At the moment, the UK is involved in a slight problem with Iran. Currently, it's reported the 15 Royal Navy personnel held captive by Iran could face trial for 'entering Iranian waters'. The argument, as I understand it, hinges around the fact that while Iran claims the personnel were in Iranian waters, the UK claims they were in Iraq waters. The BBC news story has far more detail, but that's not what I wish to discuss.
I wish to discuss this crewman. Nathan Thomas Summers, who has appeared on Iranian television, publicly apologising for trespassing on Iranian waters. I read this article, I looked at the photographs, and I despaired.
To me, Mr Nathan Thomas Summers, pictured in the top right-hand corner of the website, is a beautiful and handsome man. I feel nothing but jealousy and desire for his beauty; it shines out of him, even in this situation and even under this strain. And so, this feeling is replaced with one of utter confusion. How can someone so beautiful be allowed to risk death? How can the world stand by while one man, so handsome, is placed in danger. Worse still, how can I, as a rational, logical human being, dare to think of this man only in terms of his beauty? He may, for all I know, be so beautiful on the outside, and yet so ugly on the inside.
And yet, regardless, look at him - look beyond the beautiful exterior and go within. Whatever his mind is like, whatever the person behind that eminently snoggable exterior, this is a man machine, a perfect ticking cog and sprocket, pump and flow and swoosh and go. This is a man far from home and afraid, this is sadness and despair. This is wondering will-they-swap-me-for-Iranian-prisoners versus will-they-let-me-die. Will war begin because of me? Will I ever have sex again?
Sometimes, just sometimes, I cannot believe how humanity is so filled with nothing. I am shallow and empty, I know, and this feeling of fear for Mr Nathan Thomas Summers' life is meaningless. If I met him in a bar tommorow I wouldn't speak to him; I'd be too afraid. But right now I feel such sorrow and despair that such beauty can be allowed to be harmed. I don't understand these feelings, but I recognise them.
Such a difficult emotion. So unfair. So pointless. He's a mother's son, grown up now and I hope she's proud. He's daddy's little boy, twenty years or so ago. He has a hundred thousand tiny defining moments of humanity, and they could kill him tomorrow. And I just don't understand.
When was the last day that there was no war?