FofF = Flights of Fancy

When I was at junior school, there were certain maths problems we had to solve. One was along the lines of, if you need 30 people to do 90 tasks and 10 people to do 30, how many people do you need to do 60 tasks? 

The answer of course is 20.

Here’s a follow-up question. If 3/5 of your staff are off sick at any one time during a pandemic, compared with only 1/5 when there’s no pandemic, how many staff should you hire for (answers in brackets):

a) 90 tasks in normal times  (38, or 37.5 if you’re a purist)
b) 30 tasks during a pandemic  (25)
c) 60 tasks during normal times  (25)
d) 60 tasks during a pandemic  (50)

Monty Python strikes again

I’ve just read about the scandal at the Shrewsbury and Telford Hospital NHS Trust, where over 200 babies and nine mothers died and others were left with appalling injuries and mental trauma. These statistics undoubtedly understate the true picture nationwide.

I’m not the first person to comment that these mummies, bairns and their families were victims of a Modern Midwifery Mantra that ‘natural childbirth is best’ i.e. you go against Mother Nature at your peril. However, it’s more than a mantra; it’s an obsession – an obsession with an unproven theory, a fad. Worse. It’s a moral crusade to teach the world that health professionals and their cronies know best, and the rest of us are ignorant if not morally bereft. They unquestionably believe that experiencing natural childbirth in all its glories (and goriness?) is best for bonding. Mums and dads don’t know that because they haven’t been on the courses, read the books, aren’t immersed in ‘the culture’ so they won’t understand. Never fear. Midwives are here to rescue the uninitiated. Show them the light. Hand them the Holy Grail.

Reparations, Republics and Realpolitik

I used to enjoy Royal tours. They were joyous, relaxing (for observers) spectacles. A chance for the UK to shine vicariously through the smiles, deference, handshakes, hats, bouquets and frock-changes of Her Maj or any one of our numerous HRHs. Behind the scenes, investments were discussed, deals were struck, and everyone parted the best of friends, a little bit richer in ways other than money.

But this Caribbean trip is irritating the hell out of me. If it’s not Kate’s garish gowns shoe-horned around her too-skinny frame (eat some carbs, Girl, and strap on a pair of kilos), it’s her jaw-aching, wrinkle-inducing grin-à-la-Joker, or Will’s self-flagellating hand-wringing over our colonial past, serving sycophancy to the historically ignorant and ammo to the opportunistic who no longer want his Granny (or his Dad or him) as Head of State. More than anything, they want ‘reparations’.

It'll all end in tears.

Oh, what a lovely war!

Some might think it’s ‘sick’ to be light-hearted at the expense of the war in Ukraine. However, if the Ukrainian army can play “Don’t worry, be happy” in front of military barricades to keep their spirits up, then I can engage my weird and not universally loved sense of humour as a morale (if not a moral) booster.

Traumatic as it is, the war in Ukraine appeared to have united Europe, and united Britain and Europe, apart from a few wobbles early on when the Germans seemed to care more about their gas supplies than the lives of innocents, this united front was going swimmingly. We all managed to put aside our differences so that the EU could do its thing and the UK could do its thing independently and free from EU shackles, thanks to Defence Secretary Ben Wallace. He has outshone Foreign Secretary Liz Truss just as Michael Gove outshone Home Secretary Priti Patel. Not the finest hour for the ladies, is it. (I can say that; the men can’t.)

The Clown Prince and the Lord

I’m sure Hollywood will make a film about this; it’s full of intrigue, red herrings, outlandish personalities and a dead dog. They can even nick my title if they want, reminiscent of the Olivier/Monroe classic The Prince and the Showgirl.

The storyline is about BoJo forcing through a Lordship for one of his Russian oligarch chums in 2020. It’s topical on many fronts – BoJo bashing, oligarch bashing, unelected-upper-house bashing. I sense I’m supposed to find BoJo guilty on all counts – cronyism, security-breaching, hypocrisy, elitism, another party-gate (he enjoyed Olly-Oligarch’s hospitality) – but as evidenced in my previous blogs, while I can admit to BoJo’s failings, I can’t help but forgive him because the lovable rogue got Brexit done.

Don't forget about Zimbabwe

Here’s a mind game for you – what do net zero, Ukraine and Zimbabwe have in common? We’ll need a couple of other mind games to figure that one out.

Despite throwing my ha’penny-worth behind the net-zero aspirations of politicians, businesses and fellow environmental campaigners, I’ve persistently counselled against prioritising net zero as the be-all and end-all of policy making. Indeed, on occasions I appear to argue against net zero, the proposed Whitehaven coal mine being a case in point (mentioned in not one but two previous blogs, so I won’t bang on about it again here).

I argue thus, because carbon-induced climate change is just one existential threat facing humanity – sorry, the planet. There’s also dwindling biodiversity, toxic pollution, nuclear warfare, biological warfare, any warfare, pandemics, food insecurity, energy insecurity, antibiotic dependency ... 

A week is a long time

Last Sunday, I took umbrage at the Sunday Times for an opinion piece that dismissed me, most of my friends and acquaintances, and thousands of other decent, law-abiding, intelligent, compassionate, conscientious people as Nimbys, because we object to the destruction of farmland, ripping up of trees, blighting of landscapes and spewing of greenhouse gases by building homes (mostly of dubious quality) and roads and warehouses in numbers we don’t need in locations that can’t accommodate them, because the Sunday Times, politicians and planners don’t understand the economics of the housing market, how to level up, nor the symbiotic relationship between all things nature and human wellbeing.

When it comes to long sentences, eat your heart out, Samuel Johnson.

By contrast, this week I’m the newspaper's biggest fan because of an article by Matthew Syed.  

Silver Linings

I could have entitled this blog “God moves in mysterious ways” but I thought the “G” word might offend some people. So I’ll stick with “Ag”, i.e. silver, a chemical element with the symbol Ag (from the Latin argentum), a soft, white, lustrous transition metal exhibiting the highest electrical conductivity, thermal conductivity, and reflectivity of any metal. Now you know. (Thanks, Wiki.)

You might recall that last August I had my shoulder bionic-ed (a.k.a. torn rotator cuff sorted), which necessitated slings, opiates (yum yum) and not driving for eight weeks (not so yum yum). All in all, it was a procedure full of pain, angst, inconvenience and constipation, the downside (or cloud) of the opiates, but one upshot (or silver lining) was that Hubby learned how to make flapjacks, although he never got the hang of the difference between whisking and folding for a sponge cake.

Climate change is like Brexit

The conveyor belt of storms pummelling Britain during the last few days has once again begged the question: is this evidence of climate change?

Advocates say yes. Deniers say no.

The Man in Black

I’m not a fan of ‘tribute’ acts. I prefer the real thing (the concept, not the 1970’s British soul group). I like the occasional Country Music song, but generally get bored with the migraine-inducing twangs of Tammy Wynette, incessant vibrato of Dolly Parton, or the brow-puckering, tear-jerking, gravelly audience-manipulation of Kenny Rogers.

So when Hubby said he wanted to go to a Johnny Cash tribute act in Milton Keynes yesterday evening, I suggested he take our neighbour and I’d dog-sit. I was sure I could get some gin-flavoured Purina for him. But I relented and off we went, storm Eunice? Eustace? Eunuch? well and truly past its worst but still playing havoc with my broadband connection so no point staying at home.

One helluva week

And it’s only Wednesday evening! 

I feel like I’ve attended a white-privilege awareness session, double-needlework with Miss Brown, the bitchiest teacher ever, and been stuck on a slow-moving train from Euston with drunken Watford fans crying incessantly about how they was robbed, which is a bit daft because, to be robbed, you should have something worthwhile to lose in the first place, and we are talking Watford here.

That aside, in between being berated, bitched-about and bawled-at, I’ve read, researched, written and re-organised so much, my brain is demanding a Bank Holiday.

It's Valentine's Day, but ...

Despite being sandwiched between National Tortellini Day (Celiacs look away now) on February 13th and, ironically, Singles Awareness Day on February 15th, Valentine’s Day has a much higher profile. I’m not making this stuff up – see What day is it?

The identity of the Saint who inspired this most hallowed occasion in our annual calendar is uncertain. One theory is that he died in Rome in the 3rd century (AD) and is the patron saint of lovers, epileptics, and beekeepers. Honest! Another claim to the fame is a Roman priest and physician who was martyred during the persecution of Christians by Emperor Claudius II Gothicus in about 270 AD. According to legend, St. Valentine signed a letter “from your Valentine” to his jailer’s daughter, whom he had befriended and healed from blindness. Another says Valentine defied the emperor’s orders and secretly married couples to spare the husbands from war. 

A toad surrounded by snakes

A good friend of mine thinks I left out some important issues from my “In defense of Boris?” blog of a couple of weeks ago.

One of those issues is The Leakers. They’re the real piss-takers.

The NHS almost killed me ...

... and I wasn’t even the patient.

Poor old Mum wasn’t well Friday afternoon so my sister, who was fortunately staying for the weekend, called 111. While this service has its detractors, we’ve been very impressed over the years, be it for an out-of-hours call-out, or an emergency prescription on a Sunday afternoon. Friday was no exception, and Mum ended the day with a solid diagnosis and a shed load of pills.

So far so good as far as the NHS is concerned.

Hair today, Hair-raising tomorrow

I was flicking through the local paper recently. Yes, flicking. I’m not interested in the MP’s latest photo opportunity at a non-event, or letters from Mrs Angry of Aylesbury who can’t string a coherent argument together, but the newspaper’s so desperate for copy they print it anyway, or a story about yet another damaged car thanks to yet another gigantic pothole, with Bucks Council trotting out it’s moronic response to everything: “We take these matters very seriously”.

So, flick, flick, flick …. Flick back again. 

What The Flick? Surely not. Hair discrimination? This I gotta read, if only because my blood pressure was a tad low that morning and reading something daft to perk it up was much easier than going for a brisk walk.

Now I'm backing Putin?

No. Not exactly.

But I have compared him favourably to Macron. Reason being, Macron is supposed to be an ally. A democratic soulmate. A peace-in-Europe advocate. A cultural cousin, sharing philosophical outlooks from Catholicism (not necessarily of the Roman variety) to the Enlightenment.

Putin on the other hand is, if not a true communist, certainly not a democrat. He’s not mad. He’s bad. Just look at how he treats the opposition. Novichok with your tea, anyone? Russians are mainly Orthodox Christians, and they never really ‘got’ the Enlightenment. Too busy fighting Napoleon, who was French by the way (well, Corsican, but close enough).

In defense of Boris?

No. Not exactly.

Even if BoJo didn’t technically break his own law, he broke the spirit of it, approved punishment for ordinary people who attended smaller social gatherings during lockdown, and then lied, lied and lied again, apologising only when there was nowhere else to go. Comparisons with Prince Andrew as being part of ‘the arrogant, entitled elite’ are surely not unkind. A failure of leadership and moral standing if ever there was one.

So that’s the end of this blog then.

Well, not exactly. 

Update on the baby-vomit

Yesterday I blogged about the yukky smell in my kitchen that I eventually worked out wasn’t rancid baby-vomit but a pint of double cream that had spilled into the reservoir behind and under the integrated fridge, inaccessible by definition.

The idea of a fridge reservoir is to catch the condensation that forms at the back of the fridge, which is then evaporated by a heating element so there is never any need to empty or clean it. And the idea of one whole pint of double cream heading into the reservoir, along with God-knows-how-much condensation, was quite a queasy thought.

Today's highlight was a funeral

Today didn’t start at all well. 

Coming down the stairs, I could smell what I can only describe as three-day-old baby vomit, bucketfuls of it. Bins need emptying, thought I. No they didn’t. Dishes need washing then. There were indeed a few in the sink, but only vegetably stuff from the previous evening. Something off in the fridge? Getting close. 

Shit Happens

The FT appears to have joined forces with the Guardian to bring down the privatised water industry because of untreated sewage polluting our rivers and coasts [i]^,[ii]. Basic journalistic principles of factual and balanced reporting are being sacrificed in favour of sensationalism, political bias and pandering to ill-informed public hysteria. Because shit sells; balance doesn’t.