Weight for it!

Those who know me will know that I am, in a very mild way, very slightly, just a smidgeon, a tad, a particle, a tiny sliver, overweight.
(Those who don't know me can take my word for it, it's marginal!)

I've dieted, stopped drinking, exercised and even took up cycling, which for some reason meant my sanity departed and I twice (twice - Jesus!) did a London to Paris challenge for charity. The first one nearly killed me, the second one I almost enjoyed, but, and here I would like you to imagine the word 'but' in the biggest, blackest, most italicised letters conceivable, despite cycling between 3000 and 3500 miles per year for over two years, my weight stubbornly refused to go below a certain figure.
I could tell you what that figure is, but then I'd have to kill you, so for your sake I hope I don't accidentally let it slip.

And now, for a variety of reasons, starting with idleness, and continuing with variations on that theme, I have done no exercise for about 10 months. Consequently my weight is taking unfair advantage of my good nature, and creeping back up again.

In the normal course of events, that same idleness would mean I would take the obvious step - stop making the effort to step up onto the scales.

Unfortunately, in a fit of unspeakably dumb bravado, when I last lost a bit of weight, I took the unprecedented step of throwing away all my 'fat' clothes. If I put any more weight on, I will be reduced to skulking around the house in my kecks, unable to leave for fear of neighbourly ridicule and possible arrest for indecent exposure.

So I applied my not inconsiderable (but sadly underused) intellect to the problem, and have found said intellect to be in need of an overhaul, because it calculated the cost of replacing my wardrobe, and then it calculated the cost of the only possible alternative solution......and MADE ME JOIN A G...G....G....G oh God....GYM!!!!

Which is why later today  I shall go skulking into this 21st century version of the Spanish Inquisition's ('no-o-o-o-body expects the Spanish Inquisition') secret dungeon headquarters, and spend an hour or so being weighed, measured, tested, inducted, subducted, reducted, prodded, squeezed, pinched and otherwise made to suffer in the interests of not outgrowing my limited wardrobe.

Apparently, according to the very nice lady I spoke to on Wednesday, it will be good for me and make me feel better, fitter and healthier.

Which I imagine is exactly the kind of line Torquemada used to come out with in the 15th Century!

Are you over 30?

Congratulations to all the kids who were born in the 1920s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s!

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us and lived in houses made of asbestos.

They took aspirin, ate blue cheese and raw egg products, loads of bacon and processed meat, tuna from the can, and didn't get tested for diabetes and cervical cancer.

Then, after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with brightly-coloured lead-based paints.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets, and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets or shoes, and lets not even get started on the risks we took hitchhiking everywhere!

As kids we were taken everywhere in cars with no child seats, seat belts or air bags, and riding in the back of an open truck on a warm day was a special treat.

We drank water straight from a tap or a garden hose, and never from a bottle.

Take away food meant fish and chips - no pizza shops, MacDonalds, KFC, Burger Kings or Subway.

Even though the shops were all closed at 5.30pm and didn't open on weekends or bank holidays, somehow we didn't starve to death.

We'd share one bottle of soft drink with four friends, all drinking from that one bottle, and no-one ever actually died from doing this.

We ate cupcakes, white bread with real butter, and drank sugar-laden soft drinks, but we were never overweight because...

We were always outside running around                 and playing!

We would leave home in the morning and play outside all day, as long as we were back before the  streetlights came on.

No-one knew where we were or could contact us all day; and we were OK.

We spent hours building go-carts out of scraps and then ride them down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. We build tree houses and played in rivers with lead-painted toy cars and soldiers.

We didn't have Playstations, Nintendos, X-boxes, no video games, no videotaped films, no CDs, no surround sound, no mobile phones, no personal computers an no internet. we had flesh and blood friends and we went outside and played with them.

We fell out of trees, broke bones and knocked out teeth, and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.

We made mud pies from dirt, experimented with eating worms and insects, and they did not live inside us for ever.

You could only buy Easter Eggs and Hot Cross Buns at Easter.

In December there was only one festive holiday - Christmas, and everyone wished each other Merry Christmas, not Happy Holidays - and you could take it or leave it.

We were given air rifles and catapults for our 10th birthday, and drank radioactive milk from cows that had eaten grass covered in nuclear fallout from the Americans' atomic bomb tests in the 50s.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house, and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just shouted for them to come and play.

Rugby, football, netball and cricket teams had tryouts, and not everyone got on the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with the disappointment. Getting into the team was based on merit, not blackmail, corruption, threats from parents or guilt about the past.

Our teachers used to belt us with big sticks and leather and straps and bullies always ruled in the playground at school.

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

Our parents got married before they had children and didn't invent stupid names for their kids like Kiora, Blade, Brooklyn and Vanilla.

This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem-solvers and inventors ever!

The past 70 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all.

If you're over 30, you are one of that generation.

CONGRATULATIONS!

You might want to discuss this with others who have had the luck to grow up as real kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives, apparently for our own good.

And while you're at it, why not show it to your kids, so they'll know how brave their parents were.

Note - the large font is because I know what your eyes must be like at our age!

Dying - with or without help

Okay....

I know this is going to cause a bit of a stir (among both of my followers, and anyone who accidentally reads this and thinks 'Just for Fun' is a truthful headline), but I have for a long time believed that when my time comes, I have every right to decide when, where, how, and with whom I end my life.

I think, looking back, that I have held that belief for something like 35 - 40 years. 

And then, 10 or 12 years ago, I discovered an author name Terry Pratchett, who writes the most fantastic novels about a place called Discworld. I'm not going to try and tell you about the stories, because that would be like a frog trying to describe the sensations involved in skydiving naked strapped to Angelina Jolie.

But here's the thing about Terry - he was diagnosed three years ago with a rare form of Alzheimer's disease. It's incurable, physically painless, and will slowly rob him of everything that makes him Terry Pratchett. It will reduce him to the status of vegetable, but without the usefulness even of a courgette.

Terry has become a supporter of the charity Dignity in Dying, which advocates a form of suicide called 'assisted death', most famously sponsored by the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland, where assisted death is legal (as it is in Belgium, and in the states of Oregon and Washington in the US).

Please understand, we are not talking about euthanasia. Nobody gets to kill anyone else. No-one ends up dead unless they really, really want to. Dignitas employs, I imagine, an army of lawyers to ensure they are not accused (well, not successfully anyway) of killing anyone, and several doctors and psychiatrists to ensure that the people who go there wanting to die, really are sincere in their desire, aware of the consequences, not influenced by greedy and/or selfish family members, and mentally capable of understanding what they want to do. They also have to be physically capable of drinking the cocktail of barbiturates that put them, relatively painlessly, to death.

(If you want to know more about the details, google 'Dignitas' - its not a secret organisation).

The trouble is, if you leave it too long, especially with something like Alzheimers, you will be judged incapable of making the decision, and thus forced to wallow in your own pain and excrement until you clog it.

The BBC recently showed a program about Terry's research into  Dignitas, and showed the assisted death of a 71-year-old, Peter, suffering from Motor Neurone Disease. He knew his natural death would be painful, messy, undignified, and a huge burden on his family, so he decided to end his life before all that happened.

The program followed his progress through the fact-finding, the decision-making process, the discussion's with his wife, and his journey to Switzerland. It also covered his last moments after drinking the poison, and his eventual death.

Unfortunately, because assisted death is illegal in Britain, he had to go to Switzerland. In order to be physically able to make the journey, he had to decide to die much earlier than if he had been able to do it here in the UK.

There is much bullshit and misconception in the press at the moment about Peter's death. 

In his dying moments he asked for water, and the Dignitas employee overseeing his passing refused it. Predictably the British press has accused her, in near rabidly-racist language [the Teutonic executioner is one phrase I've heard used] of cruelty. But a little research shows that had he had a drink at that stage, two things could have happened: he could have choked and drowned, as his body was already shutting down at this stage, and his swallow-reflex may already have failed; or the water could have diluted the poison, preventing it from killing him, but destroying his stomach lining, liver and bowel. There was much propaganda of this type - twisting and spinning the facts to make for good headlines.

And of course, equally predictably, the do-gooders, liberals, left wing pinko pillocks and plain stupid buggers have been out in force, whinging that the program didn't provide a balanced view. Why should it. It wasn't a program exploring the various points of view about assisted dying - it was a program about Terry Pratchett's investigation into assisted dying. There was nothing sinister about the fact that it only portrayed one viewpoint - that's just the only viewpoint Terry has!

So what is the truth?

The European Bill of Rights gives every citizen the right of self-determination - you have the absolute right to decide when and how you die.

It gives everyone the protection of not being the subject of legalised euthanasia - at no point does anyone ever have the right to terminate someone else's life.

It gives us all the protection that no-one is allowed to 'facilitate' the death of another person.

Dignitas abides by the letter of the law, even to the point of saying words to the effect that 'if you drink that you will die - do you understand' just before you pick up the glass and drink.

The point about this little rant is that the only person who knows how much you are suffering, is you.

The only person who is entitled to a point of view about how and when you die, is you.

The only person with the absolute right to terminate your life, is you.

Don't let the self-centred, egotistical bastards in Westminster take away that right - because they will, if they think they can!

If you are ever going to stand up for your rights - that is the one to stand up for.

PS How can it be legal to pull the plug on someone's life support machine when they are unable to say whether that's what they want or not, and yet illegal to inject that same person with an overdose of barbiturates to end their suffering?

Answers on a postcard, please, or leave a comment.

In the meantime, I'm off to bed in the hope that when I get up tomorrow at 6.30, I might actually be awake!

Toodle-pip, constant reader...

     

It's a long way to...

Well, I didn't go to Tipperary, fine place that it is, but I did go to Scotland, 556 miles each way - up on Friday, back on Sunday, with a very alcoholic Saturday in between.

The occasion was an very old and dear friend's tenth wedding anniversary, together with his impending passage through the gates of hell which are one's 60th birthday.
I don't know for sure, of course, being considerably further away from my own particular rite of passage, but I have been told that if those parts that generally wear out happen to still be working after your 50th, your 60th is when they definitely say sayonara, turn to stone/mush, and stop working, possibly for ever.

But on a happier note, we had one hell of a ceilidh, complete with kilted dancers, Gay Gordons and 23 distinct brands of Scotch - many of which I felt it my duty to sample. I had intended making a list of them, and reviewing each one on this very page, giving marks out of ten, using phrases such as '...the subtle, smoky smell of peaty glens...' (whatever that means) but, alas, I had one too many (well maybe several), and all such good intentions fell by the wayside. Although, thankfully, I stayed upright.

Not only did we go to Scotland for the weekend, we left our as yet unfinished (still) kitchen in the capable hands of the kitchen fitters, hoping to come back to find that only the floor was still awaiting. Alas, it was not to be, but we are assured it will be finished this week, the floor will go down on Saturday and the final touch - those all important skirting boards to hide the crappy plasterwork at the bottom of the walls, will be done on Monday.
At this point, I feel compelled to point out that breath-holding in the face of rash promises can be damaging to your health.

As indeed can walking around on Liskeard's fine streets. Walking up from the town centre last week, we had to sidestep rather smartly around two large, imposing motorbikes (Suzaha, or Yamuki, or some such) which were manoeuvring around on the pavement trying to park in order to use the cash machine. When people made various comments and gestures suggesting that they were a cylinder short of a four-block, they grumbled a bit (in a very amateurish way, being relatively young) and drove 50 yards along the pavement, where they parked side by side, completely blocking it, 20 yards from the bank's carpark! 
OY - TOSSERS - NO-O-O-O-O-O!


And finally to ISPs - Internet Service Providers - or perhaps Inbred Self-abusing Pillocks. I'm sure we all have our favourite horror stories about them, so I'm not going to bore you with the afternoon I've just spent trying to work out what was wrong with my broadband after I replaced the cable connecting the router to the phone socket. I'm not going to repeat the effing and blinding I did when first I was connected then I wasn't. And I'm certainly not going to tell you what I called my ISP when I discovered that it was them that was having a problem not me. Oh no - why should I do all the work.

Instead, why don't you tell me about your problems. I just need to know someone else out there gets as annoyed, and as positively despairing, about modern technology as I do. So go on - tell me all about it, it'll make you feel better. (Well, it will make me feel better anyway!)

Bye for now, peeps!

PS For those of my readership who care about such things, the comment moderation has been removed, so feel free to say whatever you wish - I've upgraded it to an 'adult' blog in anticipation of lots of childish name-calling and swearing.

It's been a rough couple of days, but with the aid of a good friend (who shall remain nameless, but to whom I shall refer as 'Johnny Walker Black' for convenience) I have survived and triumphed.

The kitchen, which was supposed to be finished within three weeks, has so far taken five, and looks pretty well set to go on into, and probably to the end of, week six;

The brakes on my 4x4 (NB In Cornwall, 4x4 vehicles, or SUVs as they are sometimes called, are not a class status symbol, Chelsea Tractor, or any other derogatory term you can think of - they are at best the norm, at worst the only way to get from A to B in the winter - if you have a problem with that...[makes noise like blowing raspberry, only ruder!]), which were only relined in January, feel like a couple of badly made Victoria sponges being applied to the back of a frying pan;

The cost of my heating oil has reached a point where 750 litres costs enough to plunge a third world nation into 'throw yourself out of the window' levels of debt;

I can't quite put the finishing touches to the quarterly magazine/newsletter I publish for National Coastwatch.

In fact, so much s**t has found its way onto the fan, I've found myself crossing over into some sort of limbo (and dodging a lot of s**t!).

However....

I ate, and enjoyed, a meal at Morrisons cafe last night;

I got up at 0715 (over an hour earlier than normal), with a smile on my face, a spring in my step (well, a step anyway) and didn't even swear when the kitchen guy phoned to say he'd be late, and then didn't show up;

I got stuck into and enjoyed preparing year end accounts for one of my clients, updating the school website, and trying to make sense of various emails that arrived overnight;

In fact I was enjoying things so much, I almost, almost, didn't notice the teensy-weensy hangover that accompanied most of my morning. And of course, a hangover suggests that I may have overdone it last night.

Which might explain why I woke up in the wee small hours on the settee, with my head cranked over at a neck-breaking angle, and my unslippered feet resting precariously on the edge of the coffee table. And the dogs looking at me in adoration, as due to my, what shall we call it....indulgence, they'd been forced to spend the night in the luxury of the carpeted living-room, rather than the draughty floor of the pantry where they usually kip.

Well, I suppose I shouldn't complain. But hell, if I don't complain, people will think I'm Mr NiceGuy. I'm not. I'm a miserable old sod - and in about 14 months I will officially be allowed to become Grumpy Old Man (as opposed to Dirty Old Man, whose mantle I took on in 2002!).

And that is what this blog is all about - practice. Practice for the down-turned corners of the mouth, the querulous, whining voice, and the inability to speak without using the phrase 'when I was your age...'.

Sleep well, casual readers and followers - you either know what I mean, or you have the joys of age yet to come.

Good night.

A Better Day

Wow!

Much better today.

For one thing the sun was shining - and although my natural habitat is an office chair, wanly lit by the glow from my iMac's screen, with the gentle sound of trickling Scotch to lull me into my afternoon nap, even I enjoyed going out for  a walk with 'Erself and the dogs, and feeling the warmth of natural sunlight on my face.

Plus, we sold the caravan, thus engendering the temporary, and very dangerously misleading feeling of being quite well off.

Here is the offending beast...


It was a great van while we had it, but unfortunately we didn't get to use it anywhere near enough, so we gave it its freedom and let someone else take it for outings and fresh air.

Also, the kitchen took a huge leap forward. Whoa! Steady there...what I mean is they fitted the worktops and the appliances and sink - although we can't currently use the sink till the silicon sealant goes off, thereby casting into the land of 'I'm not sure I heard that right' their claim that as at the close of business today we have a functioning kitchen. But never mind - I've done the man-thing of turning everything on, making sure it all gets very hot, lights up,  and beeps, then turning it all off again! By Christ, it's powerful stuff this...um...manstuff!

It's now the very early hours of this Saturday morn, very far down this bottle of Morrison's scotch, and amazingly close to when I will have to get up and repeat the whole futile business of life, all over again, so I'm off to bed, perchance to dream, and almost (almost!) certainly to wake up again soon.

Tomorrow is another day,

Sleep well, gentle reader....

So today I started...

I've decided I need somewhere to unload, unwind and generally get shot of the angst that builds up during your average working day, and also to share the good stuff when it happens.

Not that I work - depending who you talk to I'm retired, I swan around doing sod all, or I'm a lazy git.
But that's all a bit unfair - I don't do paid work, but I do a lot of work for a charity, the National Coastwatch Institution - but more of them on another occasion.

I have also recently started designing websites, but please - don't come and ask me to do yours for you.
Although I think I'm OK at it, I am an amateur, and so far all I've done is the local school site - www.dariteprimaryschool.moonfruit.com - which I'm quite please with; one for its sister-school - www.lanliveryprimaryschool.moonfruit.com - which is still pretty much a work in progress, and I've just taken on my first paid project. (I'll point you at that one when it's finished.)

Between those things, retirement isn't the alcohol-preserved joyride I was expecting it to be - I work but I don't have any money, I have responsibilities but no rewards, I have stress but no-one to shout at - and that, gentle blog-reader is where you come in.

When the need strikes, I will come here and have a rant about whatever's bugging me. May be little things, might be large, could be be earth-shattering, probably won't matter a damn, but it will be bugging me.

Between-times, I'll try and post some nice gentle stuff; stuff that will bring a smile to your face, a little light to your existence, or maybe a belly-laugh to make you feel better!

But not today!! Today things wound me up...

Like the woman at Hannafore (Looe) beach today. Voice like a 30-fags-a-day town crier, IQ somewhere around the same number as her age, bawling at the top of her voice at her kid, equally gifted, who was completely blanking her. Why? Why not just walk over to him (oh, yeah, there's the first problem when you're 5'6" and weigh about 200lbs), explain to him why hurling rocks at seagulls isn't considered particularly 'green', and haul him off back to wherever he spends his spare time and lock him in the coalshed.

Why let everyone within half a mile know that you're a big, brassy, loudmouthed chav with no control over your big, loudmouthed, unattractive brood?

I don't think it enhanced anyone's afternoon, and it got me into trouble with 'Erself for expressing a rude and derogatory opinion!

C'est la vie. There, I feel better now, and tomorrow will be another day.

Farewell till next time,