Doha Poster Campaign - Stop Junk Food

The poster campaign to promote healthy eating is a good idea. Some of the children's paintings are quite imaginative (assuming they were painted by children). The only problem is that where they are sited, only walkers are going to see them. Walkers are probably already fairly health conscious. It's the Land Cruiser class we should really be targeting.

Le Club at Doha Mercure né Sofitel

A couple of years ago, I used to feature this place regularly on the Paranormal blog. But that was when Boggs and the Girls were performing nightly. He was a fine guitarist by any standards and all of his girls could really sing, (especially Ringlets). Bands here are contracted for eleven months, from one Ramadan to the next. The band that took over from Boggs, after Ramadan 2010, could only be described as dismal so for a whole year I hardly ever ventured in. Following Ramadan 2011, there was something of a hiatus as this year's band had some visa problems and missed their first few weeks, but they are here now and getting into the swing of things. The news is good and bad though. Philip (who preceded Boggs) is the player, on guitar, keyboards and the inevitable midi laptop. He's good and also sings well. But (there had to be a but) he has come with two new girl singers who- let's give them the benefit of the doubt- haven't quite warmed up yet. In fact, they haven't quite located concert pitch, except occasionally, and that more by luck than technique. Still it's early days yet; they've got all year.

This was Musheireb

The last block is now demolished and the whole of Musheireb has gone. All the way from Boat Roundabout to Qtel Intersection runs a fence with nothing standing behind it. Nothing, that is, except the new construction work that will become Dohaland, in time. The video is taken from my usual vantage point, the roof of Sofitel Mercure.

Intended (Luc Bat)

And was there ever space 
between the nesting place of sense 
and fortune's recompense? 

The broken plan's dispensary 
of promises we see 
at last turn out to be a sop 

to hope. We do not stop 
to gaze, but seize inopportune 
moments to importune 

imagined gods to prune the vine 
of providence in line 
with inward-looking mindlessness. 

-o- 

Once, in a season less 
seeing, let's call it yesterday, 
I dreamed I saw a way 

to stretch the month of May through all 
eternity, forestall 
the times of drought, of falling leaves. 

I reasoned - no-one grieves 
in green fields, till the sheaves are gold 
and thresher ripe. The old 

from age to age had sold the myth 
of Barleycorn but with 
no ear for quest or grith for doubt. 

Then I would do without 
their gloomy counsel, flout the tongue 
of time, and in a young 
man's satiety, let hunger wait. 

-o- 

I find I pass, of late, 
close by the orchard gate, to see 
the laden apple tree. 

Stark fruits, these, no leotard 
or thong to pass for hard 
won muscle tone, no garden-grown 

imposters. These have known 
a crippling wind and thrown a glove 
back in its face. I shove 

the gate. It yields. Above my head 
a choice of crispness. Fed 
on dreams, I pick the reddest one 

or she picks me. We run 
childless to catch the undone latch 
that closes as we snatch 

desperate at the matchless end 
of timelessness, pretend 
to know what we're intended for.