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.
Wednesday, 12 November 2014
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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