What Putin Fears November: the month of the drowned dog. Ted Hughes’ poem marking the bleakness of the dying year sums hits me when I wake up from a snooze to learn that Kyiv has come under another swarm attack of Russian cruise missiles. Yet again, I’ve slept through the bombs. Yet again, they’ve gone for the power stations, knocking most of Ukraine off the grid. You lose power across the country, you have to switch off the nuclear power stations for fear of uncontrolled criticality. You lose power, the water pumping stations stop. This isn’t academic. I go to the bathroom and open a tap: nothing. I piss, flush the loo: nothing.
What Putin Fears
What Putin Fears
What Putin Fears
What Putin Fears November: the month of the drowned dog. Ted Hughes’ poem marking the bleakness of the dying year sums hits me when I wake up from a snooze to learn that Kyiv has come under another swarm attack of Russian cruise missiles. Yet again, I’ve slept through the bombs. Yet again, they’ve gone for the power stations, knocking most of Ukraine off the grid. You lose power across the country, you have to switch off the nuclear power stations for fear of uncontrolled criticality. You lose power, the water pumping stations stop. This isn’t academic. I go to the bathroom and open a tap: nothing. I piss, flush the loo: nothing.