If a 10 year old boy can....
- A future president or civil rights lawyer in the making? Oh, quite possibly. But even if not, it does make a change to read a positive story about young people...
FactCheck: TV charges at Selly Oak? - Channel 4 News (AKA Proof the BNP lies)
Not that proof is needed, but nice to know, all the same.
Now, what's on telly tonight?....
In Memoriam, Margaret Thatcher - EP
I would really like this for Christmas (I have it on order, btw). For Halloween would be good too. As soon as you like, really. Chop chop.
Meta-blogging
Not Always Right | Funny & Stupid Customer Quotes � Circle Of Strife
Ships that pass in the night...
Live Ships Map - AIS - Vessel Traffic and Positions
Betrayed by a loved one....
Custard Creams can kill: Official • The Register
...seven per cent of Britons have dropped a biscuit tin on their foot, three per cent have fallen off a chair reaching for vital nourishment, and an equal percentage have poked themselves in the eye with a biscuit.
Seven per cent admitted to have been bitten while feeding a tasty biscuit morsel to a pet or “other wild animal”. The most extreme example of biscuit-related mishap, however, was the case of the man who got stuck in wet concrete after wading in to retrieve a stray biccy.
Falling off a chair or poking oneself in the eye? Wading into concrete? These people do not deserve to eat biscuits. They malign the good name of biscuits. They make me fearful of the day when we will see official safety instructions and health warnings printed on the wrappers of biscuits. What other injuries can people sustain eating foodstuffs? Impaled by a baguette? Blinded by a prune? Garotted by a liquorice shoelace? I am fearful for the future of humanity, truly.
(I think I may have to have a cup of tea and ginger nut, I'm so upset. I'll eat it carefully, though, don't worry...)
Strange Meeting
"It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined..."
(My apologies to Wilfred Owen)
The Missing Link
Oh, indeed.
So, the Tories are trying to convince people of the panic-inspiring, bleak hopelessness of "Broken Britain"™ via analogy to cult, compelling TV programme "The Wire", are they?
Love Film? Who doesn't?
I apologise in advance. I am about to ask a favour - and I am going to be very blunt and upfront about it. So, here goes....
The Daily Mail: bringing vitriol to the masses since 1896
Lots of people arrive at this blog post looking for information on Karen Krizanovich & David Quantick's marriage. I would like to make it clear (if it isn't clear from this now dusty and mildewed post...) that I have no insight at all into their relationship past or present. I have no complaint about Ms Krizanovich choosing to write about her marriage. I don't like her persona or choice of material in this case, but that's personal taste. My gripe is with the Daily
Ye gods and little fishes. The Daily Mail is mean-spirited, smug little paper, isn't it?
Dr Teeth & The Electric Mayhem Band
A Strange "Ahhh" Moment (-not for ophidiophobics)
Not much to say, except, "bless".
Bless....
Hielan' Types
A Rare Info-mercial
Under the Weather
Why isn’t the opposite of disaffection “affection”? (and other anti-BNP/political thoughts)
Unfortunately, I am neither surprised nor incredulous at the election of two
Some of the factors involved in this sad event include the current frothing at the mouth over the Telegraph’s “revelations” regarding MPs expenses, ensuring the media-consuming public’s almost complete loss of faith in all mainstream parties and benefiting smaller parties who have had no part in the debacle (more due to not being elected to Westminster rather than any principle, methinks).
As much as I agree that there have been stupidly greedy- and just plain stupid- expenses claimed by MPs from all sides, I would have to say that I am more interested in fixing the system than castigating those who exploited it (although, can there be two words more certain to furrow the brow than “career politician”?) [ Former MP Tony Clarke has some very interesting views on how this problem can be avoided… http://tonyclarkeindependent.blogspot.com/2009/05/localism-is-key-to-cleaning-up-politics.html and no, they don’t involve shooting anyone, nor making pointless “protest” votes]
Let’s not forget the impact of The Labour Party’s version of “Murder on the Orient Express”, each minister taking it in turn to knife Gordon Brown back, front or anywhere they can reach. There is a kind of rough justice to it after Gordon’s long public sulk as Chancellor undermined laughing-boy Blair, but it has shown a divided and desperate-looking Government nonetheless: Gordon himself must be extremely rattled - after all, if you now count Peter Mandelson as on one of your allies you must know your time is limited, surely?
Add to this a general lack of understanding of what it is the European Parliament does, apart from regulate the curve of bananas and herd Eastern Europeans over the Channel in order to “steal our jobs” (and become our human-trafficked prostitutes, I suppose…) – an ignorance perpetuated by the mass media refusing to actually explain how and why Europe works , preferring to focus on the gossip of politics rather than the substance - is there any wonder that people don’t see the necessity of voting in the European elections ?
I don’t agree that the people of the
This isn’t to say we should do nothing and that the
It is a certainty that there will be a general election within the year. It is not a certainty that the
"...one auspicious and one dropping eye"
To be honest, I'm not completely sure I'd want anyone to be poet laureate (A poet for royal occasions? Really? In this day and age? Oh dear...) and yet there is something pleasing about still having a position of cultural importance for a poet at all. Generally, I prefer the Scots title (and role) of Makar, currently held by Edwin Morgan: it seems somewhat more of the people without being too portentous or indeed pretentious. However, continuing the tradition of laureate is still hopeful, culturally. It still says something about valuing poetry and the arts, language, and people who explore the feeling and thinking world and that can only be good.
Which brings me to the sadder part - the death of U A Fanthorpe - with painful irony the day before the first female laureate was announced. Fanthorpe was a contender for laureate after Ted Hughes, albeit a somewhat reluctant one (she even wrote a poem advocating another poet, Peter Porter). Never flashy or glamorous, her writing was technically beautiful and often wryly funny. The poetry world will feel her loss keenly.
ATLAS (by U A Fanthorpe)
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it
Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;
Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists
And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds
The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.
And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.
Intermittent Fault
It more or less began with news of the death of an old schoolfriend. We hadn't been close (or even in touch, really) for years, but the memory of him as a vibrant, talented, ambitious, gentle young man - how I remember him fifteen to twenty years ago - is so vivid it is hard to think of him as dead. I could carry on and eulogise but I won't: I don't think here's the place to be honest. I'm still considering writing a letter to his parents, but I'll save that for another time, maybe.
I didn't get the opportunity to go to his funeral. It was back in Norwich and I had work commitments in Scotland that I couldn't get out of. But I feel as though I've missed an important part of being able to share in the grief and share in the recollection of the good times we had with our shining boy.
Death has a funny way of getting you thinking. And although I'm doing OK in life (interesting job, pleasant home, great partner) there's still something nagging at me, jabbing me in the conscience and hissing about my failings: the things I haven't done, or dared to do; the things I never tried, or risked trying. Either I'll get round to them eventually, or they'll stay stuck like a drawing pin in a thin soled shoe: not quite breaking the skin but an irritation all the same. And that's my fault.
But here's hoping I have the luxury of time and a life in which to try. Life is often one drama after another, but there really isn't a dress rehearsal, there's not even a read through, it's just curtain up -some crying, shouting, laughing, singing and dancing- then curtain down.
Prospero:
The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Not sure it's what they had in mind...
Scotland has been running ads about the National Care Standards for a while... This particular ad, however, is particularly disconcerting.
- Surely I'm not the only one who is pretty darn sure that the National Care Standards weren't really set up to ensure the quality of "happy finishes" for its elderly gentleman service users? Or is it only me that seems to see that particular interpretation? Hmmmm
Idiopathic ( is not a portmanteau of Idiot and Psychopathic)
To be more precise, she has been very unwell indeed - headaches that have lasted for weeks on end, nausea, lethargy, disorientation, memory loss... the works, really. Of course, not all symptom came along at once: they have displayed a rather cruel and slow accretion, creeping up in greater force over time until they more or less threaten to take over.
I'll admit that although sympathetic, I haven't always been effusively so, in fact, at times I have been a right mardy old cow (-but then again, I was raised the old fashioned way: the threat of a wallop to the back of the legs with the spiky side of the hair brush if "I don't stop crying right now" and a "pull your socks up" approach that, on reflection, has done me a great deal of harm, actually... but I digress) but that has definitely changed in the light of last week's experience. I am now evangelistically sympathetic - probably to the point of irritation. And here's why.
M' beloved went to the docs last week to get the headaches checked out (after relentless and, frankly, snippy nagging from me to get it sorted). The doc, a new one to the practice, spotted straight away that there was something squiggy with the pupils of her eyes -they were each of different sizes - and made some worrying noises along with an immediate referral to a neurologist. Worrying. Some frantic googling of "unequal pupils" led to some scary home diagnoses. The next days' visit to the neurologist was met with apprehension to say the least.
And justifiably so, as it turns out. The neurologist was brisk in diagnosis and brutal in confirming it: a CT scan and a lumbar puncture would be needed to be sure - but it looks like Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension to him... long term risk of blindness, constant pain that sort of thing if not dealt with....
A lumbar puncture is not a lovely thing. It is a great big spike plunged into your spine. Your spine for fuck's sake! It took the docs eight (8!!!eleventy111!!!!) attempts to get a spinal fluid reading by which time m'beloved pretty much thought that blindness would be a reasonable outcome...
Even after being prescribed pills and being referred to an opthalmologist as well more trips to the neuro guys in the pipeline, M'beloved one is not feeling too crash hot: the after effects of having foot long spikes rammed into your spine 8 times cannot be understimated - a walloping great bruise, dizziness, nausea, tinnitus, a post-puncture headache, muscle strain from the after effects of partial paralyis caused by gallons (seemingly) of lidocaine being injected into her system as well as the side effects of the brain drugs... Oh yes, and the prospect of needing an "LP Patch" whereby blood is injected into each of the original puncture sites because there is a possibility that spinal fluid is still leaking should the headaches not stop (so far, they haven't.).
Anyhow... it has all put my own dizziness and nausea into perspective and I am keeping my fingers crossed that the drugs work and M'beloved doesn't go blind or live in constant pain and might even start feeling a touch better soon.
On an entirely different note - it probably is just me, but is there anyone else out there that thinks Riot Grrrrrl Lite P!nk looks more than a bit like Leticia "Sharon from Eastenders" Dean?
The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Night Time
"Miaoooooooooooooow? Miaoooow? Miaooooow? MIAOOOOOOOOOOW!?"
Plaintive, wailing and for hours at a time. Night after night. World without end.
Theo and I are doing the most scarily accurate impersonations of pandas at the moment. (You know, dark-ringed eyes? That sort of panda, not the red ones... although they are cute and furry and I do need to shave my legs...not that I'm that ginger, more a hint of chestnut... and it would be immodest and inaccurate to describe myself as cute, particularly as I'm in my late 30s and cute isn't generally an adjective that applies to someone crashing headlong into middle age...although I do have the general figure of a panda, sort of round and I quite like bamboo shoots, as long as they are in a nice gingery, garlicky, spring oniony sauce...but I digress...) Oh yes, and the lack of sleep is also not helping my concentration very much either, nor my temper or craving for sweet things.
Mew? Miaow? MIAAAAAAOOOOOOOWWW! *scratch scratch scratch*
Outside the bedroom door. Night after night. Ceaseless, relentless, tireless.
We had thought that we'd fixed the feline "vocalisations". We read almost everything on the subject and came up with a range of solutions. We tried knackering the furry bugger out with energetic play before bedtime; changing feeding time to encourage post-prandial snoozing; the administration of tryptophan-rich drops to food and -the one we thought had worked - the use of a pheremone diffuser.
"M-otherf*cking-IIIAOOOOOOW, human slaves! MIAOOW, MIAOW, MMMMMMIIIAAAAAAOOOOOOWWWWWW! *bwha ha ha...*"
The last week or so, the howling has been back with a vengeance. We had thought it might be down to a run-out diffuser, but we changed it and the howls continued.Theo and I are feeling haggard and despairing, wondering what the hell has set the fluffy one off again? Is it something we've done? Is she traumatised? In pain? Bored? Evil? What has happened that is making the howly-yowlyiness so urgent and persistent?
"Mew. Mew. Mew..."
I am thinking of looking for an exorcist, just in case she is possessed or haunted.
Next stop the V.E.T. for cat tranqs/anti-depressants...
- Do you think she knows this and is just after the drugs?
Civic Duty...
I've been called to be a juror at the local High Court. As you might imagine, I'm delighted by this. Joy unabounden. The prospect of having to spend days 0n end jammed in a courtroom listening to the grim details of some sordid crime fills me with the same sort of glee as paying a large bill or queueing - it's an irritation and yet I know it's something I have to do as a " good citizen".
It's not my first bout of jury duty either - I was called to the courts in Norwich during a long vacation at Uni. Then, I was terrified of the ordeal, imagining untold bloody horrors or worse - a re-enactment of scenes from Rumpole of the Bailey. In the end it was grim, but nowhere near as grim as I'd feared (in fact the worst bit was being holed up all day with my fellow jurors - I remember getting incensed at some random bloke's discussion of Star Trek:Voyager as being "that series with the 'ranga* woman and the sooty Vulcan" - the casual racism was the bit that did for me. And the dismissive sexism I was met with - being told I was being a silly little girl and to let the men speak - when I attempted to challenge him on it pretty much confirmed my worst fears of the jury system: the people who make decisions in juries just aren't equipped for the job of being dispassionate, disinterested and just. It's a miracle of the legal system that justice is ever done...)
Anyhow, it's not for a couple of weeks, but I thought I'd get my grump in early. I'm just hoping that even if I get called as a juror, I don't actually get picked to serve on a jury. (Of course, I will get picked - it's sod's law and one to which I am often susceptible. Grr...)
* 'ranga= orangutan- late 80's/ early 90's slang for person with red hair.
WTF?
(Extract from first draft...
"I went to school and stuff. Then I left school and I worked at a pizza place. It was alright. Then I entered a singing competition and won. Then I released a single and lots of people bought it, and I released another and more people bought it, even people in America. Then I sang an old song on top of a double decker bus in China. I sang with an old man who could play guitar a bit. It was very high up and I had a nice dress like a fairy princess. Then I sang another song that was by some sort of rock group but so it would sound different it sang it really, really slowly. Then I got paid lots of money to write about my life. The END. " )
Next - Sunday Roast Urban Kidman's Autobiography; "Things I Have Done in my Nappy: a life in pictures"
"Morris dancing 'extinction' fear"
No! Morris Dancing must be preserved! It's very nearly all the English have got left as a unique expression of Englishness!
Maybe if they remarketed it as a dangerous sport it would have more appeal... Or if the Morris outfits were to be re-fashioned by Wayne Hemingway or Paul Smith... Or if it didn't look quite so daft... Hmmm...
(BTW, Happy Slightly Soiled -but still within guarantee- New Year. The Seasonal Festivities thing all sort of happened in a blur - more of which some other time - but 2009 has started OK: long may it continue! Well, until 2010 at least...)