the brilliantly leaping gazelle

February 7, 2015

Depression and Bells Palsy? What could possibly go wrong?

I could start by offering a similar warning to the one I offered here namely that “This is about MY personal experience of depression, how it makes ME feel and should not be misconstrued as advocating any course of action by any other person. Sorry about that, but there are some vulnerable people surfing the interweb and one has no idea who might stumble across this when they’re at an especially depressed state,” but since the amount of people subscribing to this is (barely) into double figures – and less than half of them are real people _- by that I mean NOT bloggers selling lifestyle / recipe / self-help nonsense – I don’t think I’ll bother. Not when this blog doesn’t feature high on any Google searches which means the chances of someone stumbling on this by chance are as remote as the creationist myth being anything other than trumpery moonshine.

Of the many things I’ve recounted in my blogs about my Bell’s Palsy, perhaps the most obvious omission is the most relevant. My mental health. Or, to be more exact, the lack thereof. When the villain in the last Bond film ‘Skyfall’ is captured, he recounts how after months of being tortured by the Chinese – and realizing that M had abandoned him – he decided to break open the cyanide capsule hidden in a tooth. Which didn’t quite do the job leading him to angrily point out, “Life clung to me like a disease.”. I know how he feels, because they may well have saved my life after the accident in the strict technical sense, but insofar as the practical day-to-day mechanics of life, what I’m left with is a cruel imitation of one. All I amount to now is loose change.

The Bell’s Palsy only worsens this, because not only does it highlight my own lack of fine motor skills – the ones that help your fingers distinguish between shaving your face or conducting an orchestra with the requisite precision needed for both – also by doing so, for an added confidence eroder, amplified my dependence on other people. The fact they do so selflessly and with good humour only makes it worse. At the hospital they gave me a prescription for eye cream; the fact that due to my lack of fine motor skills I couldn’t apply it was neither here nor there. Their records would show I’d been given a prescription for cream, told how to apply it and so they were in the clear.

However, as I alluded to in a previous blog, a hospital is perhaps the only place where less than bad news is interpreted as good news. My symptoms could easily been indicative of a stroke, so further tests could until conclusive proof to rule out that possibility, and until the results of a CT scan were known, I was outwardly as calm as one could be, but inwardly thinking, ‘Fine. If it is a stroke, we know exactly what we’ll do. We’ll enact the plan whilst I have sufficient function to do so’. The plan, it need hardly be said, is not a plan one communicates. Suicide is, when you take away all the emotion and break it down to its constituent parts, an achievable goal that just requires some thought. Mine has been refined such because I know it’s both viable and foolproof, I don’t dwell on it.

Meanwhile, back in hospital I just waited as thoughts – none of them cheerful – multiplied in my head like an aggressive virus. Not that my head is a good place to be at the best of times – and that certainly wasn’t the best of times. Winston Churchill famously called his depression ’The Black Dog’ and mine is more like Battersea Dogs Home. It has been with me ever since I woke up from the coma. Darwin, how I wish I hadn’t. But wake I did, and even though my waking thought some mornings is ‘Why did I bother waking up’ nonetheless I have a ‘functioning’ depression – one that gets me out of bed, partaking in my rehab (not the Amy Winehouse kind) and subjecting this on you. – rather than a’ debilitating’ depression where you can’t see the point of anything resulting in you not doing anything. Nevertheless, it is always there; sometimes more pernicious than others, but a constant unwelcome companion. And the irony is that due to the nature of my brain injury, most anti-depressant drugs are contra-indicated. Which in itself is depressing!

I don’t often write about my dark thoughts not just because it does me no good to do so, but also more importantly there are far more interesting things to occupy my mind. And therein lies the problem. To look at, I seem relatively normal. It’s only when I try to speak, or stand or do anything that requires smooth controlled muscle co-ordination, that one realises that the relative in question is a distant cousin I’ve never met. Never has the phrase ‘The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak’, been more apposite. My mind is as sharp as it ever was, but now the means of transporting it from A to B have been blunted.

When I was young – and not so young – when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, or what my ambition was, my reply was always the same. “Happy”. And this so isn’t happy. When I get in these moods, I think I should really take a long walk off a short pier. It all depends on the length of the pier, as unaided my walking is haphazard. And that in itself alarms me, writing about it so calmly. Worryingly calmly in fact. I know I shouldn’t. If anything, that exemplifies just how fubar the situation has become.
I endured childhood for this?

My childhood was a fairy tale. A Grimm one.

As I wrote earlier, whilst the depression has been with me since I woke up from the coma – and I have only a memory, of being happy, I have nonetheless learned how to live with it.

Despite, that is, not enjoying living.

So, in order to lighten the mood, a little musical treat for you, there being no similarities whatsoever between The Cures ‘Close to Me’ and George Michaels ‘Faith’.

Go on, hear for yourself.

Next time..Sports ‘news’ might well be an oxymoron but one that provides an easy to understand alternative to proper news….

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January 30, 2015

Is ‘Peppa Pig’ mind control?

Bear with me! It’s an audacious claim to make, to be sure, but if you’re a parent who’s ever been subjected to Peppa Pig you might well agree. If however you are not a parent – and are not likely to become one in the near future – count your blessings for ye know not of what I speak. As far as ‘Peppa Pig’ is concerned, ignorance is bliss. I am neither, but share a house with a charmingly delightful child, Little Miss Sunshine. This is why I ask if indeed ‘Peppa Pig’ is mind control, having been made to endure it countless times, as there not being a television in our house (the sewage goes out and not in!) and whilst she can watch it on her parents phones, my laptop has a bigger screen, and is therefore her preferred option. Believe me when I write that I’ve commanded by the tyrannical overlord to watch it. Again. And again. There are sadists out there who put three hour (!) compilations of ‘Peppa Pig’ on youtube, misguided individuals afflicted by the delusional belief that what one needs is yet more from the frankly painful porcine.

The first assault on the senses is the annoying theme tune, written, so the credits have it, by the same bloke who wrote the music for ‘Wallace and Grommit’. Barely have you recovered from that blow then another, in the form of a visual affront to common decency, in the guise of it’s animation hoves into view. I say animation in the loosest possible sense. ‘Peppa Pig’ is to animation what Primark is to haute couture. Using a palette of only bright colours, it must be nightmare for an adult first thing in the morning. Thankfully I’m spared that. But there is much, much worse to come. Now I know ‘Peppa Pig’ is not aimed at my demographic, but notwithstanding that, makers of childrens entertainment are aware that it is not only the children they have to entertain. Adults have to like it too.

At the risk of coming across all Jerry Falwel (pardon!) – the former spokesmen for America’s Moral Majority, who denounced the ‘Teletubbies’, on the grounds that it didn’t provide a good role model for children because Tinky Winky was gay – ‘Peppa Pig‘ presents a one-dimensional view of the world, one that to an adult celebrates conformity and eschews anything outside of that. ‘Peppa Pig’ is to me, as entertaining as I imagine being buried alive is. Here’s why.
First off is the lazy way the character of ‘Daddy Pig’ is depicted. Always unshaven, frequently getting things wrong, as lazy as he is fat, if a woman was portrayed in this way, there’d be an outcry. But hey! We all know men are crap. ‘Mummy Pig’ is by contrast, an oracle of common sense and cool, calm, logic. It’s as though there’s a deliberate attempt to invert the sexist stereotype of the past by creating stereotypes of their own. And of course, ‘Peppa Pig’ herself. She is as annoying cheerful as she is permanently seeking to control both events and others. She is not, I need hardly add, lacking in self confidence, aided in this dubious emotional grounding by her indulgent parents, who are seemingly unaware that in later life she will turn on them with a vengeance, blaming them for them for the car crash that has been her life.

I’m aware that any children’s programme will, when scrutinized in detail by an adult will be found deficient in some ways. But ‘Peppa Pig’ abuses that level of scrutiny. Just because millions of under fives watch it, doesn’t therefore mean it’s any good! Viewing figures don’t equate with quality. Eastenders anyone? Exactamudo. It’s the parents who are woken at far too early o’clock to watch it I feel for. Their children see a warm and reassuring view of the world whereas their parents know a doctor won’t make an immediate home visit for a cough.

There is one episode in particular that annoys me though and Little Miss Sunshine never seems to tire of it. In the episode ‘Recycling’, ‘Peppa’ learns all about recycling. Fair enough, we don’t recycle enough. But it was when ‘Peppa’ first said, “Recycling is fun!” I knew something was wrong. For a start, I can’t imagine anyone of any age saying that, and second, it reminded me of those ‘Blue Peter’ fundraising campaigns, whereupon children were encouraged to send in milk bottle tops – remember them – and they’d be turned via charity alchemy into wells in drought ridden Africa. It is the same, rather paternalistic worldview that existed then which is prevalent now. That is the whole mind control thing, or to be less chilling but more cunning, behaviour channeling. The prevalent societal attitudes of now are introduced and then reinforced over time by the media we consume, which in turn influences the choices we make. Or are they our choices?

Did you know that the nephew of Sigmund Freud – the one with all the theories about the unconscious mind and how essentially everything could be reduced to suppressed sexual desires – applied the theories of his uncle to advertising with predictably successful results?

If ‘Peppa’ Pig’ proves one thing, then it is the truism of the Jesuit maxim “Give me the child by the age of seven and I will give you the man.’ because all of us remember television when we were children as being much better than it actually was. That is what adults do, remember a mythical childhood of majestic sun drenched summers that lasted forever, Christmas’s where it snowed, where really bad things seldom happened – and if they did, they happened to other people, people you only know briefly from newspapers – and that is what the children of now will think when they’re adults. I’m aware that to some extent, I’m highlighting the flaw in my own argument.

But as I’m fond of saying, “The only constant thing about me is my inconstancy”]

From an egregious use of the medium to an excellent use of it, in the shape of Adam Curtis and his new documentary, available on iPlayer, ‘Bitter Lake’. Curtis – who bought us ‘The power of Nightmares’ one of his award winning documentary’s’ – combines challenging yet interesting ideas with a visual flair that is breathtaking in its audacity. Watch a short film he made for Charlie Brookers Screenwipe here (only 5mins) or watch ‘Bitter Lake’ on iPlayer (until 2015).

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January 20, 2015

Trying to keep a put on a brave face with Bell’s Palsy is difficult when half your face is paralysed….

Trying to put on a brave face with Bells Palsy is rendered somewhat problematic when half of your face is paralysed. In an earlier blog I’ve outlined the benefits of the Bells Palsy diet, namely that having only the use of one side of your mouth and only then being able to eat soft food necessarily means a weight loss, in my case that amounts to 6 kg. all the more impressive when you consider that it was lost during Christmas, traditionally a time not renowned for abstention but I don’t want to tell you about that, I want to lead you by the hand into the murky world of conflicting health advice. Ladies and Gentlemen I give to you the interweb or as its otherwise known the Charlatan’s playground!

In the case of Bells Palsy the advice concerning facial exercises is worryingly contradictory. On the one hand one is advised that under no circumstances must one undertake any form of facial exercise, but on the other it is suggested that gentle facial manipulation started early, will encourage the activation of muscle tissue that would otherwise have lain dormant for a long period. On another blog I have written that a neurologist physiotherapist had suggested that exercises were a good idea as in her experience and her full time job is at the national neurological hospital so she’d know, was that gentle exercises could help. Quite what constitutes gentle exercise as opposed to vigorous exercise is another matter. She also suggested using different kinds of touch on the face, in order to stimulate the facial muscles. Rubbing ice cubes and make up brushes, as well as all manner of tapping. It was for this reason amongst others I fond myself on an acupuncturist’s table. Anyone who knows me will know how unlikely that seems because I’m with Richard Dawkins regarding alternative medicine. If alternative medicine worked it would be called medicine. Everyone who believes in alternative medicine really believes in is the placebo effect. But I was willing to try and trick my mind into alleviating some of my facial paralysis.

The acupuncturist listened most attentively – well he had to because thanks to the brain injury I have a speech defect which the Bells Palsy makes worse – and spoke in a soft reassuring tone his whole manner was quite unlike visiting a busy G.P. Once I was on the table and after explaining what he was going to do he gently inserted some needles around my cheekbone. My sense of relaxation was in no way helped by the fact that he looks like Malcolm McDowell! Alex, Clockwork Orange, aversion treatment eye, No? No sooner had I thought of that filmic reference then another one more chilling popped into my head. No doubt you are familiar with the first ‘Taken’ movie in which Liam Neeson takes violent revenge upon those who kidnapped his daughter. In one scene he has chained one of the baddies to a chair and proceeds to violently introduce two metal spikes into his thighs. He then attaches leads to the spikes that run to the electricity supply with wholly shocking results. I tell you this because not only did I have needles sticking out of my face, but also the acupuncturist attached little cables running to a small generator to stimulate the muscles. What was being stimulated was my sphincter muscle

Which is as nothing to the story my support worker told me when she enquired about my acupuncture. Some time ago she told me she was seeing an accupucnturist and that it’d neccessitated her removing her clothes. Not some. All. I know! Asking the questions that statement required, I asked exactly what kind of ailment required nudity to facilitate needle placement. Well, originally she’d gone for treatment to alleviate backache and insomnia but when told she couldn’t afford the fee asked, the accupuncturist asked if anything else was wrong. Yes, she replied, period pain, and he kindly offered to treat that as well for the same price.

He wanted to start all three treatments at the first session. Wisely she demurred but for the good of this blog, she agreed after a few sessions – knowing this man for less than five hours – to willingly remove her clothes and climb onto a table to allow him to try to alleviate her period pain by acupuncture. Now I’m presuming you all know what the perineum is – the gap between your genitals and your anus. I don’t have to tell you what’s coming, but I will. He placed (!) needles there and she paid him to do it. And if you think that’s shocking, it didn’t happen just the once. Oh no. She went back on numerous occasions to have this done. And if you think me divulging this is shocking, I asked if I could use this. No, what is shocking is that he tried to ‘friend’ her on Facebook! Her initial concern to me asking if I could use this tale of medical malpractice was not, as you might think, that I’d identify her, but that I’d reveal what part of London it was. Being polite, and not having replied to his request to be friends, she avoids walking past his shop, in case he see’s her. But he was Chinese, and she figured there were some cultural differences at work, rather than as I fulminated, deeply inappropriate behaviour.

It got me thinking; exactly how sadistic could an acupuncturist be without one realising? Not maybe as this one from Jam (Yet more Chris Morris. And yes, there will be more from him…)

Next time…Is Peppa Pig mind control for toddlers…?

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January 10, 2015

How Charlie Hebdo is distantly related to Nick Griffin…

I know that this is a rather ambitious claim to make in the light of recent events but bear with me and afford me the opportunity of making my case. After all, much has been written about the atrocity at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, not least that it was an assault upon free speech, so in the spirit of free speech I make the following observation.

It was widely suggested that the ability of cartoonists and anyone else that blows a satirical raspberry to lampoon the great and the not so good was itself under attack. It has also been argued that any attempt to curtail people’s freedom of expression is a fundamental affront to democratic norms which we in the west hold inalienable, a line in the sand which cannot be crossed.

Except of course when it can.

Free speech is easy to defend when you agree with what the person is saying or writing, but less so when you find what they’re expressing offensive. That is the dichotomy of free speech. If you believe in it you have to believe that it applies to everyone or else it applies to no one. As Voltaire said “I may not agree with what you say but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it”. This simple and rather obvious truism has been lost in the tsunami of words all championing free speech in the light of the murders at the offices of Charlie Hebdo.

If anything this championing of free speech displays an almost enviable amount of breathtaking hypocrisy in some sections of the media and some politicians. Whilst they agree with free speech, it is only the free speech of people they agree with. They have seemingly forgotten or more likely never heard of Voltaire’s maxim.

Some speech, it seems, is freer than others.

And now, for the first and I hope only time in my writings, will I call forth Nick Griffin as an example of how the critics of the attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo were conspicuous by their absence in launching a robust and forthright defense of Nick Griffin. Early in 2009, you will recall, Nick Griffin, who was at that time leader of the British National Party and an elected member of the European Parliament, was invited onto BBC One’s Question Time. Cue inevitable media outrage and handwringing at this. Basically, it was felt that by giving Nick Griffin an opportunity to espouse his views – which incidentally I find abhorrent – the BBC were in effect giving him a platform that they shouldn’t have.

In all of this there were a couple of things that were conveniently overlooked. The first is that he was a democratically elected member of the European Parliament and no matter if you disagree with his policies or the way he chooses to express them, nonetheless the fact is that he had garnered enough support to win an election. The second more worrying aspect to all of this is that in attempting to deny Nick Griffin a platform to speak they were in effect handing him a tailor made opportunity to make the claim that ‘THEY don’t want you to hear what I have to say because THEY deem it so prejudicial to the established order of things because if you heard what I’ve got to say, you’d question everything.’ In effect that is precisely what one achieves doing when you prevent anyone from speaking. You make their silence so much louder than their words. His appearance demonstrated he should’ve been wearing a mouth nappy. So when I write that the atrocity at Charlie Hebdo is distantly related to Nick Griffin I am not comparing the two. The atrocity at the former is in no way comparable to the latter, but it is distantly related. They are two extremes of the same principle; one can’t defend one without the other.

Which leads me nicely on to Section 57 of the Crime and Courts Bill 2013, which replaced Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986. Under the 1986 Act ‘A person is guilty of an offence if –
a) uses threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour, or disorderly behaviour, or (b) displays any writing, sign or other visible representation which is threatening, abusive or insulting, within the hearing or sight of a person likely to be caused harassment, alarm or distress thereby.

Under Section 57 the word ‘insulting’ was removed. Free speech campaigners saw this as something of a victory, whereas I would contend it was nothing of the sort because threatening or abusive behaviour is highly subjective and is not clearly defined What you might find as such I might not and vice versa. This led to the farcical situation where in 2005 a student protestor was arrested by the police for asking a mounted policeman “Excuse me, do you know your horse is gay?”

Or this, more recently, when someone accused Katie Hopkins of committing a hate crime by calling her fat. In doing so, she proved that the only thin thing about her was her skin. You might find that rude, but then, if you believe in free speech……

Next time…I’d try putting a brave face on my Bell’s Palsy, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve got temporary facial paralysis….

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December 22, 2014

My Christmas present to all (!) of you…Christmas Liffs…

As I in no way wish to dampen your festive mood, I present for your delectatation my own Christmas Liffs. Liffs are, as I’m sure you need no reminding words than describe a feeling for which no word yet exists, by using place names (These are all places in the United Kingdom I assure you!)

No doubt you’ll have heard of the phrase “As camp as Christmas and so for your added enjoyment, I suggest reading this while listening to the musical expression of that sentiment here.

A’Chill
What one gets from rashly agreeing to a Chila.

Acha
People on a Chlia clearly having a nauseatingly jolly time, which you think they’re purposely doing to wind people up

Acha Mor
People engaged in Chlia, obviously wearing presents.

Adlestrop
Realising that nobody has picked up hints dropped in the run up to Christmas about what you’d really, really want.

Alcol
When the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Azeley
The worried looks which express concern for the mental state of the teller of a Fanellan after a Fazerley.

Badcall
Leaving it so late that by the time you get to the buffet at a Christmas party, all that remains has been pawed, breathed and touched by everyone else, before they decided they didn’t want it.

Buck’s Green
A feeling of increasing jealousy that occurs when your partner is on the opposite side of a crowded room and watching them enjoying the company of an attractive stranger rather too much for your liking.

Bucks Cross
A Bucks Green that is magnified when, after being distracted by long Maunby, you cannot see either of them.

Chiia
The name given to the post Christmas dinner walk, which is claimed to “Be just the thing we all need!” but seldom is.

Chislet
Duration of the dilemma one feels about the probity of asking if the receipt has been kept for a present that is wholly not what you need, want or ever choose to own. Duration of which is proportionate to relationship with giver.

Chittlehampton
The feeling of nausea that is felt either watching someone sitting opposite you eating their Christmas dinner in messy and off putting way.

Dacre
When an someone experiencing a Alcol proceeds to boorishly holds forth on a subject on which they clearly knows nothing but which you have considered, reasoned and well thought out opinions and which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Edith Weston
The elderly friend of the family whom your never told exactly how and in what capacity they’re a friend of the family, as you only ever see them at Christmas.

Enochdhu
Stony and awkward silence that greets a joke that you found on sickipedia and that everyone else you’ve told it to found hilarious.

Fackenham
Exclamation frequently heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Fanellan
An often repeated, interminably long anecdote concerning people whom you don’t know but whom nevertheless you are meant to find fascinating. Sometimes delivered by an aged relative, normally in a very tired and emotional state.

Fazerley
When the thread of the Fanellan has gradually drawn to end, although one isn’t quite certain, on account of increasingly lengthy pauses accompanied by wistful eyes and sudden bursts of laughter.

Feckenham
Frequently heard repeatedly and at full volume by householder one month after Christmas upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that your partner’s relatives had taken the invitation “to treat our house as your own” rather too literally

Foeck
Just before you enter a room, hearing a parent exasperatingly observe to your partner, “But darling, that’s what you say about all of them!” only for them both to become all smiles when you appear.

Freeby
Knowing that the relationship is only being kept alive just so you can get a free holiday, and you will end after Christmas. Until then, and for utterly mercenary reasons, you maintain the fiction of happiness to her them and their family.

Fulking
Moment when the pleasure one gets from an unexpected visit from relatives becomes irritation at them being in your house, and them showing no sign of leaving.

Funzie
A Fulking exacerbated by knowing you have somewhere much more enjoyable to go to and that the longer they stay, the less likely it is you’ll go.

Glamis
A female relative of advanced years that dresses in a manner more befitting someone at least twenty years younger and behaves accordingly.

Glenis
Male equivalent of a Glamis.

Gonalston
Playing Trivial Pursuit with members of your partners family who know rather too much about things you consider irrelevant.

Gospel End
The curious silence that descends on a gathering by osmosis when carol singers can be heard nearby.

Grimmet
Whereby food that really should’ve been thrown away by Boxing Day, mysteriously finds its way into sandwiches.

Gushmere
An awkwardly affectionate and long lasting welcome hug from which there is no extrication from, usually given by a Glamis or a Glenisa to an attractive partner of a much younger relation.

Hasings
Presents wrapped in a ham-fisted and slapdash manner, indicative of a being done in rush, suggestive of a recently being undertaken after Sheet

Herstonceux
A cook who believes that what Christmas dinner lacks is the wow factor. And therefore convinces themselves that condensed milk glaze for the turkey together with balls of stuffing with centers of sherbet is going to achieve this.

Hipswell
The embarrassing dance at Christmas party that a Glenisa does, after which he proclaims “Oh yes, I’ve still got it.” when he just proved the very opposite.

Hurtiso
Accident caused by rather enthusiastic pulling of a Christmas cracker.

Huish Episcopi
Being introduced to your partner’s distant Eastern European relative whose name sounds like a Latin name for an infectious disease.

Hynish
Suppressed rage when exhorted to open something you’d wanted to do either a Worthington or a Littleworth to.

Kippax
Assorted excuses to avoid partaking in a Chlia which conceal the fact that is one is perfectly content to slob out in front of the television in an agreeably comfy chair, where it’s warm, and where one possibly snatch a bit of shut eye.

Lagganlia
Regression common in adults when entering childhood homes

Littleworth
Effusive thanks that conceal the fact that an unwanted present of little financial worth will be re-wrapped and passed on next year

Mark’s Cross
Usually following a gonalston, saying to your partner later that you’d have a far better chance of winning if you’d been playing on your own, and when the conversation becomes an argument, rashly suggesting that they were “mental pygmies who’re as thick as a whale omlette”

Maunby
A pervading sense that you are stuck with the most boring person at a Christmas party.

Memus
The trepidation one feels throughout Christmas dinner when an aged relative repeatedly accepts brussell sprouts and cabbage.

Minnigaff
When the person who made the Terrible Down realises their mistake and brings the call to an end to preserve their own good humour

Morphie
Despite everyone sharing the same opinion of the Dacre, when you cannot take anymore and challenge him on every point, displaying a knowledge they lack, the Dacre inexplicably becomes the recipient of everyone in the rooms’ sympathy.

Nasty
The sudden and almost violent gag reflex one experiences upon entering a toilet which someone has recently done aTrumpington in.

Neaton.
Presents wrapped in an overly elaborate and neat way, suggestive of an O.C.D.

Netherhoy
The cheerily effusive Christmas greeting that one gives to neighbours that one quite happily ignores for the rest of the year.

Nevern
When you meet your partner’s parents for the first time at Christmas and immediately know from looking at them that marriage is so not going to happen.

Patching
The art of decorating a Christmas tree that is twice the size of the one you normally have, using the same decorations.

Patchway
Concealing a Patchway by only decorating the front of the tree.

Phantassie
The Christmas truce between a married couple that are on the brink of divorce agree to in order to maintain the fiction that all is well when out visiting.

Sexhow
Even though they know you live together, your partners’ parents have seen fit to put you in single bedrooms located at the opposite ends of a creaky wooden hallway, of which their bedroom is located in the middle.

Readymoney Cove
A person who notes the disparity between the value of gifts given and those received, causing them to think they’ve been the victim of a Littleworth

Runtaleave
The belief that one can plant this years Christmas tree in the garden when finished with and dig it up and use it again next year.

Raggra
The suppressed anger one feels when, having given individual presents to a married couple and their children, one gets one in return.

Shatterling
The interval between you unwrapping a Christmas present, wearing it, and then it being permanently and prominently stained.

Sheet
Person who leaves it until Christmas Eve to all their Christmas shopping.

Swaffham
Guests to a Christmas party who bring cheap alcohol and then drink much better quality alcohol throughout.

Terrible Down
A phone call made by a caller on Christmas Day, throughout which they have to repeatedly shout in order to be heard over the sound of boisterous party, to wish a Happy Christmas to someone who clearly isn’t having one.

Trashbush
The amount of alcohol required so that a Glamis will permit a Glenis who has earlier done a Hipswell to have sex with her.

Trumpington
The noxious, prolonged and inevitable percussive accompaniment that follows soon thereafter a Memus.

Worthington
Effusive thanks which conceal the fact that an unwanted present of financial worth will be going on eBay, as soon as one can get online.

….and whatever – and whoever – you do, enjoy it….

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December 11, 2014

Is Ebola doing to humans what humanity has done to the planet…?

Charity is a wonderful thing. Indeed so wonderful that one cannot say a word against it. Therefore I’m going to say quite a few words against it, specifically the Band Aid 30 single, ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ (DTKIC) Leaving aside the rather obvious fact that the people currently suffering from Ebola are not likely to celebrate Christmas, there’s also the equally obvious fact that of course there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas, mainly because there never is! (Although, actually, it er…does, as I discovered after writing that, only hardly ever and winter for us isn’t winter for them.)

And don’t for one second imagine I’m making light of the very serious humanitarian crisis that’s facing everyone confronting the horror of Ebola. However, what I am making light of is the somewhat patronizing attitude of some ‘pop stars’ – admit it, you have no idea who the vast majority of them are either – who under the guise of seeking to do the right thing, do the right thing by their careers. Oh what a happy coincidence! Only a cynic of the very highest order would suggest of course, that all of the artists taking part have a vested interest in being seen as concerned individuals who are doing their bit to help – hey, they’re just people too, they watch and read the same news we do – which is all very laudable as far as it goes.

However, let us examine the actions of Bono.

Whilst he exults everyone to try and make poverty history, certainly no one can accuse him of not practicing what he preaches, insofar as he’s made his own poverty history. This, after all, is a man whose estimated net worth is $600m. And has transferred for more advantageous tax purposes, any payments to him from Ireland to the Netherlands thus reducing the amount of tax he is liable to pay. I am not suggesting that he has done anything illegal in this, but one wouldn’t have to be cynic to point out that someone who channels their income through a more tax efficient country is hardly best placed to pontificate about the need to eradicate debt. They say ‘charity begins at home’, which for Bono must be something of a headache, because he’d got three of them (and they’re not too shabby either!) Mind you, fairs fair, it’s his hard earned money, it’s up to him what he does with it but…

Equally I cannot find any information about exactly how much from every sale of ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ actually goes to help combating Ebola. Given that even if it was the full £3.50 – or 99p if you download it – it would still have to be a massive seller to make any substantial difference to charity. But the biggest selling record of this century sold 1,790,000 copies and if DTKIC equaled that, then it’d raise just shy of £6 million. Perhaps the assorted ear botherers’ could instead have each donated 1% of their income. That would have made considerably more money – Chris Morris time, only two minutes long this one! – and another thing, shouldn’t a charity single by definition, be given away for free?)

With this in mind one has to hand it to Adele, who was condemned in the press by Sir Bob for not taking part in his single. However it emerged that Adele had made a private and anonymous donation to Oxfam and that this was made in lieu of her taking part. Similarly Mark Zuckerberg (you know the Facebook bloke!), Zuckerberg faced criticism for not doing anything to help the victims of Ebola. Only for him to respond to that by pointing out that he donated $25m to the Ebola fight.

Lest you’re thinking I’m quite happy to criticize others but what has he done in the last few months? Well I’ve donated funds to the White Helmets – volunteers who race into bomb hit buildings in Syria to rescue survivors – so that they can purchase essential life saving equipment and I’d urge you to do the same and to ‘Save the Children’. I mention this only because when one considers my charitable giving as a proportion of my income –which is only benefits – I would contend that it’s much higher than Bono’s.

(Maybe Bono is heavily into charitable giving? He might be! And anyway, can’t you write it off as tax deductible?)

In a similar vein, one feels some sympathy for Katie Hopkins – the former Apprentice ‘star’ who was hired by ITV to be a controversialist on the This Morning programme. When she tweeted something entirely rational regarding Ebola – basically Ebola might be seen as a preventative check on population, citing the work of Malthus, – she was widely condemned on Twitter. But just not to be controversial or anything, but from a purely objective standpoint, when one considers the global population’s rate of increase and the effect on the planet, is it too far fetched to see what the Ebola is doing in Africa is small payback for what humanity is doing to the planet?

Equally there is the irony that this Christmas is going to be a boom time for retailers, with an estimated consumer spend of £90.7billion. This makes me think of Karl Marx, Robert Cialdini and Black Tuesday. Bear with me here. In his book, “Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion” Professor of Psychology, Cialdini identified six universal themes common to retailers to persuade consumers to buy. Scarcity was one such technique, by which he suggests that the less there is of something, the more we want it. This want, he elaborated, can be enhanced by time limited offers and discounts. And then one thinks of the chaotic pandemonium of Black Friday, where shoppers acted like savages in their desire to get a bargain. Given that, seven people have died in the U.S. during Black Friday bargain hunts, it puts a somewhat macabre meaning of, “It’s simply to die for, darling!”

Karl Marx predicted that the working class would become ‘the grave diggers’ of capitalism. Witnessing the scenes of mayhem over heavily discounted merchandise, one thinks not only that this capitalism at in its basest and simplest form, one thinks of the grave diggers Marx wrote about. And we spend more on sales than we do on saving lives. Indeed, shoppers are the grave diggers of capitalism.

Except that if you die of Ebola, your body has to be burned.

 

My next post will be altogether a lot jollier, as it is not the time one wants to think about less than cheery things, so it’ll be nothing more than a collection of Christmas Liffs. And as everyone wants to open their presents early, here’s a few….

Barmouth
The exact moment when the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Dacre
When a someone experiencing a Barmouth proceeds to boorishly hold forth on a subject on which they clearly know nothing about, but on which you have considered, reasoned and well thought opinions which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Fackenham
Name given to an expletive laden outburst traditionally heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Feckenham
Name given to an expletive laden outburst by householder one month after Christmas, upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that that partners relatives had taken the invitation “to treat this house as your own” rather too literally.

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December 7, 2014

The Bell’s Palsy diet. Extreme (but effective)…

Last Wednesday the NHS in Devon announced that they were restricting elective surgery for those who were morbidly obese. This was amongst a number of measures that they hoped would go some way towards having reduce their deficit of £14.5 million. Which kind of makes sense if you think about it. Someone needing elective surgery – that is a planned surgical procedure not an emergency – you would think would have a vested interest in maximizing their chances of a successful outcome. You might also think, that given that two-thirds of Britons are overweight and that the change needed to effect better surgical outcomes requires simple lifestyle choices, exactly how comfortable can comfort eating be when one is culinary challenged, the challenge being to say “No!” to food.

(At this point I must point out that I have very little sympathy for people who are no stranger to the light of the fridge at midnight and who consequently look like a bin bag full of yoghurt. If you find this and other comments about the abstemiously challenged distasteful – no, no, no, too obvious – I ask you this. Exactly which part of the first line I ever wrote on my first post did you not understand??)

Therefore in this spirit of wishing to do a public good I give reveal free to the world a revolutionary – some might say unorthodox – approach to dieting. It’s extreme but I say no to the wishy-washy and yes to the demonstrably effective. Because far too many fat people look as if there’s a thin person inside them waiting to get out, the problem being that they look like they’ve eaten the thin person. With this diet ones ability to consume what one used to is severely restricted. This state of affairs is however, not one you can opt out of and can last for some months. Ladles and jellypoons I give you the Bells Palsy diet.

Whilst I concede that temporary facial paralysis might be seen as a radical – some might say idiosyncratic – means to lose weight, as it can potentially be necessitated by having one of your eyes taped shut – seeing things properly isn’t really an argument against it. And not only does it reduce ones ability to eat, it also reduces ones desire to eat as well. It’s a win/win situation (or maybe that should be a thin/thin situation?) The N.H.S could deliberately infect people with it; namely the people you hope don’t sit in front of you on a long flight. With Bells Palsy, if you are lucky one side of your mouth is as much use as a eunuch at an orgy. By this I mean one side of the mouth is effectively on strike. The first intimation I had that anything was wrong with my face was a couple of Sundays ago, was when I was attempting to spit out some mouthwash. It felt like when one is at the dentists and the dentist has finished and invites you to gargle with some mouthwash and you spit it into a bowl provided. Even though you are consciously aware that your mouth has been numbed, you foolishly think it can’t be that bad. Until that is, you realize the mouthwash is dribbling down your chin.

Consequently, I eat only soft food and only then food that has been cut up into small chunks that I then carefully place in the right side of my mouth. If for some reason some the food makes a dash to the left side of my mouth then by a combination of either tilting my head to the right, or by a suction motion borne out of necessity, whereby I maneuver the errant food back on the right side of the mouth. However this suction motion proves that the law of unintentional consequences is undeniably true. Because when I engage in this suction, the noise that is produced invariably leads to what Avril calls ‘mouth farts.’ This occasions much hilarity on her part, but which for some reason I fail to see the funny side of. (Which is ironic, given that I frequently make much ruder and personal comments about her, yet expect her not to be in a grump about. Although to be fair, she hardly ever does.) And because I have no control of the left side of my mouth, food can get stuck there, without me always being aware. Therefore, I wash my teeth in the shower, for reasons of practicality when you consider the dentist comparison of my mouth action given previously.

One of the other less edifying aspects of temporary facial paralysis is that when you do manage to eat it can often feel as if I’m trying to paint using only my feet to hold the brushes; messy, humiliating and ultimately frustratingly annoying, with effort not matching reward. Having only one fully operational eye – because Bell’s Palsy also limits my spatial awareness – is much the same as having a blind spot, so as the eating utensil gets closer to your mouth, the less of the business end of it you can see. Thus it becomes a very messy affair and soon you grow bored of wearing and not eating your food. This again could be of some benefit to people who look like barrels with arms. Because, as we all know, a diet can be summed up in four words; eat less, do more. Everything else is just garnish, which of course you can eat on a diet because they’re low in calories. Another painful lesson concerns the exiting of what goes in. By necessity I can only eat soft foods, which by definition are not high in fibre with, wholly predictable results. (If any does know of a soft food that’s high in fibre, I implore you from the heart of my bottom to share your knowledge in the comment section) So Matthew has been making me high fibre smoothies which are not as worthily tasteless as they sound, containing as they do raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, various seeds, bananas, apples and orange juice. Right now I’ve urgently to take the kids to the pool because I can feel the smoothie working…..

I know I wrote a few posts back that the next series of posts would be about me coping with Bell’s Palsy, and I meant it then but I’m bored now, so next time…How the maxim ‘charity begins at home’ is true in the case of Bono, with his Dublin mansion, New York apartment (and not forgetting his beachfront villa on the French Riviera….)

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November 29, 2014

Misadventures with Bell’s Palsy…the ‘Pollyanna’ philosophy to life…

One of the many thorny issues I’ve wrestled with over the years has been the question of whether it is better to be stupid than clever. This has never been an idle speculation on my part. I’m quite serious. If one were stupid for example, one wouldn’t know they were stupid and they could just blunder through life without being troubled by any notion of consequence or foresight. They could exist quite happily, effectively unencumbered by any thoughts except those relating to their own immediate needs. Whereas an intelligent person possesses the mental acuity to discern what the likely consequence of an action might be and therefore decide if it’s in their best interests or not. A stupid person will just blunder on regardless whereas an intelligent person might weigh up the pros and cons.
Speaking of stupidity, this leads me nicely on to the fact that some of my relatives in Ireland – just to be clear, I’m saying that religious belief, not my relatives is stupid – have for some inexplicable reason taken it upon themselves to light candles and say prayers at churches for my speedy recovery. But given that I’m an atheist and make no secret of the fact – viewing religion as a fairy tale for grown ups – one questions who benefits from all of this? Perhaps they’re doing it to bask in the glow of a good deed, in this case the glow being the one candle gives off. Faith might be a great pop song, but otherwise it’s as much use as a cup of warm spit. One thing that I’ve always found deludingly contrary about some people is that whilst they condemn religion because of it’s lack of any evidence whatsoever, they somehow don’t subject homeopathy to the same evidential criteria. Have they heard about the placebo effect? Or regression to the mean, whereby almost 80% of all illnesses will get better without any intervention? But silly me, water has a memory, as proved by the glass in front of me which has a molecule that has a distant memory of once being turned into wine!
Anyway, you don’t want to read about all that!
No, I promised you unflinching details of my adventures with Bell’s Palsy and that’s what you’re about to get, although if you’re in a good mood, keep it that way by clicking here, here or here.
When I was in hospital, and the diagnosis of Bell’s Palsy was made, with it there came information, advice and a prescription. But if any mention was made of the crucial importance of keeping the eye lubricated by the constant application of creams and eye drops – because now I look like Patrick Moore with my left eye unable to close unassisted resulting in no blinking and thereby no natural lubrication of they eye – it didn’t register, and believe you me, I was paying attention!
It wasn’t a stroke, I thought! But close on its heels came the negative, ‘In what way is temporary facial paralysis good news? That it isn’t permanent facial paralysis? You’ve got a severe brain injury and now this. F*ck-a-doodle-do!’ That’s the great thing about hospitals, nowhere else is less bad than very bad news seen as good news. “Well, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been!” is a philosophy worthy of Pollyanna!
The application of cream and eye drops to keep they eyeball from drying out and risking long-term damage is in no way assisted by my lack of fine motor skills. With the cream, you apply a thin line to the lower rim of the eye socket. This requires precision and quick co-ordination, because the cream erupts as soon as the cap is removed and the cream has to be laid in a continuous movement along the rim without the nozzle actually touching the rim. As Bernard Manning once observed a different context, ”One young kiddy..cried all the water out of his body.” (If you’ve never seen the genius that is a Chris Morris wind up, please click, because the first time I saw this I laughed so much I nearly shat a cartwheel!) I would try and cry, if it wasn’t for the fact that my left eyes tear ducts seem to have joined most of the left side of my face, and gone on strike. Despite the heroic endeavors of Blue Eyes and Avril – who’s schlepped across London most nights to apply the cream – I nonetheless took myself up at Moorfields Eye Hospital on Wednesday.

I was in no small way getting increasingly concerned about the state of my eyeball and the way it felt, and I thought I needed a competent examination of my eye, so naturally I went to an eye hospital. During one eye examination I was asked to put one hand over my good eye and to read some letters off a wall with my left eye, only to discover that all I could see out of my left eye was a blurred image. The nurse bade me to take a seat and thoughts of permanent eye damage, which were coursing through my head with increasing dire outcomes, like a large gang of teenagers swarming through a bus, I realised with a sense of relief that Matthew – my support worker – had some minutes earlier put some cream into my eye and that this was a more likely explanation of my blurred vision. Although one good thing did come of it, inasmuch as it expedited my next examination. A young doctor who exuded calm authority examined my eyes and pronounced that there was no major eye damage. Naturally I thought ‘What about minor damage, what about that? Was there any? What is he not telling me?. With regard to me asking what was the best way to prevent the eye from drying out completely, he advised keeping it taped down as often as possible. Given that application of the cream is essential and also makes the skin below the eye greasy, this is not helped by the fact that none of the sticky tape isn’t that sticky. Taping the eye down sounds fine, until that is, one tries it! (Or given my lack of fine motor skills, someone else tries it.) I’d use gaffer tape, only I don’t want my eyelashes to come away each time the gaffer tape is removed. Or the top layer of skin – although that boat may have sailed by now.

On the subject of keeping my eyelid closed to prevent long term damage to the eyeball he suggested two options. The first one would involve stitching my eyelids together – sounds like an eminently logical solution to me, one to be considered. No, seriously! And as if to emphasise this point, Blue Eyes has just been engaged in the frustratingly exasperating activity of trying to tape my eyelid shut, using wholly ineffective tools! The biggest tool being me, of course! The second one would involve attaching a weight to my upper eyelid to drag it down somewhat. Naturally I thought of a Prince Albert, one could just swap the weight from one eye to the other.

Or as Blue Eye’s daughter – Little Miss Sunshine enquired when she looked at my face “Do the batteries in your eye not work?” As a way of explaining the effects of facial paralysis, batteries not working, is a delightfully simple way to explain something very complex.
Right now, it feels as if they’ll always be flat.

Next time…More misadventures with Bell’s Palsy, as a diet it’s extreme, but effective…

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November 22, 2014

Whereupon I’m taken by ambulance to hospital and proceed to impersonate a swan….

Undoubtedly, what will follow will contain many grammatical errors and mistakes, but once you are familiar with the cause of them, I’m hopeful of your tolerant indulgence.

For my last blog I had planned to highlight Ed Milliband’s absurd posturing with regard to the minimum wage, and also was also planning to use this snippet of Howard Beale to illustrate the dire economic times in which we live. Futhermore, I was also planning to rename Ed Milliband as Dead Wood, and thus compare him to Ed Wood, the film director, famous for making some of the worst films in Hollywood history. For this blog I was planning to elucidate upon the dichotomy of being offered rehabilitation when are you are least in the mood for it but then as John Lennon so famously observed, “Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans”. Which seems a highly apt line, given what did happen.

On Sunday 16th November, I was taken by ambulance to my local hospital (some context might be needed here!) Earlier that morning when I’d been brushing my teeth I noticed that one side of my mouth wasn’t working properly. For some wholly inexplicable reason I didn’t think this needed mentioning. Later on in the day Avril came over, took one look at my face and pronounced that something was wrong with it. I immediately thought ’Look who’s talking!’ but I could see the look of well intentioned concern on her face and as both she and Blue Eyes – my housemate who seems to (misguidedly!) think I am somehow worthy of her energy – examined my facial features. I knew that something wasn’t quite right, a feeling only heightened by being offered an Asprin! Doing what anyone who’s feeling a bit poorly is wont do, I repaired immediately to bed.

Avril took the opportunity to phone my local out of hours G.P and having explained the situation – namely that the left side of my face had seemed to lose all muscle integrity, she was advised to phone up NHS direct. This she did, only to be faced with a dilemma when asked to state her relationship to me. Avril and myself don’t discuss such matters, as I believe that if you engage in interminable discussions about the exact nature of your relationship one ends up destroying the thing one wanted to discuss. This puts me in mind of a conversation I had with a support worker Julie some time ago. Julie had enquired as to what exactly the nature of my relationship with Avril was. “Were we a couple?” she asked. I phoned up Avril and repeated the question that Julie had asked me. I left a suitable pause and then said “I told her yes, that we’re a couple, a couple of c*nts!” Julie was understandably unsure whether to laugh at his or not, but the bellowing laugher that gushed from the phone reassured her.  Avril has on many occasions said that the day she met me was the worst day of her life and that I am her nemesis. Equally, she has also said that I’m an emotional psychopath. Avril said nothing of this to NHS direct instead resorting to the simple and understandable moniker of partner. Describing my symptoms they in turn advised her to phone the London Ambulance Service. She phoned them and soon an ambulance was dispatched. I can’t fault the ambulance crew. Their calm, assured professionalism had an immediate restorative effect, which I immediately dispelled, when in the ambulance I remarked to Avril that the last time she’d been in an ambulance with me I’d flat lined and nearly died. Understandably she wasn’t keen to reminisce upon that experience.

After the short journey to my local A&E I bypassed the waiting room and was instead placed in the treatment area where upon the ambulance crew gave a handover report to the sister on duty. After a couple of minutes I was shown into a cubicle. Then the fun really started! First of all a nurse came and asked me to raise up my t-shirt to which she exclaimed “You’ve got chest hair, this will hurt!” As she applied sticky pads at various points on my chest and abdomen, she then got a tangle mess of cables and then deftly connected each cable to a sticker. There was a machine behind my head onto which the information from my body was being displayed. Thankfully I couldn’t see it.

A doctor came to see me sometime later and Avril explained more of what she had seen and that I had experienced a severe brain injury sometime before, in case the doctor thought that all of my current symptoms were a result of this present episode. A nurse then entered and took my blood pressure. It was higher than on the previous two other occasions and I thought, ‘What the f*ck is my body doing to me?” As good luck would have it, it was about this time that Blue Eyes appeared. A little later on the doctor arrived with a consultant and they were both peering into my face with a look of dispassionate professionalism combined with a learning opportunity. What I was suffering from was either neurological or viral, they concluded, and the only way to establish for certain either way was to order a CT scan. I was whisked out of A&E and into a clinical decision unit where I waited for my CT scan. Avril joined me up there amazed to find out that I’d already had my CT scan. Then Blue Eyes returned with the wholly welcome news that an inability to close one eye independent of the other was a sign of Bell’s palsy. Up until then I’d been fearful that it had to mean a stroke and was doing a good impersonation of a swan – above the water all calm serenity but below the water furious activity.

In my case, exuding stoicism, but feeling petrified (of which more in the posts to follow). News that there was a possibility that it might not be a stroke is hard to over emphasise exactly how much relief that gave. Then another consultant came back with the results of my CT scan and asked if it was alright for Avril and Blue Eyes to hear the results. And I thought, these two who have done so much for me so selflessly and tirelessly, of course they have every right. This thought was highlighted by the occupant of the bed a few away form me (but not, as it turned out, phew enough!), who was having the loudest and most pungent enema, one that should not be experienced in an confined space. The consultant explained that the CT scan had proved that it wasn’t a stroke and that it was Bell’s palsy– a condition that affects facial muscles, resulting in temporary paralysis on one side of the face. She asked me a load of questions but being able to see a way out by just answering “No.” to everything she asked – thereby minimizing the likelihood of prolonged interrogation and the possibility an overnight stay – this seemed the most prudent course of action.

Eventually I was discharged and sent home.

Now hopefully you’ll understand if there are any errors or mistakes in the above account. Whilst I wrote in my opening blog that I would alternate between topics of wider relevance and topics relating only to me, given that this has happened to me, I think this is more worthy of your time than reading about me pontificating about wider issues. So the next few blog entries will be taken up with this, my ‘fun’ with temporary facial paralysis.

And also, because the Bell’s palsy affects my eyesight quite grievously, rendering me temporarily unable to look at a computer screen for any significant amount of time, what you are reading, and until further notice, will have been dictated.

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November 7, 2014

Principles are like ethics. And morals. Fine words than rarely translate into deeds………

Principles are great. One can agree with a principle – and defend it staunchly – without having the frankly tiresome necessity of having to translate word into deed. In this respect agreeing with a principle is akin to promising something, whilst crossing your fingers behind your back. Same goes for ethics. And morals. You fully believe in it when you say it, but once the words have escaped your mouth, reality has a habit of proving itself very disagreeable. One can make all the right sounding noise such that you seem, at first impression a good egg.

But if one applies the words into deeds maxim however….

A fine example of this took place on the Today programme on BBC Radio 4 on Wednesday 29th of October. (forward it to 1:50:14, or you can trust me to give you the précis.) In the interview, both David Pearson, President of the Association of Directors of Adult Social Services, and Colin Angel, Policy Director of the U.K. Home Care Association – essentially representing the employers and the employed – both agreed with the principle that workers should be paid the minimum wage, but given the nature care work regrettably, it wasn’t always possible to pay them for their entire shift, only for the hours actually worked. There was also some deft buck passing with Pearson explaining that care was bought and provided in allocated blocks of time and therefore it wasn’t possible to pay travelling expenses. They could only spend what the budget allowed and cuts to budgets have meant that provision of care had been prioritised. The interviewer pointed out the rather glaringly obvious fact that paying people only for the work they actually did, and not for the totality of their working day, meant a substantial reduction in pay.

This state of affairs has had a practical impact upon me; my previous care agency was the preferred provider of my local council. In order to save money they too didn’t pay for travelling between shifts, and as you know public transport is a highly reliable way of getting from A to B. When I complained to a carer that she was massively late for her evening shift with me one evening, she showed me her rota. The end time of the previous shift some distance away was also the start time of her shift with me. Was she expected to have mastered the art of time travel and get from one part of London to another instantaneously? I was put in mind of this when the manager of my present care agency came for a review of my needs the other day. He mentioned in passing that he was experiencing difficulties in getting suitably competent staff. Yes, he had a plethora of bright young things that had freshly graduated from university with qualifications and a belief that by being positive, they could change the world.

But such optimism cut no ice with their ‘clients’ who by dint of being ‘clients’ in the first place, had been hit repeatedly by the arrows of outrageous fortune. And their age and background was, I observed, hardly that of the people they were meant to support. (For instance ALL of my support workers have been much younger than me, some worryingly so. Meeting them for the first time, to see if you like them is like speed dating. Except without the potential for sex, of course. They make all the right noises (oh you smutty reader!), are unfailingly polite and are keen, to the point of sycophancy, to agree with pretty much everything I say. Oh the fun an outrageous comment delivered deadpan can have!)

As he was lamenting this state of affairs, in such a way that one might be forgiven for thinking that recruitment was wholly out of his control I suggested that a presentation where one graph showed the demographic of the clients over which was layered a graph showing the demographic of the employees might focus the minds of more senior staff. Perish the notion that not paying travelling time, coupled with a low hourly rate, might in some way have any bearing on the type of candidates they attract. As I was thinking this, I remembered a conversation I’d had a week earlier with Julie, my support worker, in which she said that she hadn’t had a pay rise in four years. And that her partner had been looking on Gumtree and had spotted an advertisement for the agency offering new starters a higher hourly rate. She was idly speculating that she might leave, wait a few months and then rejoin.

This got me thinking. Firstly, that if your staff never meet, then they can’t organise themselves to press for a pay rise. And second, I calculated that if you multiplied the minimum hourly shift they accept hours by a conservative number of clients, and then multiply that number by the weeks in the year and then multiply this by the management fee, the resulting number was staggering. Someone somewhere is making a lot of money; unfortunately it isn’t the support workers who actually do the work. I was forcibly reminded of this only today, when I was asking my other support worker Mathew, about any extra payments for Christmas working only to discover that permanent staff qualify for enhanced pay at Christmas or weekends. To no ones surprise permanent applies exclusively to office staff.

As my support workers don’t get paid if I give advanced notification of a holiday – they only get paid if I cancel a shift within twenty-four hours of the shift starting – naturally whenever I go away I let my support workers know in good time and I cancel each shift so they get paid. I was not surprised to learn that this isn’t a common practice, because to me, not to ask the question which in this case is ‘what happens to you when I cancel?’ is no excuse. You can’t claim ignorance, if you can’t be bothered to ascertain what the consequence of your action might be. This gave rise to a situation where a support worker that had benefited repeatedly from this largesse got promoted to the office and at the very next review meeting I was instructed that this practice must come to an end. Talk about pulling the ladder up!
The explanation given severely tested my ability not to burst out laughing, for it was claimed the support workers wanted to work their shifts and were disappointed if they couldn’t. Mmmm, it’s a tough one….either one gets paid and can do whatever they want with their day or one can go to work, which one would you choose?

Next time……..never mind the rise in the ‘living’ wage being harmful to business, what about being harmful to those in the business of living……?

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