Elements of our population are in so febrile a state that almost anything can send them into a tailspin, like a suspicious package that turned out to be box of ceramic plates, an old towel in a sack, a doll in a paper bag, and a person who'd heard from a parent who'd heard from a park ranger who got tipped off by a passing sniffer dog that he'd found something suspicious inside a tin of Pedigree Chum.

Or take the schoolgirl who thought it would be a neat idea to call the authorities and tell them there was a bomb in her school because she'd heard that at another school everyone had gone home early because of a bomb threat. If I'd had the nerve or the cheek to do that when I was a schoolboy I would have undoubtedly been thrashed within in inch of my life. And sent to Australia. Nailed to the side of a ship. But you have to give her seven out of 10 for enterprise.

I wonder what the people who organised the bombings are doing right now. Lying low? Rubbing their hands in glee? In further planning mode? Making a hoax phone call perhaps? Did everything go according to plan? Did they really intend to kill? Or were they hoping for a little lite-maiming round the edges of the huge crowds? Whatever the intention, it was certainly convincing, though hardly Carthaginian.

There are those who say that whoever did this cannot be Thai, as no Thai would do this, but it seems perfectly obvious that they are indeed Thai, and yet one wonders how many headlines we will see in the next few months that scream: "Bangkok Paralysed! Police Baffled! Unknown Bombers Strike Again!"

***

The country seems stuck in a rut, clamped to the past, locked in a system. An endless struggle of clans. The issue at stake is about influence and who gets to exercise it. Make no mistake, this is not in-fighting for the sake of it. It's a full blown five-star power struggle to divide the spoils. The bucks stop at the top - then discreetly slide into someone's wallet. Those involved are without illusions about the good nature of the world, if they were ever aware of it in the first place. As opponents they can never agree on anything but retain an identical conviction of always being right, and a feeling that each has nothing to learn from the other - just plenty to teach and lots to lose. Being ousted from power feels as bad as missing the lottery by a single number: however they consider the situation, they can't avoid feeling subjected to an outrageous injustice. They have no choice but to correct it. Did someone mention democracy? Well, it's outside the tent having a pee right now.

***

I take my hat off to Keir Harding, who wrote to the London Times:

"Dear Sir, Perhaps the official overseeing Saddam's execution did not interrupt the proceedings as he recognised the absurdity of delaying hanging a man until the audience behaves in a civilised manner."

***

The poor support for the British Army is a long-standing general malaise and not something to lay at the door of any one government. In Bosnia, British troops were notorious for having to purchase good winter equipment from other armies. A forces magazine that came out during the conflict in Kosovo had a cartoon showing a group of anxious civilians watching the approach of a group of soldiers. "German boots," says one, "Norwegian snow jackets, Swedish fur caps. It's all right, they're British."

***

Quotables:

Graffito at Victoria Station, London: To save energy Queen Elizabeth is turned off at night.

"James Brown's body was laid out in a black suit and gloves and a ruby shirt - the third change of clothes for the famously flashy performer since his death on Christmas Day." New York Times.

"While normal people die of polluted air and water, officials use mineral water to wash their vegetables and even their feet," said Yue Jianguo, an analyst, commenting on corruption and pollution in a survey in Shanxi, China.

"For a while he hired a bearded barman whose neck was tattooed with a dotted line and the words "Cut Here". Christina Lamb of The Sunday Times mourning the death of Wais Faizi, the larger-than-life manager of the Mustafa Hotel in Kabul.

***

The English always celebrate New Year as if they are Hobbits in Tolkien's Shire; the Scots celebrate Hogmanay as if they have just taken Mordor. Fired by whisky. Roaring. Axes swinging. All to keep the devil and the dark at bay. For the English, Christmas is about light. For the Scots, New Year is about the dark. A hungover Englishman is just a victim of over-indulgence. Not a pretty sight. But a Scots hangover is a war wound, courageously earned in face-to-face combat with the hosts of hell. And a gruesome experience.

***

Predictions for the Year 2007:

1.There will be a top-ten hit by a band that doesn't exist yet.

2. There will be a top-ten hit by a band we'll never hear of again.

3. Bob Dylan will release another album. No one will notice.

4. Diana Ross will release two albums. Everyone will notice, but no one will buy them.

***

As we know, and his women would certainly verify, Pablo Picasso was a right bastard to live with. Petulant and childish one minute, a monster the next. But his courage was never in doubt.

In the winter of 1941, Picasso was living and working in a freezing studio in Paris. There was one conspicuous absentee from the display kept around the studio: "Geurnica", the painting that made him the most famous - or notorious - artist in the modern world. The Germans hated it, the scream of pain of the barbarities inflicted by the Luftwaffe on the helpless civilians of a Basque town in the spring of 1937.

The painting was a billboard of moral indignation. But they couldn't get to it. In the nick of time Picasso shipped it off to New York.

Thwarted, the Nazis gave Picasso a hard time - short of arresting him. They trashed his studio, where he kept reproduction postcards of "Geurnica" and gave them to the intruding Gestapo and French police. 'Go on, take one,' he would say impishly. 'Souvenir!'

 One day, so the story goes, a German officer, both bully and secret admirer, paid Picasso a visit. Picking up one of the "Geurnica" postcards, he turned to the painter and asked him accusingly. "Did you do this?"

 "Oh, no," said the artist, "you did!"