His name was Michel Gasparini. Quite an unremarkable man. Short, overwieght and slightly balding. Very unassuming and with absoloutley no pretence, or claim to fame. Single and a bit of a loner, this was a rather unspectacular man.

I met him in the Western suburbs of Paris in 1986, when he was a direct colleague of my French ex-wife. We never got too close or personal, and I couldn’t have met him more than half a dozen times. But in spite of all of this and the thirty years which have since elapsed, I still remember him distinctly and for good reason.

It must have been on the first occasion that we met, at one of my wife’s work functions, that I was listening in on a conversation between him and some of his mates. It was the normal expected chitchat, talk about their work and other mundane matters. Then suddenly one of them touched what seemed to be a rather hot topic, about rumours that their company might be laying off some workers the following year.

The tone instinctively harshened and people aired their concerns. They all talked of their financial commitments, about the reluctance and difficulty of looking for a new job. All of them revealed a certain uneasiness and anticipation, to see if and when such hearsay was in any way founded.

I was keeping my distance, as the matter did not directly concern me. But as I watched and observed, I noticed that while all of them had visibly been absorbed by this new turn in the conversation, Gasparini had kept the same smile and nonchalant look. He put in the odd word here and there not to be totally left out, but he certainly aired no concern.

Then my wife turned up and joined in the conversation. But I soon asked her why Gasarini seemed so detached and she laughed out in front of the others “Haha my husband asked why Gasparini isn’t worried about getting the sack”. They all laughed and giggled and by general consensus I was informed by all that Gasparini never gave a hoot about anything and that he had a totally relaxed approach to life.

I found this rather intriguing and at the first opportunity I grabbed a quick tete a tete with this unique chap. In so many words he chuckled away with me that he had managed to train himself to take everything with a massive pinch of salt and that he simply refused to worry or get upset about anything.

I initially thought that this might be fun party talk, or just generalisations on his part. However as several of the others joined in next to us, stories of court cases, divorce, health problems, his house catching fire, being falsely accused of theft and being arrested, attempts at being humiliated in front of his colleagues by his boss, and other substantially alarming stuff, was revealed about him. Not to incriminate him in any way, but simply to clearly and unequivocally demonstrate that nothing could ever perturb him. And sure enough, at each of these personal disasters, he laughed and he cracked a joke, and he recounted how merry his was at the time, to the great puzzlement of judges, lawyers, police, insurance surveyors, and all others around.

On the few other occasions I met this man, I always brought up the subject, which in no manner bothered him. On the contrary, he always found new fascinating stories, which would for others translate in a mini nightmare, but which for him were clearly the occasion for a joke and a laugh, both during and after the otherwise harassing experience.

His philosophy was simple, and one known to all, and repeated by many, but truly practiced by very few. It is totally futile to worry and get upset, in fact it only made matters worse. So good old Gasparini had somehow managed to totally disconnect himself from these negative feelings and was literally a very happy man.

As may be seen I have never forgotten this unusual man whom I have always held in great admiration. I cannot say that it has always been my main ambition in life to emulate him, and neither can I say that I did not gain directly from his inspiration.

Our past experiences and the people we meet in the long journey of life, all have some form of impact on our psyche and our behaviour, and it goes without saying that some affect us more than others.

Today I am proud to have finally made it into the Gasparini world of total zen and bliss.

It was obviously a long and slow process, made up of countless little stages in my life. The recent passing away of both my parents contributed to my present attitude, as did my following decision to slow down my work and take more time to enjoy life.

In fact it was a very recent and nearly sudden realisation, that I had finally achieved this elated state.

I can honestly say that now absolutely nothing worries me, I remain unruffled and composed no matter the situation. I simply cannot be troubled or harassed. And above all I have no issues with anyone or with anything, anymore. I have worked out all my issues without exception, and although I obviously have likes and dislikes and preferences, I am totally cool with everything.

Not one person truly upsets, I simply give more attention to some rather than to others. In fact I must admit that those who place themselves as my adversaries tend to amuse me, more than anything else. And what entertains me most is their seriousness and the gravity they give to such situations.

As for all the world’s issues and troubles and tribulations, yes I am very aware of them all. I know that there is suffering and pain and injustice, but my consciousness and knowledge is never transferred into anger or frustration. People’s ignorance and abuse will generate scorn and disdain, but no emotional and passionate behaviour. If people are crass and uncouth and politically incorrect, it does nothing to me more than a chuckle and perhaps a snide remark.

I have however, not only managed to retain my passion and fervour towards life, but also to greatly intensify it. In the process of desensitising myself from the negative, the anger and the frustration, I have simultaneously succeeded in shifting this emotion and sentiment to all that is positive and joyful.

I feel more, I am far more sensitive, I love stronger and I laugh harder and much more frequently. My passion for life has greatly increased, for all that is good and fun and beautiful.

It might sound strange, but I must admit that I am a perfectly happy person.

I care about everything, yet I don’t care too much. I live and let live more than anyone else. I cannot be provoked or angered, simply because I easily rise above it.

I no longer follow the quest for happiness, as I can honestly say that I have fully found it!

It lays there in perfect peace and unperturbed harmony. The embodiment of innocence and purity. The fruit of love.

Two people get together for moments of intimacy and passion. Mindless pleasure or purposeful procreation. Physical enjoyment inflamed by lust and sometimes heightened by distant hopes of propagation.

Waves of thoughts and sensations, rushing through loins and minds. Stark images of the erotic, flashes from the past. And then with a sudden tightening, constricting of muscles and veins, furtive and fleeting instants of intense pleasure, until reality slowly creeps back in.

And the miracle has happened. A new life is created. From nothing comes everything. From the improbable and the seemingly absurd comes all.

For nine months the mother’s breath gently oxygenates it, her food sustains it, her love and thoughts nurture it. It grows and it waits. It moves and it kicks, until it is time.

Tiny, weak, miniature, dependant and fragile. So fragile that its beauty is amplified and encapsulated in its absolute vulnerability, leading to the defence and fierce safeguarding by all.

It sleeps, oblivious of its surroundings, dreaming of things to come, uncaring and unawaiting, safely far from any reality, unattached and unthoughtful of any preoccupation.

It twists and it turns without purpose. Its little arms punch away aimlessly in the air and its tiny fingered hands grasp at imaginary mummies and daddies, while it instinctively mimics sucking motions and noises in its sleep.

A perfectly formed individual, with fine wisps of hair, a little pot belly, chubby knees and elbows and a cute button-shaped nose. The tiniest toes and fingers with barely visible but fast growing nails. A nicely rounded bottom and perfectly shaped genitals firmly placing it as little boy or little girl.

It depends entirely on its parents for its survival. Yet it survives. It even thrives.

Until slowly, after years of constant unabating care and attention, with not one small instant of unsupervised heed, it very slowly acquires recognition of its surroundings. The dawn, the awakening, the realisation of self.

We look down at our sleeping babies and cannot help think that they are us and we are them, forever one, forever together, but forever separated by time.

Many years ago when I was living in France, one of our favourite pastimes was touring around the endless countryside and many regions of this fascinating country.

On one such occasion we were visiting Normandy, just northwest of Paris. The main scope of our trip was to drive along the stunning coastal cliffs around Etretat, Yport and Fecamp, finishing off at Dieppe, besides savouring the extraordinary regional delights such as their mouthwatering seafood, the many cream based dishes, their superb cheeses, accompanied by lovely apple cider and potent calvados.

We also intended ending our journey by meeting my ex-wife’s brother and his wife, and all spending the night at her mother’s house, in a tiny hamlet, a few kilometres inland from Dieppe. They lived in quite a small apartment in town, but her mother had a very big old house, which was much more convenient to accommodate guests.

So we finally arrive in this little hamlet, literally lost in the middle of nowhere. We got there around dusk, just in time before it became totally dark, especially as it was a sombre and overcast day. As soon as we glimpsed the old house, we were rather struck by its impressive, even foreboding appearance. It stood strangely on its own, away from the other buildings, and had a distinct eerie and sinister feeling to it.

It was one of those large dark stone and black timber framed houses, known as colombage, so typical of the area. We shook off our initial apprehension as we were greeted in by my then brother and sister-in-law, and told to make ourselves comfortable. We were shown to our room right up in the attic, which was furnished with the oldest, heavy, rustic furniture I had seen in a long time.

When we descended to the dining room for dinner, we finally met our sister-in-law’s mother, who was standing oddly by the window of the dimly lit room, staring out into oblivion. She turned around towards us ever so slowly, virtually in slow motion, until we caught sight of her shocking face. She looked exactly like a witch. There were no two ways about it. It was really a witch we were looking at. She had tiny black evil and deeply-set eyes, a long pointed hooked nose, and an even longer chin with a rather ugly wart at its tip. She even cackled when she spoke to us, in her derisive and scornful way.

There was obviously something terribly wrong with this woman, and I am not only referring to her evil looks. She had a sneering, disdainful way of talking to you, and she stared constantly and directly into your eyes, never pulling them away for an instant. Even as we sat around the large dark oak table to eat, somehow each and every time I dared look up, I always found her staring straight at me, in the most unnerving of ways.

Then half way through the meal, she stood up and walked out of the room without saying a word, only to return a few minutes later, pushing an old squeaky wheelchair in which sat her own dying mother.

This was our second big shock of the evening. Her mother was totally paralysed and immobile, but worse still she was also blind and she stared out into the darkness with large horrifying white eyes, while her jaw laid permanently hanging at a very odd angle.

As may be expected, in the circumstances we did not quite enjoy our dinner, and to be honest I cannot even recall what we had eaten that evening. We finished quickly and made it quite obvious that we wanted to retire to our bedroom to sleep.

The witch insisted on coming up with us to lead us back to our room. On the way up she firmly informed us that the only light in our bedroom was the large central chandelier which had eight bulbs, so she insisted that we switch it off at night. What an odd thing to say, I thought. When we got to the bedroom, she opened the door for us, virtually shoving us in, bade us a good night in a clearly mocking tone, and literally slammed the heavy door shut, before proceeding down the corridor, cackling and moaning on her own.

We just looked at each other speechless, really not knowing what to make of all of this. Why hadn’t my brother-in-law mentioned any of this. Surely he too could see the perturbing situation. It was simply one of those mind-boggling situations which just left you speechless, with absolutely no words to describe it.

So we switched off the lights and got into bed. But that’s when the real terror started. The room was in total and perfect darkness. There was nothing, not even the tiniest glimmer of light anywhere. Just complete and pitch black darkness in every direction, no matter how much you desperately looked around.

But the most unsettling thing was that we could distinctly feel a strong sense of evil all around us. There was a morbid and foul sensation filling the room and engulfing us within it. And as it was also perfectly silent, as the saying goes, the silence was deafening. My ears were ringing loudly inside my head.

We just laid there shaking, terrified, hugging each other. Neither of us ever slept. We wouldn’t dare allow ourselves to sleep, making ourselves even more vulnerable to the malicious elements lurking all around us in the dark and preying upon us.

Only half way through the night, I desperately had to use the bathroom, and couldn’t hold it any longer. The word reluctant doesn’t even start to describe my feeling, as I had to crawl out of bed and fumble around blindly in the total darkness to the door, were the light switch was located. By then however, my ex-wife seemed to be finally sleeping, so I left the lights off not to wake her, as I made my way outside into the corridor.

But when I returned and opened the door, I distinctly heard her panting furiously in bed. I quickly switched on the light in a mad panic and there I saw her, lying in bed, with her eyes wide open, and with the most petrified expression ever. She was pinned to the bed and unable to move. Her head and neck seemed to be held down by some ghastly force, visibly being thrusted down into the bed and pillow with great weight.

I flew at her in wild panic. And as soon as I was about to pull her up she literally launched up at me from the waist up, hitting me hard on the chest with her head. She finally came to and started screaming and shouting and weeping uncontrollably, hysterical in her state of total horror and shock. I held her hard in my arms desperately trying to calm her down.

When she could finally talk, the very first thing she told me, was to pack our things there and then and leave immediately without further delay. It did seem like the most obvious thing to do, but somehow even in such terrifying situations, some amount of logic still remains. I was wondering how on earth we would explain our sudden disappearance in the middle of the night to her brother. I was worried that they might call the police, when they didn’t find us in the morning. This was well before the time of mobile phones and we didn’t know the land line number of the house, to inform them the next morning that we had decided to leave.

We discussed what we should do over and over. One thing which was sure, was that we were leaving the lights on! I was also having visions of us getting lost in the surrounding woods and driving around aimlessly in the dark, which was not a very comforting eventuality either. And then, as we continued contemplating the best plan of action, little by little we could see a growing glimmer of light coming in through the window. It was morning and soon the sun would rise, so we might as well do our best to endure the last couple of hours, saving ourselves a lot of very awkward explanations.

We were downstairs very early, packed and ready to go. Even showers and shaving could wait until we got home. We would rather get out of this evil place smelling dirty, than spending even a few minutes more than we had to.

So we had the obligatory so-called breakfast, which in those days consisted only of the French traditional large handleless bowl of black coffee and slice of plain dry bread, and got the hell out of there.

As we were about to exit through the front door, the witch approached us, looked at us malevolently in the eyes and uttered “I told you not to leave the lights on”. We just rushed out without even replying or speaking to her. We jumped into our car and raced off as quickly as we could, in any direction. I only looked back once, when we were about a hundred metres away from the house, and I could swear that I could see her in the window staring right at us.

Those who have pets will certainly understand me better than those who don’t. But each one of our seven large dogs so obviously has such a distinct character from the others, that is sometimes feels uncanny.

Somehow we seem to associate character variances with humans only, which definitely isn’t the case. Dogs might even have more differing dispositions than we do, perhaps due to the lack of social and ethical pressures and norms.

So it all started a few years ago, when we decided to go to SPCA to get ourselves a puppy. However, upon stating that we had a lot of space and a pleasant disposition, they craftily ‘sold’ us three large ones instead!

It is obvious that everyone wants the puppies first, so it is easy to find a home for these. But it is not everyday that such big suckers as us walk in and agree to take half the damn dogs they have in their kennels…

From left to right – Lucy, Maya, Baci. Orion, Jetty, Chubby and Cessie

So this is how we got Lucy, Cessie and Jetty.

Lucy is a light brown, short-haired tal-Fenek (pharaoh hound) and tal-Kacca (Maltese hunting dog/pointer) cross. She is very ‘pointery’ and does actually point quite often. She is a very keen hunter for anything that crosses her way – birds, lizards, insects, anything, or rather nothing – stands a chance. She is most definitely the most human of them all. Sometimes I think that she is inside my head.

When there is someone at the gate and all the other dogs are barking furiously at the stranger, totally fixated at the person there, she is the only one who barks in the stranger’s direction, while constantly looking back at the house to see whether we have noticed or not. And after a while she starts barking more and more in the direction of the house, so as to summon us outside.

She also loves to mimic others. I often notice that when the other dogs pee, she often goes straight there and pees over theirs. But that is probably to smother their scent and lay down hers instead. However on one occasion I kid you not, I was peeing myself in the bathroom while she was next to me, she looked up at me, squatted down over the tiled floor, and started peeing too. She obviously decided that it was pee time for all, and for the first time ever, actually peed inside right next to me.

But what I find by far the most fascinating about her, is that although I do not tend to feed them at exactly the same times every day, and I am always moving around the house for much of the time, the moment I decide to go and feed them she somehow senses this and starts barking and screaming like crazy. How she does this I have no idea. But honestly the moment I get up to go and feed them, in the same way I get up to do a hundred other things, she knows immediately that this time my intention is different, and goes wild with excitement.

Then there is Cessie, who very simply is the other extreme. She is a German Shepherd cross who is part gentle and part grumpy. All she wants is to be left alone. She is extremely docile with us but occasionally snappy with the other dogs when their boisterous nature starts to bug her.

It takes a lot to stir her up and in many cases even when all the others are barking like crazy at whatever caught their attention, she remains still, lying down, and occasionally looks up secretly just moving her eyes, to ensure that all is ok, while pretending that she is totally oblivious to the commotion around her.

As for Jetty, her story is a bit more sombre I am afraid. Her first owners were monsters out of hell who used to beat her as a puppy!! but let’s not go there and spoil our mood… So she has remained extremely skittish and even with us after many years she still tends to go through phases. Sometimes she is relatively fine but sometimes she doesn’t even let us touch her. If for example we need to hold her down to change her collar, pull out a couple of ticks, check her out, or whatever, she is so traumatised by the experience that it takes us many months to gain her full confidence again and to be able even to pet her.

The poor thing tries and when say I am in the middle of them all playing and petting them, she is circling around me coming very close and wagging her tail. But sure enough as soon as I tend my arm towards her to pet her, she dodges it and moves just far enough for me not to touch her.

The poor thing has been marked for life and it would be worse to try and force her. There are the odd moments when she feels safe and lets us touch her. We then give her a big hug and a good scratching on her belly, which she thoroughly enjoys.

She is called Jetty because being a black labrador cross, she is a shiny jet black and beautiful.

About a year after we got our first three, I was walking in the countryside, when I encountered this extraordinarily beautiful puppy. A black, and speckled grey male tal-kacca with truly fantastic features. In spite of his tender age, he was left for most of the time on his own, next to a hunter’s lodge, and visibly fed nothing more than dry bread. However I still realised that he wasn’t totally abandoned and did not intend to take him with me. However after playing with him for ages, he wouldn’t let me go, and as I tried to lose him by rushing off, he did his best to chase me on his little shaky legs.

He followed me on and on for ages, until I arrived on a main road full of people and traffic. It was obvious that if I didn’t take him home, somebody else would have, or even worse he would have been run over by a passing car!

I still somehow felt guilty and imagined his owner eventually going on site and finding him missing. So I called SPCA for advice on the matter. But when I explained the conditions this poor puppy was enduring, they insisted that we keep him as ours.

The poor puppy’s belly was totally bloated due to his diet which consisted soled of bread. So we called him Chubby and we really love him dearly.

As he grew he quickly became the king of the castle, surrounded by his harem of bitches. It is so funny watching him in his typical macho ways. We had a large four-dog wooden kennel built and he loves climbing on top of it barking down at the girls beneath him. Cessie couldn’t be bothered and just glances up at him in scorn, probably thinking what a waste of useless energy. Jetty wouldn’t dare challenge his authority and just looks up at him in awe. Lucy on the other hand, would definitely like to have a go and often tries to hop up next to him. But Chubby always fights her down again, strongly affirming that this is his, and only his, superior perch. Once he has fully affirmed his dominance and unquestioned authority, he happily jumps down again and strategically lifts his leg at every corner, spraying every nook and cranny of his territory with his manly urine.

Then came Maya, a truly stunning Alaskan Malamute who was cruelly kept chained to a parked immobile truck in a garage, before she was given to us, so how could we refuse. Our other three bitches were sterilised before being given to us, so we never bothered snipping Chubby for this reason. But when Maya was given to us, she was nine months old and literally came on heat for her first time on the exact day we got her.

Initially Chubby would have nothing to do with her and tried to ignore her, but she visibly seduced him by constantly chasing him around the garden. She gave absolutely no attention to the girls, but she was really all over Chubby, and kept nibbling at his ears and face. He pulled away time and time again, but she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. This girl knew exactly what she wanted and she kept grabbing him from the neck and scruff, pulling him toward her.

Then suddenly something came over him and he just went for her and then they were at it all day and night. Suffice to say that in typical doggie fashion they got well stuck on a couple of occasions, until something was obviously well and done.

So Maya is a very hardheaded dog who always gets her way. She has incredibly expressive eyes, always looks directly into yours, as she howls constantly at you, in a manner which perfectly mimics talking. Each time you talk to her she howls something directly back to you, in a very uncanny way. She also turned out to be a superbly dedicated mother.

She gave us seven heavenly puppies which all turned out spectacularly beautiful.

We had to give five away but kept two of them along with our others. My wife kept her favourite one, whom she called Orion. He is now the largest of all our seven dog and looks like a small horse. As may often be expected from a giant, out of all our dogs he is by far the most laid back and docile. Simply nothing moves him. Even to the extent that there were times earlier on when we wondered whether he was perfectly normal. As his sister Baci, who is an enormous terror, bit him and pulled painfully at his ears, he wouldn’t even budge and would virtually sleep right through it.

But now we have come to realise that it is simply his character. Nothing much bothers him and he seems to be a very content dog. Content simply at taking life easy and letting the others tease and torture him while he retains his total zen. Then once in a blue moon, not very often at all, he terrifyingly lets off steam when out of the blue he jumps up, crashes all the others to the ground beneath him, snarling at them with exposed teeth, showing them that he has both the power and the temperament if he really wanted to, before subsiding back into his semi-stuporous state.

So thats leaves the terror Baci, who was my favourite out of the puppies. I called her Baci because she is always licking and kissing your face whenever she can. She is most definitely hyper, a big bully and can also be rather nasty to the others. She always wants full attention, to dominate every situation and has to be the centre of attraction. I wonder why I love her so much…

She is naughtiness caninified! Always up to no good and making a nuisance of herself. But I love her to bits and when she turns up her big brown eyes, seeking both attention and sympathy from me, like the typical female that she is, it feels exactly like having another perfectly spoilt daughter. It goes without saying that I invariably give her what she wants.

Seven dogs, seven tremendously diverse characters, but all so loving and adorable.

– inspired by William Turner‘s unfinished painting

Still riddled with bullet holes that are patched with non matching cement. Testimony to the endurance and perseverance of art and culture, and more so of the tenacity of humanity at large, despite those who would destroy it. Symbol of man’s will to supersede imposed power.

The falling of the Iron Curtain, Perestroika, Glasnost, Arab Spring. Going back – the French Revolution and Joan of Arc, in between – the Holocaust, coming forward – Isis and Charlie Hebdo and the recent Paris attacks.

Dictators have come and gone, as did Hitler amongst many others. Hitler, who in many ways caused the division of Berlin, or at least whose actions eventually led to it.

There it still stands today. Das Brandenburger Tor. Wrecked in WW2, but restored after the war.

Strong. Symbolic. Strategic. Steeped in Significance.

Humankind can never be put down. In the face of repression we rebel. In periods of pain and suffering we strengthen. When stifled we only bounce back with bigger resolve.

The Berlin Wall which was once over 140 kilometres long, mostly destroyed in a sudden and unexpected wave of freedom. Brandenburg Gate however remained. Evoking mixed feelings of joy and sorrow, of victory and defeat.

The harsh reality of war and subjugation. Of political exploitation and the forced division of people. Friends, families, couples, parents and children, tragically destined to survive on different sides of a wall. Yes a simple wall!

The bullet holes will remain. As will the mismatched fillings. As if to kick off the healing process in a clumsy, unlikely, but effective way.

Time has since passed. Peoples have now reunited. For most it has now blended into the distant past. For others it is but another chapter in their unimportant history books.

The wounds have healed, perhaps clumsily and in a mismatched manner. The rich and arrogant West with the demanding and needy East. But such distinctions are now over. They are now truly one.

And in the same way the bullet holes blend into our collective conscience, as they become part of our daily lives and slowly sink into the mundane, we erect right there one of the most heartwarming symbols of fondness and affection.

A Christmas tree.

We choose to forget the pain and the suffering. Das Brandenburger Tor is now a historic structure, an architectural building, a tourist site. A place to be adorned with a pretty Christmas tree, now symbolising joy, rejoicing, festivity, family and friends.

It forms an integral part of our turbulent psyche, always in motion, always evolving, never still.

A works in progress like William Turner’s painting, which is far from finished and which hopefully never will.