Blunt was having his break in the canteen. A weekday midmorning in February and fairly quiet, only about ten other drivers were there,spread out across the tables in one's and two's. He had just finished his breakfast - kippers - and was reading his paper, the Gruaniad.A liberal broadsheet that carries all the contradictions which liberals have. For all progressive causes until it affects them personally, andinfamous for typo's. A general manager of the company, Franz Gray and Peter Roberts, his deputy, came into the canteen for a cup of tea. They did this occasionally. Let everybody know they werearound and together. Unlike the union.

Blunt, as usual wished everybody he saw, “Good Morning". He didn't discriminate, even when it was management. They both replied,Good morning”, and sat down at a table next to him.

Blunt returned to the paper and an article on the build up to war. After a few minutes Gray turned to him and asked with an accusatorytone,

“Do you always read that?”

Kamara was in Dakar when the rumours that Captain Blood was dead caught up with him. They circulated furtively at first, afraid of their own veracity. He dismissed them, “mere rumours”, refusing to have his vengence thwarted, not lose the comfort of the hate he had for his old friend. But the news grew loud and became real with the detail of the death broadcast on radio. Captain Blood's notoriety had travelled far. Relief, even in Dakar was palpable. Sergeant Burnhouse's death wasn't reported. His part not high enough up the cast list. “To quick”, was Kamara's acceptance to the fact of his old friends death.


He had picked up a smattering of French in Conakry, found he was adept with language, enjoyed playing with the sounds, the phonetics. The more he practised, the larger his vocabulary and range of conversation, and the area of his brain that processed language grew. It happened with juggling as well. The structure of his brain changed. The grey matter in the left posterior intraparietal sulcus, which processes visual motion information, got bigger. Either cell production had increased or changes had occurred in the connections between cells. Learning and practise makes the brain grow. Kamara's hand/eye co-ordination was always good and got better the more he juggled.



Dakar was a good choice as a stop on the road. One big market with a myriad of places to perform and earn the money to get further along on his journey. He started at the Tilene in the old Medina district. Its atmosphere and clientelle was similar to Conakry, full of locals buying their daily food needs or second-hand clothes. People like Kamara. Poor. Tilene gave him the little boost in confidence he needed to begin juggling and clowning in a new city. He always drew a crowd and the stall holders near him, initially hostile, weren't slow to notice the increase in their trade. They started offering him retainers to perform next to them for an hour or a day.

The three months of Fargouts absence sped past. 'Time always flashes fast through ones life when times are good', Kamara told himself. The only times hewas feeling down were when he used the internet to research Fatimas question. He had promised himself on Fatimas eyes that he would find an answer. Doing itdepressed him and made him happy at the same time. Depressed because he had to remember the pain, but happy that he was making the effort and learning awhole new world of communication.

The second site he visited gave him some answers. The United Nations had posted its report on the diamond trade in Sierra Leone on the World Wide Web.Complex, difficult to read and take in, he printed a copy to show Odette and ask for her help in deciphering it. It could have been heiroglyphics for all he knew,but he did recognise the words 'diamonds' and 'Sierra Leone' and they were important in the search for his truth.

Odette read the report and there were tears of anger in her eyes as she interpreted it, precied it for her friends. Around the table listening to her wereKamara, Franz and Gertrude, Abdu and Pinda.

Blunt's rest days were occassionally spent with a camera around the streets of London, scanning the images or trying to set up photoprojects recording and documenting the amazing tales in everyday life. He'd set up a photography business two years before with a loanfrom the bank. He had been trying to establish himself as a freelance photojournalist for ten years, but most of the time he was signing on.Depressed and not knowing what was wrong with him. Knowing something was wrong but refusing to confront it. Frightened at what it could be.

Trying to set up a business had been a reaction to being pressurised by the Job Centre to take a job, any job or lose benefits. The NewLabour Government had decided to get heavier than the Tories with the Signing-on. Thatcher's whipping horse whipped again, this time bytheir own representatives. Single mothers had been the first to feel the harsher policies of New Labour, and now betrayal hung heavier inthe air, becoming concrete with the imperial drive to war.

More stress. More relapses and still no understanding that he had MS. He managed to convince the Job Centre that establishing a photobusiness was a better way to go for him. They gave him time, not much but some, to develop a business plan and put the loans in place. Thebusiness plan hadn't worked, which would have been glaringly obvious if he or anybody had known his condition. Blunt worked driving a busto pay off his debts. He still contributed to a couple of Photo Libraries,
one on-line, and tried to keep his hand in. The libraries hadn't sold any of his work for eighteen months.

The first time he saw her, Blunt knew his life would change. He couldn't have resisted approaching her even if he had been able to foretell the future.

She'd arrived in the garage about a month after him. One of two new drivers. The other, a male had only lasted a couple of months before being sacked. A duty Blunt was doing meant that he had to relieve Peters, the new male driver for his break. A stop later an Inspector boarded the bus and proceeded to check passengers tickets. Two stops after Blunt had taken over the Inspector approached his cab with a passenger but before the Inspector could say anything the passenger blurted, "That's not him."

Peters had been passing-on - reselling tickets that had not been collected by another, earlier passenger or picked up from the floor of the bus. Peters, received congratulations from Protheroe and given another assignment, this time not driving buses to his great relief.

I haven't written anything which could be construed as questioning for a while because I have been scared witless about where it will take me. It's not as if I haven't been reading, watching, thinking or listening. And of these intellectual disciplines, listening to the continual drivel and blatant propaganda that is passed of as insightful political discourse on BBC Radio4 has been the hardest on my brain and temper. The others have been made tolerable by some beautifully lucid writing and a few great DVD's.

One of the reasons I was as timerous as Burn's 'wee beastie' about writing this piece is my multiple sclerosis. I could take the easy option and opt-out of thinking and trying to use words and images to understand the state of the world. No longer keep a critical stance to knowing. Deny my political self and what intellect I have and instead just concentrate on dealing with the day to day hassles of the MS. Try and reduce the stress and heightened emotion that has a tendency to exacerbate the condition and bring on relapses.

The recent publication of the Terrorism Bill 2005 that Charles Clarke, the Home Secretary has presented to Parliament is scarier even than the MS. And a red rag to the likes of me (my Chinese birth sign is the Ox - for what that's worth?). What finally forced my hand however, was receiving a new DVD of Rossellini's 'Rome - Open City'. But before looking at this films relevance to today and how cinema links my erstwhile friend Charles Clarke and I, a small digression via another film:

Another photographer and friend, forwarded an article to me by email today which is so good I feel that I have to pass it on despite previously stating I would post only my writings to this blog. Unfortunately the originators name did not accompany the piece so I apologies before hand and hope, whoever you are, that no offence is taken for not giving you the credit.

"Where do you stand morally? This test only has one question, but it's a very important one. By giving an honest answer, you will discover where you stand morally. The test features an unlikely, completely fictional situation in which you will have to make a decision. Remember that your answer needs to be honest, yet spontaneous. Please scroll down carefully and give due consideration to each line.

THE SITUATION
You are in America, New Orleans to be specific. There is chaos all around you caused by a hurricane with severe flooding. This is a flood of biblical proportions. You are a photojournalist working for a major newspaper and you're caught in the middle of this epic disaster. The situation is nearly hopeless. You're trying to shoot career-making photos. There are houses and people swirling around you, some disappearing under the water.

Now the rovin' gambler he was very bored
He was tryin' to create a next world war
He found a promoter who nearly fell off the floor
He said I never engaged in this kind of thing before
But yes I think it can be very easily done
We'll just put some bleachers out in the sun
And have it on Highway 61

Highway 61 Revisited. Bob Dylan

The sounds, the lyrics and the music that has accompanied me for the last forty years and more has been that of Dylan. More so than that of my contemporary countrymen, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. From 'The Times They Are A-Changin' to 'Things Have Changed', Dylan has added to my journey. The love, the anger, the protest and the 'gallows humour' (some prefer 'cynical wit') has helped shape my ideology. His religiosity though stopped me becoming a sycophant - a Bobhead who sees and hears no wrong.

On the 12th Sept I received an email from bobdylan.com advertising a ringtone as a promotional aid to Scorsese's 'No Direction Home: Bob Dylan' . "What the fuck!" I thought till I read it. It is no ordinary ringtone for our times. To quote, "......As a special promotion, the good folks at Cingular are releasing an exclusive ringtone which features the first time Bob Dylan tries out the police siren heard on the intro on Highway 61Revisited......"

"I am going out now
On this day of volcanoes
Towards the multitude. Towards life."

Pablo Neruda.

In the early Seventies at the fag end of hippiedom Jim, an old friend and I were travelling, working our way through Europe. We came up short in West Germany and spent four months on remand in gaol for possession of some rather nice Moroccan Khatama Treble Zero. 6oz to be precise. They kept us that long while they tried to construct a case of drug smuggling. They failed because we weren't, but that is a different story and the reason I bring it up now is because of whom some of our fellow prisoners were.

We spent the first two weeks of the four months, all expenses paid, in West Germany's highest security gaol - Stuttgart- Stammheim. I was told on my second day that on the top floor in hyper-security, were the Baader/Meinhoff Gang, aka The Red Army Faction (RAF). One of Europe's most notorious urban terrorist gangs.