Karen Woo

The news has recently reported the tragic death in Afganistan of a young doctor whilst travelling back from treating patients in outlying regions.

Her name was Dr Karen Woo, and she had a blog, which I've just read.

It's good.

She died along with nine other people in what was either a robbery or a vague politico-religious assault, but was definitely an unjustified and deeply stupid attack showing an utter lack of respect for life by the perpetrators.

I have no supernatural faith, no religion, no belief in an afterlife, and I've never seen or read any evidence that humans have a soul or a spirit or any purpose other than that which we have created for ourselves, or that we are anything more or less than beautifully evolved biological mechanisms.

What we do have is a life.

Whatever happens, and for however long that life is, what can never be taken away is the simple fact that we existed, and will always have existed.

Taking life is far easier than preventing someone dying, and Dr Woo lived on the far side of the moral spectrum from her murderers.

Sometimes, I'm not lighthearted.

No apologies.

Order and chaos

Whilst utilising the ablutionary facilities at our local hospital following a satisfying poo, I couldn't help but notice a noticeable notice informing me that something was Out Of Order.

Having re-read that sentence, two things have just occurred to me. The first is that the provision of such information could be classified as a bit on the "too much" side, and the second is the possibility that I might have given the impression I have to go to hospital to have a poo.

Let me put your feverish minds at rest, because I don't have to. In fact, the finest pooologist in the hospital* has told me, repeatedly, that I don't need to go there any more, and that maybe I shouldn't have been all these years anyway, and furthermore my argument incorporating the outrageous expense of paper and the dearth of dock leaves in my garden isn't considered a medical emergency by even the most eminent gastrointestinal specialists, apparently.

There. Now if, as in modern kid parlance, that is considered "TMI" then so is informing everyone of the most mundane detail of my life, like how I like to slam my willy in the fridge door whilst balancing a frying pan full of eggs on my head.

And that's just a domestic chore essentially.

Ooh, a digression. Did you see that? Just there. Yeah, I know.

Now where was I?

Oh yes, the Out of Order sign. Well, it wasn't the notice itself that prickled my curiosity, but it's location:

It was just taped to the wall.

I prodded the wall, but it seemed to be working. I looked above and below the sign, but there was naught to be seen but a cockroach, and that also seemed to be functioning normally.

Maybe the whole room was Out of Order. If so, a janitor was going to have a nasty surprise in the morning after my visit.

Perhaps it was out of numerical order.

1,2,3,4,toilet,9,10.

Maybe it was angry, that sort of out of order.

"Poo in me would ya! Why I oughta . . ."

Maybe it was misspelled and should have read Out Of Ordure, or possibly Out of Odour?

Well, I certainly fixed either of them possibilities.

Fixed 'em good.

Then it occurred to me that, perhaps, the Out Of Order notice was for a window, which was so out of order it had completely disappeared. You don't get less workable as a window than a solid wall.

That totally makes sense BTW.

After the usual hour or so of contemplation you get sitting on the lav, it occurred to me that the wall was, in fact, simply a storage facility for the Out Of Order sign, rather than out of order itself.

This is quite interesting because it makes one consider the difficulties in placing an unrequired Out of Order sign in an appropriate place, without it causing that place to then be rendered unused.

To conclude, I really shouldn't post after three quarters of a bottle of Vin de Pays d'Oc and an empty stomach.



*Dirty Rosita, in Laundry Services.

Healthy beating

When one is contemplating health issues, the first thing I like to be aware of is my pituitary gland:

Well, not the first thing, obviously.

Like everyone else, the first thing is my adrenal cortex. One should take care of that.

"How ya doin' there little buddy? Kidneys treating you all right? Giving you some support? Good. Very good. Let me know if they give you any gyp, and I'll have a word. They sometimes like to take the piss. Keep up the exciting work."

The above poster, strangely in the toilet at work, is from The Pituitary Foundation, which aims to increase awareness of the functions of the pituitary gland and raise money for people suffering from pituitary disorders.

They've not really chosen the easiest of charities to publicise. With medical issues, like telly and politics, people have limited attention spans and only like or understand a single issue at a time.

Pretty easy if you're going for one of the biggies, like STROKE! Or even something that is wide ranging but can be summed up in one emotive word. Like CANCER! Or a more popular choice, such as HEART ATTACK! All of these benefit from being (relatively) simple to comprehend, and the fact that Uncle Bob's funny turn happened to be one of them, or all of them.

Poor dizzy, lumpy, clutchy Uncle Bob.

The pituitary gland just does too much . . . stuff.

Feeling hungry That'll be the pituitary gland. Horny? Pituitary gland. Angry? A certain P. Gland. Sad? Have a guess. Begins with P. Ends in Ituitary gland. Too tall? Too fat? Diabetic? Blood pressure problems? Too Hot? Too cold? Not lactating when you should be? Lactating when you shouldn't be? And so on and so forth.

Gregory House MD (a fictional medical reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes portrayed by Bertie Wooster off of on the telly) would probably solve most of his cases a bit quicker if he just growled "Pit-oo-it-erry glend" at his underlings, cos it's probably going to have something to do with their problem. Then they could do all the tests and doctoring and what-not in order to find a cure while he does something spectacularly mean to the patient which turns out to be for the patient's own good because, although he's grumpy, deep down he's on the cusp of regaining his faith in human nature, and it's only been five or six series so, you know, early days.

I like House.

It's not Pituitary's fault though. I mean, no self respecting gland would take on all that responsibility when it could just kick back and chillax as a minor endocrine gland, occasionally churning out a hormone when it feels like it, or maybe as a passive sort of tissue which fulfils it's role just by being there. Like hair.

Man, hair has it easy.

But no, the pituitary gland has been around for such a long time, evolutionarily speaking, that it's just got more and more important in controlling so many basic functions of the body. That's the problem with doing your best in any job. If you show you're good at sweeping up, some bugger will come along and give you a bigger broom. Or put you in charge of hydroregulation in the human body.

It's an argument for doing you averagest in any given position.

The only upside is the cool epithet it has earned itself. "The Master Gland". How awesome is that?

That really, was the gist of this quick post. I like to impart some wisdom in my day to day dealings with the world, and today's lesson is; "Never Do Your Best"

Otherwise, you might end up looking like a complete master gland.

Time flies like a banana.

I can't believe it's the end of June already and this month I've done a grand total of two posts.

Two?

Nothing wrong with two. As an amount, it is often perfectly adequate. Two scoops of ice cream, great. Two athletic lingerie models in bed, no argument from me there. As a euphemism, a number two is very hand for talking to old people about bowel movements. As a number, it's quite useful as a segregation between one and three, who have to be kept separate as they are a bit odd.

As a quantity of blog posts over a month though - unacceptable. Before the Department of Blogging demands I commit seppuku, I really should get another one in.

So, what else have I been doing to make bloggaging such a rare event? Something exciting, and awesome, maybe involving ninjas and pirates and bears and T. rexes with laser beams coming out of their freaking eyes, possibly?

Well, there's . . . er . . . work, obviously, and overtime, which is also work, and there's chores, and parenting duties such as playschool and swimming for my son, and letting the baby Bonobo gnaw on my finger with her gums, whilst she presumably tries to cover her entire body in some sort of spit cocoon to protect herself against predators and I wonder if my finger will ever revert back to an unwrinkled state.

Other than that . . ?

Well, that appears to be everything.

Looks like I can safely hang up my Cloak of Fun and the Spangly Top Hat of Adult Orientated Entertainment, because I'm now sporting the Beige Slacks of Parental Encumbrance and the Sensible Cardigan of Steadfast Culpability.

I expect one day, when I've done my ninth Sudoku in a row and am just about to spend some hours deciding whether to have semolina or rice pudding for dessert before Nurse notices I'm out of bed again, I'll look back on this hectic period as the halcyon days, as my prime, maybe as some of the happiest times of my life.

At the moment though, I just feel knackered.

Still, famous for my rock-like stoicism, I understand that harping on about not having enough hours in the day is ungrateful, so I will never mention it or complain about it, and I definitely won't do something as needy and self-serving as moan about it in a blog or something.

But that's only because I don't have time to write the damn thing.

Moving on.

I walked into town a few days ago to visit the supermarket (yawn), the post office (double yawn) and the bank (gaping, Herculean yawn seen just prior to descent into vegetative state from sheer lack of interest in the subject at hand), and remembered that, once, I took pleasure from taking random photos in order to post them on The Gravel Farm.

It occurred to me that I hadn't done that for a while, and now I am more likely to simply power walk my way to a destination, head down to avoid distraction so I can calculate the most efficient route from start to finish that will enable me to complete the journey ahead as effectively as possible, much like a German tourist in a particularly beautiful location.

Well, not today, I thought, rebelling. Just like when I was a teenager and rebelled against my strict hierarchical upbringing by trying a lager rather than a bitter, and not caring if my Dad found out and threatened to disown me.

Turns out he's tried lager too, although it was when he was young and impressionable.

On this walk, I would revert to earlier days, when I was blogging more frequently and could go out with the sole purpose of looking around for pictographic opportunities.

So, head up, phone out, camera on!

Ooh, a kitty!

Cats are usually good for a laugh, gambolling playfully on the pavement and often rolling over to show you their fluffy tummies, ready for some hard core petting action. What with the popularity of lolcats and their ilk, a cute pussy pic would be just the tonic for this blog.

I drew closer, and photographed my very own lolcat:

Ew . . .

Trust me to find possibly the most depressed looking feline this side of Korea.

It blinked at me, first the left eye then, a couple of seconds later, the right eye, and through pitiful cat tears it tried bravely to meow, but all that came out was "heehurgh." Like a tiny, overworked donkey.

Not wanting to lower my mood, I hastily left Waitingtodiecat on it's driveway, dreaming of past glories and a healthy if long gone youth, back in the day before it began to look like one of it's own fur balls, and I made my way to town with a forced cheery grin.

My town (which is essentially a large village) is famous round these parts for having a sizable population of people whose primary choice of locomotion is the mobility scooter. There is even a mobility scooter parade at christmas.

Seriously.

Scooters get dressed up in tinsel and reindeer antlers and are allowed to weave their unsteady way up the high street, occasionally having to be unstuck from drain covers by bemused onlookers, the usual questionable quality of driving being exacerbated by seasonal advocaat and sherry consumption.

Anyway, today, it was sunny and, parade or not, there were still a lot of them about. Usually piloted by elderly folk enjoying the sunshine by wearing their flimsiest raincoats and least padded woolly hats, their only concession to the heat of June being gigantic plastic sunglasses that are designed to go over their usual spectacles and hinder their view even further as they trace a sinuous track on road and path.

You take your life in your hands wandering along the High Street when such scooter gangs are on the prowl.

Like Hell's Angels, they also individualise their mounts. A sticker here, a novelty toy there, maybe a silver skull with red LEDs in the eye sockets, that sort of thing.

One in particular caught my eye, as it denoted not only a modification that made it instantly recognisable to its owner, but it was a cheap, practical application as well:

That, friends, is a wooden bread bin nailed on the front.

I have to tell you that it took all of my resolve not to open it and see what he kept in there. I was presuming bread, for duck-feeding purposes, but I wouldn't have been as surprised as perhaps I should have been had it contained a human head. I resisted, on grounds of not wanting to be seen by one of the owner's homies and made a target for scooter revenge. A man can die from repeated shin-knocks you know. My Nan told me.

Ancient cats and mobility scooters brought the ephemerality of life starkly into focus, and I mused on the fact that, that if we're very lucky, we have a few years of vigour and youth, before all too soon the ravages of time take away everything that is good and everything that is bad.

*Heavy sigh*

Still, not to worry. As the old and undoubtedly wise proverb goes, this too shall pass.

Useful for helping one keep perspective is that. Suffering mightily? It'll pass. Overly elated? This too shall pass.

From such, one can draw the deepest, most philosophical and meaningful of conclusions about existence, and life in general.

"This too shall pass."

Life is like . . . a colon?

That'll do.

Lies, damn lies, and blogs.

The dedicated blogsmith Argentum Vulgaris over at Life is Just Like That, decided that I deserved a meme, although I don't know what I ever did to him.

To add insult to injury, this meme is called Creative Blogger, and indicates that I am full of lies and falsehoods.

Fair enough.

It's got a picture and everything, so it's all legit and official, probably approved by the Dept of Blogging (DoB), one of the few governmental bodies that will not face any spending cuts over the next few years of austerity due to it's inherent importance to the country and world in general:

See.

Unfortunately, I had a warning letter from the DoB saying I was being lax in responding to memes and, should I wish to avoid "penalties", then I'd better get on with it. I dread to think what those penalties might be, what with the awesome and almost infinite autonomy granted to the DoB, so it was a threat I took seriously.

So, apologies to AV for the delay, and here goes.

There are some rules that one must obey when responding to this meme, and I shall copy and paste them here:

She swooned at the very sight of his length, rising before her eyes like a tantalising promise, expanding towards her so she could see nothing else, think of nothing else, even smell nothing else. She moistened immediately, the gush so intense that surely he must have heard it, could see the need advertised in her flushed cheeks. She didn't care. She parted her lips in anticipation as she locked her gaze on to his. No more waiting, she thought. No more good behaviour. No more self-restraint. She wanted it in her, now. A man of considerable experience, he knew it instinctively, and without being told, slid the baguette into a bag and passed it over the counter to her. Wantonly, she took a bite before she'd even left the shop.

Hang on. Wrong window. That was bakery porn.

Here we go:

• Thank the person who gave this to you.
• Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
• Link to the person who nominated you.
• Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth – or – switch it around and tell six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie.
• Nominate seven “Creative Writers” who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
• Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
• Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

So, a big, unmitigated Thank You I Suppose goes out to our Brazilian sponsor Mr Argentum Vulgaris, blogger extraordinaire.

Second requirement, done and dusted at the top there.

Third. Okay, six porkies and one truth, or vice versa.

1) I've published a number of bakery porn novels under the nom de plume Sir V. Ette.

2) My middle name is Danger. And my other middle name is Mouse.

3) Sometimes I do not never use no double negatives.

4) I invented the moon. The orbiting satellite, not the method by which one exposes one's nether regions to motorists from the back of a bus, because that would be just silly.

5) I once spent three months killing rats on the Galapagos islands.

6) I have had a number one classical hit on both sides of the Atlantic with a rendition of all four Ring of the Neibelung pieces played entirely on kazoo. It's how Dickie Wagner would've envisaged it had kazoos been more available to composers in his day.

7) I thought Deathpoof by Quentin Tarantino was a good, original example of film-making and completely not a self-absorbed, badly-written piece of cinematic self-pleasuring with dialogue and acting more suited to a sixth form play than the big screen, and that the director completely wasn't resting on his laurels and relying on past glories to get it funded. Definitely.

There you go.

I've carefully crafted the lie(s) so you'll find it hard to tell which is truth and which is the opposite of truth. I feel that the tortuousness of the task will increase the satisfaction you will feel when you unravel the untruths and filter out the fiction, allowing you to bask in the positively Holmesian machinations your brain will have undertaken to solve this mystery.

You can then move on to one of those daytime telly quiz questions where they ask equally fiendish brain teasers with multiple choice solutions. Like "What is your name? Is it A) your name, B) someone elses name, or C) a pizza?"

The Gravel Farm is all about self-improvement see.

Personally, I quite enjoy doing the odd meme, but I feel like I've pressured enough of my valuable blog chums just by making them read mine, so I think I'll renege on the last part of the meme and take the punishment from the Dept of Blogging.

I understand they have powers not seen since the inquisition, so I'm being ever so brave really.

Just the one

Ooh . . .

Just got me . . . thing out. Not me thing. Me thingy. You know.

Phone.

The computer is all hard to get to at the moment, wobbling about like that.

Ffffffffssssss . . .

What did I want to write.

Diet?

Yes! Diet. On it. Sgoin well. Haven't lost any weight yet cos I keep buying kebabs, but I'm sticking to it. Proof is in the photo.

Just come home for a spot of lunch.

Got to go now.

Back.

To work . . .

Nnnnn . . .

Drink It In

I used to enjoy exercise.

No, really.

Until the arrival of some time-sapping pseudoparasites* I was keen on squash, a regular gym bunny and could often be seen cycling hither and yon, sometimes via thither.

Then, things of a procreative nature occurred*.

Suddenly your gym membership lapses and you don't renew it, your cobwebbed bike gets put in the garage and gradually retreats further behind the mower and miscellaneous boxes of gardening and DIY detritus, and Ol' Thunder the squash racquet gets mounted on red velvet in a glass case and hung above the ornate fireplace in the main hall, alongside the swords of your ancestors, the blood-stained notches on it's handle the only clue to your past conquests.

And you get porky.

Despite your being permanently tired, parenthood comes with the irritating side effect of apparently using up no calories whatsoever.

I am now usually awake for about 18 hours in every twenty-four, so one might presume I'd have time to get super productive. Time not just to clean, feed and entertain tiny humans*, but also to enjoy myself, maybe play a bit of sport, socialise with people so they don't forget who I am, maybe finish my spoon.

But no.

Those long hours of wakefulness are like the most volatile of substances, sublimating into the ether like dry ice in a pop video from 1985. The minutes gurgle rapidly and unstoppably down the temporal plughole of reality whilst the tadpole of life swims against the current of fate in the bath of futility, desperately hoping to avoid the dragonfly larva of destiny.

You have to schedule in a poo and a cup of tea three days ahead.

Regular exercise is not an option at the moment, which leads to the dilemma of how does one lose some of that excess chunk?

The ugly spectre of Dieting rears it's skeletal head and winks a sunken eyelid at me.

Which is a shame because I like food even more than I like exercise.

So, if I must, how to go about it? Do I want to join Weight Watchers? No, because it sounds like a specialist porn site for chubby chasers. Do I want to count calories? No, because that sounds more boring than the history of plywood. Do I want to be organised about it? No, because that would involve being organised about it.

Food would be more easy to avoid if it looked like evil sci-fi characters. One dunk of a Dorito in some guacamole and Shazam! :

Jabba the Dip stares at you accusingly, as if telling you that this was how he started.

In general, I just need to cut down on some stuff. Be a bit more aware of unhealthy things I'm choffing and not choff them quite so much. With this in mind I poured myself a lager, sat down and had a think about what to give up.

Chocolate? I eat a couple of bars a week. Dips like Jabba up there? More of an occasional treat than a bad habit. Puddings? Not that many. Takeaways? Had my first curry in three and a half weeks a few days ago, so not much help there. I took a swig of Kronenburg to help me concentrate.

Ah . . .

Lager is quite calorific. My favourite beer is currently Poacher's Choice, which sends both my taste buds and my liver into little shivery tremors of joy. I presume the liver tremors are joy anyway. This beer is fairly hefty both in terms of booze content and calories.

I suppose I could . . . cut . . . down . . .

Oof! No no no. Let's not go down such avenues of desperation, I thought. Draining my glass, I decided it was time to get some help, and referred the subject on to the wife, who is wise in the way of food. She was in her cushion room, making fans and doilies, possibly.

"No exercises. Too fat. Make better." I explained.

She nodded, always approving of brevity in explanations. She got the gist, realising that I might conceivably benefit from losing weight, but without doing exercise, so what could I possibly give up to facilitate such a transformation.

Don't say beer, I thought at her.

"Well," she said, looking at a small cheese and tomato sandwich I was predating for my lunch. "You do actually eat fairly healthily."

"I do." I agreed, thinking don't say beer, don't say beer.

"So we need to look at something you maybe do have a bit too much of, don't we?"

"S'pose." I concurred magnanimously. Don't say beer. Do NOT say beer. Beer in this context is not what I want to hear.

"You could perhaps cut down on . . ."

Doritos? Mars bars? Lettuce. Oh sweet baby Moses let it be lettuce.

"B . . ."

Burgers? Boursin? Bite sized Shredded Wheat?

." . .Be . . ."

Beans? Benecol? Beastiality? Wait, none of them are fattening.

" . . . Bee . . ."

Beetroot? Bee vomit? That's honey? I could give up honey I suppose. As long as it's not . . .

" . . . Beer?"

Oh cock.

I gave her my most vitriolic of glares, and she asked if I needed some Preparation H, so I flounced off as she retreated back into the cushion room, shaking her head.

The trouble is, she's right.

So, the iron rod of reason smacks down onto the simpleton's forehead of resistance, ensuring the contra-coup injury of realisation results in the persistent vegetative state of acquiescence.

I have to cut down on beer.

There is no sad faced emoticon sad faced enough to depict how sad faced the emoticon I want to put here is but, take my word for it, it's pretty sad faced.

I reluctantly agree and come to the conclusion that, if beer's not there, I probably won't drink it, so I'm not buying any for the house.

The beer cupboard can go back to being called the fridge.

Despite my sacrifices and my general spurning of all things hedonisitc, I am not, as many people have wondered, an ascetic monk. Beer has been with me for a long time. It stands to reason that I'm going to need something to reduce the separation anxiety. With this firmly in mind, I went to the supermarket and examined alternatives.

Happily, they had exactly the thing to take my mind off beer:

Whisky!

As long as I have a decent bottle of single malt in the house, I shall not want for more calorific beverages, so this is practically a new diet plan all on it's own.

I might market it and call it the Proprietary Innovative Sure Slim Ethanolic Diversionary technique for weight loss.

It has a catchy acronym so I should make a killing.



* Children.