Marmite

Last week, Hubby and I boldly went where the cannons are aimed (but regrettably not armed) out to sea. They’re England’s finest antique military hardware: a symbolic repulsion of the huddled (m)asses of fit, fighting-age impoverished males fleeing for their lives, at a cost of thousands of pounds each in sink-ready deflatables, away from a safe, wealthy, democratic terra firma.

I was set a blog-challenge a wee while ago in the context of reparations for slavery: “…unless you are a person of colour or descended from immigrants at that time … you will have somehow benefitted from the proceeds of slavery… At what point in the long chain of benefits do we decide that individuals and organisations should not be held responsible for slavery?” If I were a Christian, I’d simply point to Ezekiel 18:20 (King James’ version, of course): “The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father”. Funnily enough, lots of Christians are demanding reparations – a hypocritical circle to square.