Jerusalem, as ever, a city where breakfast is served with a side of shrapnel. Reports flood in that the Israeli Defence Force has tickled southern Lebanon with a fresh volley of air strikes, a gentle reminder that the neighbourhood's ceasefire is a suggestion rather than a rule. The partial truce with Hezbollah?
Still clinging to life, apparently, like a drunk uncle at a wedding dance. Meanwhile, Britain, that veteran of 'urging calm' in faraway places where its own bombs once fell, has waded in with a sternly worded statement. One can almost see the Foreign Office officials polishing their monocles and muttering 'steady on, chaps.
' The strikes, described as 'precision' by those who launched them, hit areas near the Litani River, a name that evokes biblical floods but today just means 'please don't start the big war again.' Hezbollah, for its part, has retaliated with a ritualistic complaint to the UN, a weapon that has historically achieved precisely sweet FA. The underlying reality is this: the truce is a fraying shoelace on the boot of geopolitics.
It holds for now, but one sharp tug and the whole bloody thing comes undone. And Britain, wearing its best diplomatic tweed, hopes polishing the boot with calm will keep the lace from snapping. It won't, but it makes for a splendid headline.
