There will come a day when all there is to do is die.
That moment will be bliss - free of all anxiety.
There may come a day when that state, alive, is reached.
Then all there will be is to live, immersed in bliss.

It seems to me to be that a common feature of the least happy people I know is that they most believe that happiness is circumstantial.
And a common feature of the happier people I know is that they most believe it to be their own decision, skill or responsibility.

If your friend chucks up over your lawn, have you overdone the mine host bit?

TICK LIST

Scrap ID cards - tick.
Have a referendum on the voting system - tick.
Review detention without trial - tick.
Tackle the abject budget deficit left by the last lot - tick.
Vote yourself a pay decrease - tick.
Decrease the number of MP's - tick.
Review needless legislation to get rid of it - tick.
Get active public engagement in the above - tick.
Make efforts to regain participation in democracy - big tick.
Cut red tape to business - tick.
Fixed term parliaments - tick.
Reduce scale, cost and reach of government - tick.
Cap non EU immigration - tick.
A full and radical review of policing for the twenty first century - tick.
And others - tick, tick.

There's a lot to like about our new government. So much, in fact, that my default position of deep grousing and cynicism has shifted to feeling we're going to be quite well governed thank you.

The journalistic bent at the moment is to play what if games with each new policy announcement. What if this fractures the coalition?

But the really big game is the opposite. What if the coalition works? Because then I don't want the old parties back. I want the coalition and the combination of humanity and toughness it brings. And I don't just want it to remedy the profligacy of the last lot. I want its common sense ongoing.

THE END OF THE AFFAIR

I'm not much of a praying man. But I did find myself praying for someone this week - a certain Mr. Raoul Moat. Like most of the nation, I followed his man hunt with some interest, and a childish glee that Mr. Plod was being evaded for so long. At the end, he was cornered on the banks of the river Coquet, having popped up undetected at the very epicentre of Mr. Plod's search area. It was at the point of the stand off that I left the story and headed for bed, and my equally child like act of prayer - God bless Mummy; God bless Daddy; God bless the poor people hurt by that man Mr. Moat; and God bless poor Mr. Moat. That, and the more worldly mental game of spin the bottle that was going on in my head. The options were shoot and be shot, surrender and be imprisoned, top yourself.
At the end, the pathetic spectacle revealed itself as what it truly was - the pained cry of a wounded animal. Eyewitnesses recount that, at the end, Raoul Moat cried out "nobody cares for me".
Sad.
And very sad that the last, infamous acts of his life were based on this dreadful, perhaps well founded, perhaps misplaced conviction.

"I know when I'm not wanted."

Desired response: "No, no. You're welcome."

Actual response: "That's a good skill to have in life."