Apologies for my failure to contribute to this literary masterpiece yesterday. The truth is, I was distracted by the fact I had to go back to work this morning, after my week off. This is never a pleasant experience for anybody, of course. But it's worse when you work in retail and it's nearly Christmas, and it's worse - dare I say it - when you suffer from anxiety and depression.
I'm well aware that, in any given year, a quarter of people experience mental health difficulties. I know a number of people who have or have had such problems, for a variety of reasons, most of which are - in my opinion - more valid than mine. But, as the past 24 hours have demonstrated to me, the validity of the reasons for your symptoms don't necessarily always correlate with the the severity of your symptoms.
Since I've created this forum for myself, I thought it might help me to use it to express my troubles. I want to be clear about the fact that I'm writing this for my own benefit, but I'm doing it on here because, in general, I think it's useful to have an audience in mind (however intangible) when I'm writing. The following may well appear self-indulgent or cringeworthy, but I think it will be pointless if I shy away from that possibility. This is absolutely not a cry for help or sympathy. I'm just seeing if I can help myself by writing it. So please only read on if none of that bothers you. I won't mind if nobody reads it, but I hope that anyone who does at least finds it a bit interesting.
As a manager in retail this time of year, building up to Christmas, is always stressful for me, as the workload for my team and I increases exponentially. There is a lot more of everything to do and, as someone who puts great stock in my ability to stay in control of my workload by foreseeing things that might increase it, this inevitably worries me. So, periodically (maybe a few times a year), but especially in November and December, I develop a growing sense of anxiety.
When this anxiety grows to a certain point, it makes me lose all sense of perspective. 'It's only a shop,' I'll tell myself, or 'It's only a series of feasible tasks; take them one at a time.' Often, I'll end up losing sleep; lying awake at night worrying about things I can do nothing about until morning, and this inability to do anything just makes the worrying worse. Or sometimes I'll lose my sense of priority and end up literally running around, trying to do everything at once, in the hope of getting to the end of infinity so I can stop. But, of course that end point will always elude me, so my anxiety grows even more. Usually, though, much needed interventions from friends, family and colleagues, and mantras like those above will eventually help me to see sense and calm down.
But sometimes I reach a dangerous tipping point before I can calm down. This morning, as my to-do list grew faster than I could make any dent in it, I tried desperately to delegate my way out of the trouble I could feel coming. But I'm not very good at delegating, which is part of my problem. All the while, I felt increasingly short of breath, nauseous and, worst of all, detached. It's as if my mind goes into a state of denial about the problems I perceive, and refuses to let me think about them. But at the same time, another part of my mind is aware of the desperate need to think about the problems, which only increases my sense of panic about my inability to deal with it all. In the end I'm left with no choice but to write off tasks I know I shouldn't write off. But I feel like I'll go under if I don't relieve some of the pressure.
Somehow today (mostly because of the support and hard work of my colleagues), I got through the day. I got home from work and was genuinely delighted to see my family. They are, after all, the good in my life; the people whose wellbeing motivates me to go through all this. I made a point of cherishing every moment with my children until they were in bed - even refusing to look at Facebook during dinner! But, as their bedtime drew near, I was increasingly aware that it was taking some effort to keep smiling at them; enjoying and engaging with their thoughts and actions. I was overwhelmed by a sustained feeling of needing to cry. It didn't feel like it had any specific, tangible cause, but I think it was to do with the list of incomplete jobs from earlier, lurking in the back of my mind, waiting to be joined by tomorrow's impossible workload.
I busied myself with chores to try to distract myself. I tried, as is natural for anybody feeling low, to think of reasons to be cheerful. But, despite the obvious abundance of such reasons I have available to me - my beautiful, wonderful family, our comfortable home, the food in the fridge, the quite good book I've just started reading - none of them made me feel any better. Some sort of indefinable, physiological response to these prompts just wasn't there. I couldn't bring myself to look forward to anything.
And this was when I realised that my anxiety is very close to spilling over into depression. I can't be sure at the moment whether it already has. Hopefully writing this will have helped me cling to the edge of the cliff, rather than falling off. But I've got a nasty feeling I'm not going to sleep tonight. And being awake all night when you feel like this is a cruel torture. It's like somebody stamping on your fingers for hours when you're clinging on to the edge of a cliff. It leads to despair, dread and helplessness, no matter how disproportionate.
I know that so many people have experienced this and much, much worse, and I'm not comfortable with self-pity. What can I say? I'm indulging myself. I suppose I could justify it by claiming that I'm doing my bit to break the painful taboo around discussing mental illness, but that would be to claim credit I don't really deserve. I've fallen off the cliff a few times before and eventually made my way back up. Hopefully, the fact that I'm still self-aware enough to be slightly embarrassed about all this - the fact that I know, on some level, that I'm being irrational - proves that I'm still clinging on. I just wish I was better at staying away from the edge.
Monday, 17 November 2014
Saturday, 15 November 2014
Saturday, 15th November 2014
I'm watching World War Z as I write this, so I might be a bit distracted from my usual high standards. We got it for cheap from the supermarket. No idea if it's any good. So far, it mainly consists of Bradley Pitts ignoring ominous helicopters while he talks about pets. Sorry. Where was I?
Now something's blown up and there's some very inconsiderate driving going on. There are lots of bitey lunatics everywhere, but it's quite entertaining actually. Basically, it's like watching Luis Suarez.
Sorry. This morning looked like turning into one of those days that just fizzle away into pointlessness.
They're looting now. Shameless.
We planned at first to get out and do something interesting. But the relentless rain dampened (!) our spirits, so we ummed and ahhed and prodded half-heartedly at chores which really needed more attention than I was prepared to give them until, eventually, I was booted up and ready to get out the door, en route to Chislehurst Caves. But then we realised that we'd need to eat lunch out if we left at that point and we couldn't really afford that, so I took off my shoes and we stayed at home for a bit longer.
Turns out their New Jersey tower block haven is crawling with the Suarez creatures. Pitt's standing on the edge of the roof now. He's totally lost it. Oh no he hasn't: there's a helicopter. How fortuitous.
I struggled to understand or suppress the frustrated rage I was feeling at that stage. But then my wife invoked the astonishing powers she uses on an almost daily basis to create entertainment, calm and joy from nothing. Out came the crafting stuff and, in no time, our daughters had created some rather magnificent foam snowmen on the back window. Christmas cards, dripping with glitter glue, and home-made Santa heads soon followed and, by the time my wife had spontaneously invented an impossibly thrilling game of Guess the Mystery Object in the Big Box Full of Beans and Pulses While Blindfolded, I think we had all tacitly rejected our earlier plans. Sorry Chislehurst Caves: you're less appealing than some beans in a box.
I think Brad Pitt just called nature a bitch. Go Brad.
We filled the rest of the afternoon effortlessly, with a viewing of The Nightmare Before Christmas, some more crafting, a trip to the library (which far exceeded my expectations), and even found time to collaborate on what turned out to be a delicious lemon drizzle cake. I'm truly glad we stayed at home today.
I'm sorry, but the film's winning the battle for my attention, so I'll leave it there. The scientist who was going to sort everything out just slipped over and shot himself in the face.
I will just say this: Brad Pitt needs a big gun to save the day. All my wife requires is some foam and a box of beans.
Now something's blown up and there's some very inconsiderate driving going on. There are lots of bitey lunatics everywhere, but it's quite entertaining actually. Basically, it's like watching Luis Suarez.
Sorry. This morning looked like turning into one of those days that just fizzle away into pointlessness.
They're looting now. Shameless.
We planned at first to get out and do something interesting. But the relentless rain dampened (!) our spirits, so we ummed and ahhed and prodded half-heartedly at chores which really needed more attention than I was prepared to give them until, eventually, I was booted up and ready to get out the door, en route to Chislehurst Caves. But then we realised that we'd need to eat lunch out if we left at that point and we couldn't really afford that, so I took off my shoes and we stayed at home for a bit longer.
Turns out their New Jersey tower block haven is crawling with the Suarez creatures. Pitt's standing on the edge of the roof now. He's totally lost it. Oh no he hasn't: there's a helicopter. How fortuitous.
I struggled to understand or suppress the frustrated rage I was feeling at that stage. But then my wife invoked the astonishing powers she uses on an almost daily basis to create entertainment, calm and joy from nothing. Out came the crafting stuff and, in no time, our daughters had created some rather magnificent foam snowmen on the back window. Christmas cards, dripping with glitter glue, and home-made Santa heads soon followed and, by the time my wife had spontaneously invented an impossibly thrilling game of Guess the Mystery Object in the Big Box Full of Beans and Pulses While Blindfolded, I think we had all tacitly rejected our earlier plans. Sorry Chislehurst Caves: you're less appealing than some beans in a box.
I think Brad Pitt just called nature a bitch. Go Brad.
We filled the rest of the afternoon effortlessly, with a viewing of The Nightmare Before Christmas, some more crafting, a trip to the library (which far exceeded my expectations), and even found time to collaborate on what turned out to be a delicious lemon drizzle cake. I'm truly glad we stayed at home today.
I'm sorry, but the film's winning the battle for my attention, so I'll leave it there. The scientist who was going to sort everything out just slipped over and shot himself in the face.
I will just say this: Brad Pitt needs a big gun to save the day. All my wife requires is some foam and a box of beans.
Friday, 14 November 2014
Friday, 14th November 2014
My week off work is drawing to a close. I was going to write about the bitter irony of being unable to enjoy the last few days of annual leave on account of the growing fear of it ending. But I'm trying to fend off that problem - and its mental health implications - by not thinking about it. So I'll leave that cheery subject for another day. Instead, I want to talk about something I've had the opportunity to experience more than usual this week: the slightly less perilous anxiety that is picking up my child from school.
I have always been on the shy side, but I have no recollection of it causing me any major issues when I was at school. Evidently, I was sufficiently polite and friendly by the age of four that little problem was posed by my need to know somebody for about six months before I'll have a proper conversation with them. I muddled through. More recently, several years of working in customer service have honed my previously non-existent small talk skills. I can chat inane nonsense with the best of them, when I have to. I've even developed what I imagine to be a winning smile.
But my victory of sorts over these social demons didn't stop me fearing for my older daughter's emotional wellbeing when she started school in September. In her early years, she had shown signs of having similarly bashful characteristics. Everything we had seen of her at nursery suggested that she enjoyed her own company, as the euphemism goes. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that, but only if it's not because you have no other options. The thought of any four year-old being the one in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups he or she is excluded from, is heartbreaking. The thought of this being your own child is unbearable.
I needn't have worried. Within days, my daughter had made what promised to be good friends. Now, two months later, it's difficult to imagine her ever parting ways with some of her companions, such is the bond they've formed. My pride in her for being a better mingler than me is matched only by the guilty relief I feel as a result of having doubted her in the first place.
No: the problem is still me. When I waited outside the gate for her at 3.15 this afternoon, I realised that my own demons are far from fully conquered. I stood in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups I'm excluded from. Some of these groups I shall lose no sleep over: the ambitious business types, tapping their expensively-shoed feet impatiently on the playgound in an ostentatious demonstration of how precious their time is, falling just short of resenting their children for wasting it by needing to be collected; or the young mums, who still have the energy and motivation to invest time in their own appearances as well as their children*. I have nothing against this faction; I just have nothing in common with them. I can't imagine them enjoying my company, which of course is really the root of all shyness.
But what really hurts is to find myself on the outside of one particular circle: the bald dads.
I'm told that baldness is a symptom of high testosterone levels in men. Perhaps this explains the surprisingly high correlation between fatherhood and being follically challenged. I was painfully aware of this phenomenon in my own case, but only discovered its prevalence when my daughter started school, and I was surrounded by gloriously reflective pates like mine. At that point, I dared to dream that I had found my people; here was somewhere I might belong. There was even an early trip to the park (with our children), during which I cracked a couple of funnies which seemed to go down well amongst my depilated comrades. I flashed them a winning smile. The early signs were promising.
But I rested on my laurels. Instead of pressing home my advantage and cementing my place as Funny Bald Dad, I fell back, too content on the periphery of the mid-afternoon circle, unable to bring myself to contribute to the conversation. I could blame it on the fact that I haven't been able to do the school run for a few weeks, due to my work schedule, and have thus missed out on valuable bonding, but that would be to overlook the simple truth that - for all the meaningless conversations about the weather or the football scores I have shared with customers at work - I'm still just really shy.
This week it has dawned on me that the ship has sailed. I can now only dream of the periphery. A couple of days ago, I took my younger daughter as a psychological prop, which gave me the courage to stand within earshot of them. Oh, how I yearned to chip in with my own thoughts on the pros and cons of the home-delivery of groceries! But I couldn't do it. Why would they care about my Asda Online anecdotes? They probably don't even remember that day when I made them chuckle politely at the park! Maybe things will change one day, but I can't help feeling that this was my last chance, and I blew it.
One of them's not even bald!
*Before you infer an accidental insult of my wife, here, let me be clear that she is fortunate enough to possess a beauty that requires no effort.
I have always been on the shy side, but I have no recollection of it causing me any major issues when I was at school. Evidently, I was sufficiently polite and friendly by the age of four that little problem was posed by my need to know somebody for about six months before I'll have a proper conversation with them. I muddled through. More recently, several years of working in customer service have honed my previously non-existent small talk skills. I can chat inane nonsense with the best of them, when I have to. I've even developed what I imagine to be a winning smile.
But my victory of sorts over these social demons didn't stop me fearing for my older daughter's emotional wellbeing when she started school in September. In her early years, she had shown signs of having similarly bashful characteristics. Everything we had seen of her at nursery suggested that she enjoyed her own company, as the euphemism goes. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that, but only if it's not because you have no other options. The thought of any four year-old being the one in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups he or she is excluded from, is heartbreaking. The thought of this being your own child is unbearable.
I needn't have worried. Within days, my daughter had made what promised to be good friends. Now, two months later, it's difficult to imagine her ever parting ways with some of her companions, such is the bond they've formed. My pride in her for being a better mingler than me is matched only by the guilty relief I feel as a result of having doubted her in the first place.
No: the problem is still me. When I waited outside the gate for her at 3.15 this afternoon, I realised that my own demons are far from fully conquered. I stood in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups I'm excluded from. Some of these groups I shall lose no sleep over: the ambitious business types, tapping their expensively-shoed feet impatiently on the playgound in an ostentatious demonstration of how precious their time is, falling just short of resenting their children for wasting it by needing to be collected; or the young mums, who still have the energy and motivation to invest time in their own appearances as well as their children*. I have nothing against this faction; I just have nothing in common with them. I can't imagine them enjoying my company, which of course is really the root of all shyness.
But what really hurts is to find myself on the outside of one particular circle: the bald dads.
I'm told that baldness is a symptom of high testosterone levels in men. Perhaps this explains the surprisingly high correlation between fatherhood and being follically challenged. I was painfully aware of this phenomenon in my own case, but only discovered its prevalence when my daughter started school, and I was surrounded by gloriously reflective pates like mine. At that point, I dared to dream that I had found my people; here was somewhere I might belong. There was even an early trip to the park (with our children), during which I cracked a couple of funnies which seemed to go down well amongst my depilated comrades. I flashed them a winning smile. The early signs were promising.
But I rested on my laurels. Instead of pressing home my advantage and cementing my place as Funny Bald Dad, I fell back, too content on the periphery of the mid-afternoon circle, unable to bring myself to contribute to the conversation. I could blame it on the fact that I haven't been able to do the school run for a few weeks, due to my work schedule, and have thus missed out on valuable bonding, but that would be to overlook the simple truth that - for all the meaningless conversations about the weather or the football scores I have shared with customers at work - I'm still just really shy.
This week it has dawned on me that the ship has sailed. I can now only dream of the periphery. A couple of days ago, I took my younger daughter as a psychological prop, which gave me the courage to stand within earshot of them. Oh, how I yearned to chip in with my own thoughts on the pros and cons of the home-delivery of groceries! But I couldn't do it. Why would they care about my Asda Online anecdotes? They probably don't even remember that day when I made them chuckle politely at the park! Maybe things will change one day, but I can't help feeling that this was my last chance, and I blew it.
One of them's not even bald!
*Before you infer an accidental insult of my wife, here, let me be clear that she is fortunate enough to possess a beauty that requires no effort.
Thursday, 13 November 2014
Thursday, 13th November 2014
Nothing interesting happened today. And I'm quite enjoying my book at the moment.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Wednesday, 12 November 2014
Wednesday, 12th November 2014
Today's weather was slightly changeable: sunny spells with occasional, heavy showers. I wore my brown and yellow shirt whose lowest button fell off shortly after I bought it a few years ago. I never fixed the button, so whenever I wear this shirt I have to find a nappy pin and use it to prevent flapping. But it's a nice shirt. We went to the supermarket. Afterwards, my youngest daughter invited me to play Sleeping Beauty with her. I got to be the handsome prince, which was a flattering but slightly awkward bit of casting. Then I had to be the horse, crawling on all fours around the living room, trying to avoid obstacles. It was less awkward though. Then I bought a car.
I feel like it would be weird for me not to mention that I bought a car today. But I nearly didn't mention it, because I'm riddled with socialist guilt about it. I can just about afford it, having traded in my old car, taken out a long term finance plan, and accepted a lot of help - psychological, administrative and financial - from my dad. In general I'm wary of accepting help from my parents. It's not pride and it's certainly not ingratitude; more an awareness that it's not an option that's available to some people. But it's a very nice car, which will benefit my family, so I've convinced myself that it's OK to enjoy and appreciate this privilege as long as I never lose sight of my humility and gratitude. Thanks, Dad.
Meanwhile, if anybody needs a lift anywhere, my conscience will probably oblige me to help you out. So just ask.
As I was reconciling myself to this conclusion on the drive home (in my lovely car that I wasn't sure I deserve), I was distracted by coverage on the radio of events at the European Space Agency, as scientists there raucously celebrated the culmination of over ten years of hard work and extreme tension, when they received data from the Philae spacecraft which confirmed that they had successfully landed it on a moving comet. I understand almost nothing about this sort of thing, but I think this is roughly equivalent to firing a pea at an orange thousands of miles away, while the orange is moving faster than a speeding bullet. Oh, and the special little rocket you attached to the pea to help it control its landing broke just before it got there. But you landed it anyway.
Now, imagine that the orange holds the secrets to the genesis of life on earth, of which your pea will now enable you to gain an unprecedented understanding. It's no wonder the scientists were cheering. I was surprised by the irrepressible grin which commandeered my face upon hearing their jubilation. Then I felt guilty about that, because what right did I have to share in their glee? Actually, I believe it was funded by European taxpayers to the tune of around £1billion, which apparently works out at about 3.5 Euros per citizen. Nigel Farage is yet to remove my European citizenship, so I can grin away.
Despite all this excitement, though, and the commendable enthusiasm of the BBC Five Live presenters, I couldn't shake off the perception that none of this was getting quite the accolades it deserved. This was a pioneering achievement in both technological advancement and space exploration, in exactly the same way as when Neil and Buzz jumped about on the moon in 1969. But I don't get the impression that families were gathered in awe around their TV sets to soak up today's piece of history. I think we're probably all so used to instant news gratification that we've lost the ability to distinguish the filler from the really impressive stuff. Will everybody remember where they were at three minutes past four on the afternoon of November 12th 2014?
Well, I will. I was in my new car. And I was very impressed.
I feel like it would be weird for me not to mention that I bought a car today. But I nearly didn't mention it, because I'm riddled with socialist guilt about it. I can just about afford it, having traded in my old car, taken out a long term finance plan, and accepted a lot of help - psychological, administrative and financial - from my dad. In general I'm wary of accepting help from my parents. It's not pride and it's certainly not ingratitude; more an awareness that it's not an option that's available to some people. But it's a very nice car, which will benefit my family, so I've convinced myself that it's OK to enjoy and appreciate this privilege as long as I never lose sight of my humility and gratitude. Thanks, Dad.
Meanwhile, if anybody needs a lift anywhere, my conscience will probably oblige me to help you out. So just ask.
As I was reconciling myself to this conclusion on the drive home (in my lovely car that I wasn't sure I deserve), I was distracted by coverage on the radio of events at the European Space Agency, as scientists there raucously celebrated the culmination of over ten years of hard work and extreme tension, when they received data from the Philae spacecraft which confirmed that they had successfully landed it on a moving comet. I understand almost nothing about this sort of thing, but I think this is roughly equivalent to firing a pea at an orange thousands of miles away, while the orange is moving faster than a speeding bullet. Oh, and the special little rocket you attached to the pea to help it control its landing broke just before it got there. But you landed it anyway.
Now, imagine that the orange holds the secrets to the genesis of life on earth, of which your pea will now enable you to gain an unprecedented understanding. It's no wonder the scientists were cheering. I was surprised by the irrepressible grin which commandeered my face upon hearing their jubilation. Then I felt guilty about that, because what right did I have to share in their glee? Actually, I believe it was funded by European taxpayers to the tune of around £1billion, which apparently works out at about 3.5 Euros per citizen. Nigel Farage is yet to remove my European citizenship, so I can grin away.
Despite all this excitement, though, and the commendable enthusiasm of the BBC Five Live presenters, I couldn't shake off the perception that none of this was getting quite the accolades it deserved. This was a pioneering achievement in both technological advancement and space exploration, in exactly the same way as when Neil and Buzz jumped about on the moon in 1969. But I don't get the impression that families were gathered in awe around their TV sets to soak up today's piece of history. I think we're probably all so used to instant news gratification that we've lost the ability to distinguish the filler from the really impressive stuff. Will everybody remember where they were at three minutes past four on the afternoon of November 12th 2014?
Well, I will. I was in my new car. And I was very impressed.
Tuesday, 11 November 2014
Tuesday, 11th November 2014
I did two things of note today. And that's only if your definition of 'note' is quite relaxed. I went for lunch with various family members, courtesy of my mother-in-law's generosity. Then I went to the dentist.
I very much fail to be enthusiastic about dental care - a failure which I maintain is caused by an aversion to cost rather than pain - so I'm ashamed to say that I haven't been to a dentist for a couple of years. If proverbial ostriches had teeth, and I'm not ruling out the possibility that they do, then this is the approach they would take to dentistry.
The dentist I visited today was, to be fair, less smug and condescending than many I have encountered. She was just like a real person. But this didn't stop her scratching around in my gums, quizzing me about the outrageous acid erosion evident on my teeth (caused not by a diet of pure sugar or even bulimia, as has previously been suggested on such occasions, but by a misguided fondness for three litres a day of cola when I was a naive, carefree student. Don't do it, kids), firing a radiation gun* at my face, or diagnosing £50 worth of trouble to fix.
Yet she did, to some extent, restore my faith in the necessity of her profession. And that is high praise indeed, coming from a proverbial ostrich like me. In any case, as weary as it left me, my orthodontic ordeal was the less troubling of my two endeavours today. Don't misunderstand me; lunch was lovely. I can offer nothing but praise for the service, the company and the food.
But the restaurant was opposite UKIP's Rochester and Strood by-election headquarters.
Now, I'm no political journalist. The internet is full of well-considered political commentary. Occasionally you'll find some in the media, too. I urge you to seek it out and enrich the formulation of your opinions, particularly if you're planning to vote in an election (which I hope you are). I recommend this excellent blog as a good place to start. Owen Jones' recent book, The Establishment and How They Get Away With It is also well worth a read.
As someone who is not a journalist, but is rational and does make some effort to read and think about things, I believe I'm entitled to state my opinion that UKIP are a dangerous force in the development of UK politics. This is a party which celebrates itself as a radical solution, but which stood 572 candidates at the last general election on a manifesto which their leader subsequently described as 'drivel'. Polls tell us that anything up to 20% of people plan to overlook this and put their trust in the new manifesto. This is a party which bills itself as anti-establishment, but whose leader is a public school educated former banker. But people will vote for them because he drinks pints! They drink pints, too! He's just like them! This is a party which has adorned the area I live in with posters promoting their by-election candidate, Mark Reckless, as the figurehead of a 'campaign for real change'. But, less than 50 days ago, Mark Reckless was a member of the Conservative party which has done so much to foster the disillusionment that drives voters into the arms of wolves (Nigel Farage) in sheep's clothing (a pub). Mark Reckless has been poached directly from the establishment to which UKIP (falsely) claim to be an alternative. He is the exact opposite of 'real change'!
But a poll today, conducted while I attempted to enjoy my pizza - literally against the backdrop of all this nauseating misdirection and hypocrisy, says that 44% of voters in Rochester and Strood are going to fall for it.
UKIP stand for only one thing: a resistance to immigration. My theory is that some people are so credulous; so willing to embrace this transparent nonsense about a 'people's army', because Nigel Farage and his band of single-issue crusaders legitimise the kind of casual racism which arises from a need to find scapegoats for the hardship of the less well-off during periods of economic hardship - a period created by bankers like Nigel Farage and significantly exacerbated by an ideologically-driven programme of austerity imposed upon us by the party Mark Reckless recently belonged to.
Mercifully, I don't think Nigel Farage will be the next Prime Minister. But the real danger UKIP pose is that they shift political discourse to the right. Again, I urge you to read what Owen Jones has to say on the subject of the Overton window. So when Godfrey Bloom talks about 'Bongo-Bongo Land' we all gasp and tut, but he has made it a little less shocking in comparison for Nigel Farage to demand that foreign aid money is spent instead on British projects. Or when Labour win a by-election, they are nevertheless urged to act a bit more xenophobic because they didn't beat UKIP by a wide enough margin.
I realise that most people reading this are friends and acquaintances of mine, who will largely share my views in this respect, and that I'm really preaching to the converted. And I am very well aware that views similar to mine are frequently expressed far better by many others (including those mentioned above), so I'm basically just ranting.
Those others can explain to you, should you care to discover their better-expressed views, how immigration has been proven to be of net economic (and not to mention cultural) benefit to the country, or why the very notion of determining someone's prospects and entitlements on the basis of their birthplace in relation to an arbitrary and/or ancient line in the sand is inherently ridiculous. I'll content myself with describing how grateful I am to immigration for the dentist who restored my faith in looking after my teeth, and for the restaurant manager who entertained and charmed my daughter while I was too busy frowning at the objectionable by-election headquarters over the road.
*She took an x-ray.
I very much fail to be enthusiastic about dental care - a failure which I maintain is caused by an aversion to cost rather than pain - so I'm ashamed to say that I haven't been to a dentist for a couple of years. If proverbial ostriches had teeth, and I'm not ruling out the possibility that they do, then this is the approach they would take to dentistry.
The dentist I visited today was, to be fair, less smug and condescending than many I have encountered. She was just like a real person. But this didn't stop her scratching around in my gums, quizzing me about the outrageous acid erosion evident on my teeth (caused not by a diet of pure sugar or even bulimia, as has previously been suggested on such occasions, but by a misguided fondness for three litres a day of cola when I was a naive, carefree student. Don't do it, kids), firing a radiation gun* at my face, or diagnosing £50 worth of trouble to fix.
Yet she did, to some extent, restore my faith in the necessity of her profession. And that is high praise indeed, coming from a proverbial ostrich like me. In any case, as weary as it left me, my orthodontic ordeal was the less troubling of my two endeavours today. Don't misunderstand me; lunch was lovely. I can offer nothing but praise for the service, the company and the food.
But the restaurant was opposite UKIP's Rochester and Strood by-election headquarters.
Now, I'm no political journalist. The internet is full of well-considered political commentary. Occasionally you'll find some in the media, too. I urge you to seek it out and enrich the formulation of your opinions, particularly if you're planning to vote in an election (which I hope you are). I recommend this excellent blog as a good place to start. Owen Jones' recent book, The Establishment and How They Get Away With It is also well worth a read.
As someone who is not a journalist, but is rational and does make some effort to read and think about things, I believe I'm entitled to state my opinion that UKIP are a dangerous force in the development of UK politics. This is a party which celebrates itself as a radical solution, but which stood 572 candidates at the last general election on a manifesto which their leader subsequently described as 'drivel'. Polls tell us that anything up to 20% of people plan to overlook this and put their trust in the new manifesto. This is a party which bills itself as anti-establishment, but whose leader is a public school educated former banker. But people will vote for them because he drinks pints! They drink pints, too! He's just like them! This is a party which has adorned the area I live in with posters promoting their by-election candidate, Mark Reckless, as the figurehead of a 'campaign for real change'. But, less than 50 days ago, Mark Reckless was a member of the Conservative party which has done so much to foster the disillusionment that drives voters into the arms of wolves (Nigel Farage) in sheep's clothing (a pub). Mark Reckless has been poached directly from the establishment to which UKIP (falsely) claim to be an alternative. He is the exact opposite of 'real change'!
But a poll today, conducted while I attempted to enjoy my pizza - literally against the backdrop of all this nauseating misdirection and hypocrisy, says that 44% of voters in Rochester and Strood are going to fall for it.
UKIP stand for only one thing: a resistance to immigration. My theory is that some people are so credulous; so willing to embrace this transparent nonsense about a 'people's army', because Nigel Farage and his band of single-issue crusaders legitimise the kind of casual racism which arises from a need to find scapegoats for the hardship of the less well-off during periods of economic hardship - a period created by bankers like Nigel Farage and significantly exacerbated by an ideologically-driven programme of austerity imposed upon us by the party Mark Reckless recently belonged to.
Mercifully, I don't think Nigel Farage will be the next Prime Minister. But the real danger UKIP pose is that they shift political discourse to the right. Again, I urge you to read what Owen Jones has to say on the subject of the Overton window. So when Godfrey Bloom talks about 'Bongo-Bongo Land' we all gasp and tut, but he has made it a little less shocking in comparison for Nigel Farage to demand that foreign aid money is spent instead on British projects. Or when Labour win a by-election, they are nevertheless urged to act a bit more xenophobic because they didn't beat UKIP by a wide enough margin.
I realise that most people reading this are friends and acquaintances of mine, who will largely share my views in this respect, and that I'm really preaching to the converted. And I am very well aware that views similar to mine are frequently expressed far better by many others (including those mentioned above), so I'm basically just ranting.
Those others can explain to you, should you care to discover their better-expressed views, how immigration has been proven to be of net economic (and not to mention cultural) benefit to the country, or why the very notion of determining someone's prospects and entitlements on the basis of their birthplace in relation to an arbitrary and/or ancient line in the sand is inherently ridiculous. I'll content myself with describing how grateful I am to immigration for the dentist who restored my faith in looking after my teeth, and for the restaurant manager who entertained and charmed my daughter while I was too busy frowning at the objectionable by-election headquarters over the road.
*She took an x-ray.
Monday, 10 November 2014
Monday, 10th November 2014
My arm really hurts. I've just got home from giving blood. I'm not telling you this to show off; I'm just explaining why my arm hurts. Or did I mention that my arm hurts, only so that I could show off about giving blood? Ooooh, mystery.
They were running late tonight, which is really a good thing, given its implication that the NHS must be swimming in spare blood now, increasing their ability to save the lives of people in need of some extra blood. I'm sure they're not literally swimming in it; they tend to have quite high standards in hygiene. The downside of blood donation's popularity this evening was that they seemed to be in a bit of a rush. I waited for 40 minutes (which was fine, because - unlike my wife, who had donated earlier in the evening - I took a book. Always take a book) before they began to process me.
For those who have not had the pleasure (and you really should try it, because of all the life-saving potential and that), the process is something like this:
They were running late tonight, which is really a good thing, given its implication that the NHS must be swimming in spare blood now, increasing their ability to save the lives of people in need of some extra blood. I'm sure they're not literally swimming in it; they tend to have quite high standards in hygiene. The downside of blood donation's popularity this evening was that they seemed to be in a bit of a rush. I waited for 40 minutes (which was fine, because - unlike my wife, who had donated earlier in the evening - I took a book. Always take a book) before they began to process me.
For those who have not had the pleasure (and you really should try it, because of all the life-saving potential and that), the process is something like this:
- Fill in a form, which asks you slightly personal questions about your health and sex life, in an attempt to establish that your blood won't be doing anybody more harm than good. This may seem intrusive but, if you think about it, is quite reasonable really.
- Talk to a nurse behind a curtain (for some reason) about the fact that you don't currently have any germs. If you do have germs, you'll be out the door faster than you can sneeze. The same nurse will use a special contraption to prick your finger and extract a drop of blood. This doesn't hurt, and it's quite enjoyable to watch when they drop your drop of blood into a test tube of coloured liquid, to see if it floats. I have no real understanding of what the liquid is or what the implications of your blood's success or failure in floating are, but no other aspect of my life makes me feel a part of Science to this extent. All of my drops of blood at time of writing have passed this test, qualifying me consistently for the next stage.
- Drink a pint of water. This request is made of you in a tone which you might expect from, say, a bungee jumping instructor, or perhaps a doctor asking you to pull down your pants as he dons his rubber gloves. They think it's a big ask, in short. But I drink pints of water often. I'm a thirsty guy. This is easy.
- Sit in a really comfortable chair. You may infer from the extreme comfort on offer to you that you're approaching the business end of proceedings; pain will soon be forthcoming. Your inference would be correct. A further nurse, harnessing all of his or her best bedside manner skills, will take your blood pressure and then rub some liquid of mysterious purpose over your arm, before putting what is, frankly, a big needle into your vein. In fact - and I am being honest - this rarely actually hurts much, despite appearances. It certainly looks like it should hurt. But I think they must make nurses practise doing this kind of thing, because they are invariably very good at it, by which I mean that they do it in an inexplicably pain-free manner.
- You are now required to sit in your extremely comfortable chair (which they will have lowered - think business class aeroplane seats which turn into beds, only with much more space around them), for a few minutes, or as long as it takes for your vein to relinquish a pint. These very comfortable reclining chairs are lined up in rows, each one occupied by a similarly altruistic donor with a needle in their arm. It's basically a very mild version of the Matrix. You'll notice that your fellow donors are performing curious exercises with their hands; clenching and unclenching, They may be doing the same with their buttocks. Apparently this helps to maintain your blood pressure and I always give it a go, but it makes me feel ridiculous. I'd rather faint.
- Once your pint has been extracted, something nearby will start beeping. Your work here is done. A nurse will attend and extract the big needle with the same brutal subtlety he or she used to insert it. Then comes the pay-off.
- You're ushered to a seat around a table LADEN WITH FREE FOOD. If you time it right and make your appointment for just before lunchtime, then there really is such a thing as a free lunch. I'll level with you: there's no lobster or caviar, but the prawn cocktail crisps are genuinely delicious. Other flavours are available, as are biscuits and a choice of tea, coffee or good old squash. And, just to reiterate: it's all free. You don't get free food when you donate clothes, toys, or even money. I've never donated an organ, but I bet those who do still need some cash for the hospital cafe.
The issue this evening was that - possibly but by no means definitely because they were pushed for time - the nurse neglected to use her pain-free skills when she put the needle in me. This time it did hurt. It still does. It feels like a healthcare professional rewarded my generosity by just stabbing me in the arm. I must stress that this is the only occasion upon which I have met this unfortunate fate. And I'm sure it'll be fine soon.
If this assurance, and the promise of gratis prawn cocktail, aren't sufficient to persuade you to take the plunge, then - while I'm doing bullet points - consider the following proper facts:
- Over 25% of people require donated blood at least once in their lifetime.
- Each single donation can help three people.
- Only 4% of adults currently donate blood.
Sunday, 9 November 2014
Sunday, 9th November 2014
I have done very little today. We had planned to visit one of our favourite local tourist attractions; we have developed a collection of destinations whose tickets last for a year, perfect for a financially guilt-free Sunday expedition. This does mean that we go to Leeds Castle more often than is probably rational but, hey, it's a very nice castle. Lovely walks.
As it transpired, though, a night disrupted by slightly unwell children meant that we awoke too late and too slowly to merit any such adventure. By the time my wife and I had performed our pre-bathroom smartphone rituals (Facebook, Guardian, Arseblog, Facebook, Weather App, Facebook, etc.) and then taken turns in a leisurely bath before repeating the smartphone rituals over breakfast, it was what I can only tenuously describe as mid-morning. By this point, the slightly unwell nature of our children had failed to disappear to a convincing degree, which cemented our decision to stay at home.
To a neurotically conscientious person like me, decisions of this nature inevitably provoke a period of intense guilt. On days like these, the anxious obligation I feel to make every day productive clashes with my determination to bloody well relax, as well as my tendency to be a bit lazy. So I end up investing my whole sense of self-worth in menial tasks like emptying the bins. I emptied the ruddy heck out of those bins this morning, yet still, somehow, I was left with the guilty malaise of the unproductive.
After lunch I swept up all of the leaves deposited muddily on our drive by a belatedly determined autumn. My recent lack of similar activity has left me quite unfit, meaning that this task was a strenuous one. Once I had scooped up the mulchy pile which represented the fruit of my labour, and transferred it all into its relevant bin, I had exerted what should have been a satisfying amount of physical effort, as well as completing the kind of seasonal chore beloved of responsible adults throughout middle England.
But I couldn't shake the suspicion that it was all pointless; I'm sure the drive is freshly covered by now with a new selection of dead foliage. And it's not really as if the freshly swept status I had briefly bestowed upon it made it any more successful as a drive anyway.
So I sighed my way irritably to 4pm, when the prospect of watching some football gave my day the nearest it would get to a sense of purpose. While Arsenal disappointed me once more, I was aware of my wife enjoying some flash card fun with our daughters. Our eldest is currently learning to read; she made my wife ecstatic with a proud demonstration of her new powers.
I shared peripherally in this glee and, inspired by my daughter, resolved to impose a legacy on an otherwise wasted day by starting the diary I had been considering for months. Maybe the self-imposed threat of writing about my life will compel me to make it more interesting.
As it transpired, though, a night disrupted by slightly unwell children meant that we awoke too late and too slowly to merit any such adventure. By the time my wife and I had performed our pre-bathroom smartphone rituals (Facebook, Guardian, Arseblog, Facebook, Weather App, Facebook, etc.) and then taken turns in a leisurely bath before repeating the smartphone rituals over breakfast, it was what I can only tenuously describe as mid-morning. By this point, the slightly unwell nature of our children had failed to disappear to a convincing degree, which cemented our decision to stay at home.
To a neurotically conscientious person like me, decisions of this nature inevitably provoke a period of intense guilt. On days like these, the anxious obligation I feel to make every day productive clashes with my determination to bloody well relax, as well as my tendency to be a bit lazy. So I end up investing my whole sense of self-worth in menial tasks like emptying the bins. I emptied the ruddy heck out of those bins this morning, yet still, somehow, I was left with the guilty malaise of the unproductive.
After lunch I swept up all of the leaves deposited muddily on our drive by a belatedly determined autumn. My recent lack of similar activity has left me quite unfit, meaning that this task was a strenuous one. Once I had scooped up the mulchy pile which represented the fruit of my labour, and transferred it all into its relevant bin, I had exerted what should have been a satisfying amount of physical effort, as well as completing the kind of seasonal chore beloved of responsible adults throughout middle England.
But I couldn't shake the suspicion that it was all pointless; I'm sure the drive is freshly covered by now with a new selection of dead foliage. And it's not really as if the freshly swept status I had briefly bestowed upon it made it any more successful as a drive anyway.
So I sighed my way irritably to 4pm, when the prospect of watching some football gave my day the nearest it would get to a sense of purpose. While Arsenal disappointed me once more, I was aware of my wife enjoying some flash card fun with our daughters. Our eldest is currently learning to read; she made my wife ecstatic with a proud demonstration of her new powers.
I shared peripherally in this glee and, inspired by my daughter, resolved to impose a legacy on an otherwise wasted day by starting the diary I had been considering for months. Maybe the self-imposed threat of writing about my life will compel me to make it more interesting.
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