher than in other former Soviet Union states.
Whenever I share this information, people react with disbelief. The only story they know is that radiation poisoning has resulted in high rates of terrible cancers among Belarussians. But that myth was categorically debunked by the Chernobyl Forum Report issued by the WHO in 2005. The report was compiled by a team of more than 100 scientists who attempted to quantify how many people died or became ill as a result of the Chernobyl fire.
They concluded that three groups of people were affected. There were the heroic emergency workers who fought the blaze, 56 of whom died from acute radiation sickness. There were thousands of children who, due to the complete mismanagement of the crisis by the Belarusian government, were allowed to continue drinking contaminated milk from the region. Some 4,000 children contracted thyroid cancer as a result. Most of those were treated successfully, but eight did not survive.
The third group affected is the general population, which has suffered devastating long-term damage to their mental but not physical health. The legacy of Chernobyl is not one of congenital deformities and childhood leukaemias, but of a nation cursed by the label of victimhood.
Belarusian people suffer acute anxiety and any illness, miscarriage or setback is attributed to radiation instead of the general misery of life. They have been struck by what the WHO forum report called “paralysing fatalism”.
So what they need is help to get on with their lives, not encouragement to believe that which is simply not true – that radiation continues to result in excessive cancers and illness. If Roche does not acknowledge this, she is being deeply unfair on them and on us.
That said, Belarus is a poor country and many of its children are in need. But I believe Roche’s efforts are misguided. If Concern started bringing plane loads of African children here for a month every summer, people would quite rightly question the wisdom of such a strategy. Yes, those children would get a boost from good food and medical treatment. But then what? It is illogical, unsustainable and a poor use of resources to bring a child on holiday for a few weeks. It is clearly much more sensible and in the long term interests of the child to improve their quality of life at home for every week of the year.
There are other charities in Ireland who are quietly and effectively doing that. But you may not know about them because they don’t pose with deformed children in front of TV cameras – a practice which most major international charities abhor.
Tom McEneaney, the former Irish business editor of this newspaper, has been visiting Belarus for over ten years with the International Orphanage Development Project which has worked with all 60 orphanages in Belarus. The only reason I know about the project is because he’s a friend of mine. Publicity is not high on his agenda.
McEneaney observes that every time a new member of the group comes to Belarus, they are shocked to discover that the children are quite healthy. That’s because Irish people have been conditioned to expect missing limbs and terrible deformities. They are surprised to find that Belarusian children look very like ours. McEneaney praises Belarusian childcare workers who do their best with poor resources. He believes the children’s needs are, simply, “capital”. They need washing machines or cookers, proper showers and playgrounds. The IODP buys farm machinery and improves storage houses so that orphanages can grow their own food. They buy new beds and blankets locally, in order to give the economy a boost. It’s not emotive, but it’s effective and sustainable and is now extending its operations to India.
Roche could perhaps learn something from this practice. I believe she has good intentions but a bad policy. She should abandon the holiday programme and help these children only in their own country, and she should tell them the full truth about Chernobyl.
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