Of Moat and moving

It's been a strange time. We're trying to move. Stress, by any other name, would not smell so sweet. We've bought a flat near to 'Beth' and I want to spend more time with her. Spend the rest of the time in London. What's so terrible? It would be an interesting sociological experiment to write a book about it all, were it not so anxiety-producing. However, in that vein, haven't I already done that?

So much has happened. Life doesn't stop. Zach's pretty good. He's on his way to see a good friend tomorrow. Eastern Europe, or what used to be Eastern Europe, beckons. When I was there in the mid-'90s, vodka was our daily 'bread', the food being so dreadful. I learned to love all its flavours, even chilli. Hopefully Zach won't indulge himself too much with it. There's the need to counterract other agents. Mentally he's good. It's nice to spend time with him. His hair is becoming grey though. How frightening how time flies.

The fallout of the Raul Moat deaths still reverberates. The man was obviously psychotic. What I don't understand is why the police would not allow his brother or best friend to participate in the talks with Moat in order to convince him to give himself up. To taser him and then to watch while he turned the gun upon himself? He'd pleaded for psychiatric help before. He'd left a rambling four-hour message on the phone. Pretty indicative of his state of mind, I would say. The police had information before his release that he was non compos mentis and intent on pursuing his ex-girlfriend. Who had this information and why wasn't it passed on. When are they going to learn?