Fluctuat nec mergitur: France goes to war. Again.

I had all good intentions on Saturday morning. I was on a roll; I would return to the gym. Unfortunately, this would involve being able to raise my arms and move my legs-and I truly was walking like I had just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!).

In fact, if you'd put some makeup on me I would have been terrific as an extra from The Walking Dead. And that is what I get for being so enthusiastic about returning to the gym after a very, very long time away. Not a good idea to overdo it at any age-age is irrelevant, it's the fitness (or lack thereof) that makes all the difference.

So I walked-in the rain, in the cold, and for another day I was cold, wet and p***ed off. But I walked, because, as you know, if I don't I will lose what I have worked so hard to achieve: some balance. The more I walk, and bend, and twist, and fall over and get up again, the harder my brain has to work to compensate for the total vestibular destruction. It's a real pain (many times literal pain, too), but it is a huge challenge, and I'm damned if I am going to spend the rest of my life using an elbow crutch.

On the way back, I stopped to buy the newspaper-and there it was, all over every paper, even the tabloid rags (I'm still amazed that they actually were able to spell Paris. Must have had someone do a spell check). So I came back and read through the Times, and learned that on Friday night there was another massacre in the French capital. I suddenly wasn't hungry. Or thirsty. And I was definitely not in a "let's take the mickey" kind of mood. It's a moratorium on French jokes. Even the idea hurts.

This was at the end of a week that saw an 87 year old woman, sitting on a London bus and minding her own business (as one does when one is 87, I would imagine), being punched in the face by a 14 year old girl. The poor woman suffered a black eye and other injuries, the unprovoked attack made all the headlines, and she will probably get off with a warning-because that is what "justice" means in this country: there isn't any. Knife crimes are up; there are shootings; the government massages the figures to show that unemployment is down-sure, it's down, but the death rate is zooming.

This was the end of a week in which the NHS was found to have missed all its targets for the year, because there isn't any money (unless you are a politician, a consultant, the managers of hospitals, of course, because that is clearly where the money is going).

This was a week in which we learned that the budget cuts in every council in every borough have to be so severe that in London they have even cut the police force: by ten thousand officers. Yes, that is what I said: ten thousand policemen (and women) are now unemployed. And Paris suffers a terrorist attack in which 129 people are dead, over 350 are injured, and 99 out of those 350 are in critical condition. And the French are now fighting back. And good for them, too.

The Eiffel Tower is bathed in the French colors, red, white and blue-and across it are the words "fluctuat nec mergitur": tossed but not sunk. President Hollande wasted no time in sending bombers to hit IS in Syria, and has said that they will defeat Islamic State. Every day there is something else. Every day. It's unbelievable that these homicidal maniacs have not been decimated.

David Cameron, the head turd of this government, stated that Britain will stand "shoulder to shoulder" with the French. Of course-until there is a problem, and then Cameron will disappear, as he always does in a crisis. He expressed "sympathy"-and sympathy, as we know, can be found in the dictionary-between shit and syphilis. So much for his sympathy: it's as worthless as he is.

So all the in-fighting has begun. The French let the lead terrorist go over the border into Belgium, even though the borders were (allegedly) closed. So they got some stick for that. And, of course, we ("we" meaning America) will be wading in there, too. Not the Brits: they would much prefer that it is our soldiers who are risking their lives, and our money that is paying for any skirmishes. That is the British way. It all makes me want to puke.

The police in London (what is left of them, that is) are telling us that we are all "safe". They said that just before the London bombings, too, so I don't really believe anything anyone tells us. The Islamic State maniacs (and they are maniacs. What sane, rational people would commit so much slaughter?) have shown that everyone is a target and that nobody is safe. Even in Germany a football game was cancelled because a bomb was found inside the stadium.

As for me, I feel a general sense of unease. I've got the Muslim maniac still upstairs, so that makes me extra careful-but I refuse to be intimidated by fear of anyone.

I had the last of my scans yesterday: a bone density scan, which I will need every two years, since I take anti-cancer medication that affects the bones-and I will have to take it for another eight years, by which time, who knows if I will have any bones left? But I am no longer radioactive, so it is safe for anyone who wants children to come near me!

I'm also back at the gym, now that I am able to walk normally. It really was a bit funny: people were actually getting out of my way as I was walking up the road. I must have looked scary. I'll have to try that again.

While all the politicians from everywhere are pointing fingers and apportioning blame, I am keeping quiet. I have learned the hard way to keep schtum-now if I can only do that when I am outside, that would be such a good idea. You never know who is going to turn around stick one on you-or in you.
Telling off the braindeads just isn't worth the risk-they are not worth the risk.

I'll just hit them with my stick (accidentally, of course). And carry my mace.