Paris

Life is complicated. Living it is easy. Put one foot in front of another, breathe in, breathe out, drink, blink, eat, pee, poo, sleep, work, play, laugh, cry. And then it's over.

There is more, of course. Aspiration. The latest smartphone, TV, games console, car, a house, family, friends, safety.

And then there's freedom.

Those of us who have it are incredibly lucky. Yet still we moan about the overreaching of the states we live in. Surveillance everywhere, taxes for female sanitary items, too many traffic wardens…

Imagine being invaded by a foreign power, your independence taken away, large men with brutal attitudes and frightening weapons always in your face for reasons you cannot understand. Imagine your school, your playground, hospital, workplace, all rendered unusable by decades of conflict. Imagine your home bulldozed one day just because someone wants the plot of land it sits on. Imagine a peaceful day broken by a knock on the roof, followed only minutes later by the destruction of your home, your neighbourhood.

Imagine all of this for every day of your life, no hiding place, no security, no hope of ever influencing the people who so callously disregard you. No hope of ever getting them to change their attitudes, so in thrall are they to the bigots who elect them and pay for their advanced weapons systems.

I cannot.

I cannot begin to imagine my life being shaped by the influences that cause someone to become a terrorist. But what I can do is attempt to at least understand why.

I'm not about to start down that road right now, not in a blog post. Mine isn't a knee-jerk reaction shaped by the latest news, the cause forgotten about in a desire to have someone else do something about it. Something quick. Retribution.

Even in my comfortable existence I've not forgotten one fact, apparently beyond the wit of a sizeable proportion of the people commenting on the Paris killings of Friday 13th November 2015… And all the other atrocities carried out in the past in the name of our freedoms to give us our comfortable lives.

It's a statement that covers a multitude of 'sins.'

Religions don't kill people, people kill people.

Bucket (2015-10-17)

We're supposed to prepare a bucket list* – stuff we'd like to do, accomplish, experience before meeting the Grim Reaper, kicking the proverbial bucket. Death, it's something to be prepared for, not by winding one's life down but by living it.

Right, here's my first public list, starting with the things I've done already:

  • Visit the USA. (Five times.)
  • Visit Canada, see Niagara Falls. (Once.)
  • Visit Egypt. (Twice.)
  • Visit Amsterdam, see the red-light district. (Half-done, probably the only man alive to fail at this simple task.)
  • Visit Bruges, see Hieronymous Bosch's triptych. (Twice and once.)
  • Propose marriage somewhere extraordinarily romantic in the most romantic way imaginable. (Not in a port on a ferry! Maybe prior to a renewal of vows?)
  • Get married, have 2.4 children, get comfortable. (2 girls, currently 3 pets, comfortable is years away.)
  • Visit somewhere hot, chill out for 2 weeks. (We got married, honeymooned in Antigua, I nearly relaxed.)
  • See live NFL American Football. (Cleveland Browns.)
  • See live US College Football. (Bowling Green.)
  • See live Friday night high school Football. (Wauseon OH.)
  • Stand in front of a piece of art that won't let me go, (Cleveland, a typical Mark Rothko piece, 3 horizontal bands, perfect.)
  • Visit London, England. (I'd seen Washington DC, Ottawa, Cairo, Edinburgh, Cardiff – but not my native country's very own capital city, at least not until literally 2 weeks prior to this post!)
  • Try the cats' food to see if it's 'good enough.) (Don't try this at home children!)

Unfulfilled ambitions:

  • Read my copy of 'things to do now you're 50' and do some of those things now I am,
  • Get a UK Premier League football season ticket and redevelop a familiarity with the sport. (I used to have a Championship-level one with Burnley FC),
  • Learn to swim. (To join my family in the pool),
  • Ride a camel, (Egypt would be favourite, when 'things' settle),
  • Triage my science fiction collection, broaden my horizons,
  • Clear out the garage, even though a car will not fit,
  • Regain the patience to read again. (I used to have a voracious appetite for books, it's passed on to my oldest daughter),
  • Visit at least 2 more European countries. (Italy for my wife [she wants to see Florence, I want to visit Pompeii] and France [e.g. Euro Disney]),
  • Save up for a cruise (mini cruises across to Europe do not count),
  • Reduce my reliance on technology,
  • Live a little…

Now-impossible:

  • Become a pilot, spaceman, cowboy.
  • Turn back the clock to study for and get a university mechanical engineering degree, for a somewhat different career. (Or leave home to work for the UK Ordnance Survey as a cartographer.)
  • See Talking Heads play live. Anywhere.

Not complete, for this is a first draft at a point half-way through my life.**

Do you know something, I've been bloody lucky.


* Thanks to @bsag on App.net for providing the inspiration for this post. Just a few words, but so well-timed.

** Ha! I should be so lucky.

Lendl

All I can think of right now is Ivan Lendl's sex face.

I'm sorry to bring this up.

I should go and cook hotdogs for the girls, perhaps that'll take my mind off it?

Baz’s Law

The probability that footnotes could be added to a social media post* whilst retaining meaningful content in at least 2 component parts is proportional to the number of available characters per new post but tends towards zero below 256.

Barrie Turner. (@bazbt3)

Version 1.0, 2015-03-09.


*The separation between email, social media posts and instant messages is not as rigid as in the Internet's infancy. The word 'post' is used here both for brevity's sake and to limit this document's terms of reference.

Lubricant

We have a new liquid handwash. It's supposed to be scientifically formulated to minimise odours but doesn't quite get there. Now is not the time to mention the smells I'm…

The stuff inside the pump dispenser has an odd aroma – not fresh, not citrus-y or forest-y, not sensual or traditional, not exotically fruity, nor any combination of the preceding – just odd.

Around 40 years ago, before my family temporarily moved out during our home's refurbishment, my dad owned a lathe. It was fascinating and dangerous and, as a 0-10 year old, I wasn't allowed anywhere near it of course. Of course that didn't stop me from fiddling and, though I never turned a thing on it, it generated an obsession that…

Even without power, turning the chuck by hand, adjusting the gear train ratios to alter the shaft speeds and to sense the changed torque necessary to… heck even opening the main inspection panel was…

Its lubricating oil had a unique smell that fixed itself to my consciousness and remains with me to this day. Once it got on my fingers it was nigh-on impossible to shift that smell. I was extraordinarily careful to never get it on my sleeves – and of course failed.

Oh the irony of a thing supposed to shift smells evoking a memory of one so difficult to shift. Anyway, when we moved out, the lathe was sold.

This handwash alone hasn't just resurrected one memory, oh no. If I had a suitable metaphor to describe the oddness of what I'm feeling right now I'd use it. One after another, recollections are cascading towards me and, for the most part, they're good.

Just one thing stands out though – looking back it appears my dad really didn't understand my left-handedness.

Challenging

No. I'm not participating in a public fundraiser. I'm not challenging anyone else to do it, nor am I demanding they forfeit large sums of money if they fail.

A lot of people won't bother to ask what the Ice Bucket Challenge is for, concentrating merely on the social dimension. A lot will do it and donate to their favourite charity. Most, I hope, will donate to the MND/ALS charity in their region – and have fun doing so.

There's no sugar-coating this, so here goes.

Me? I've painful memories of my dad's last days to battle with. It's enough. Ok, so I donated £25 this time round. No fanfare, no fuss, just went online and pressed buttons.

There's no escaping the simple fact that Motor Neurone Disease is a fatal disease. The odd exception stays around for longer than most but it's not much of a life.

Nearly twenty eight years after his death in hospital some memories remain undimmed. Not the kind that return on seeing a nearly-forgotten photo. Not those based solely on the photo with no memory of the actual event, no. Powerful stuff.

After the diagnosis my dad knew. And knowing, he gave up, or at least that's how I remember it. There's no shame in that, no recriminations from the people he left behind. None.

When your wife and son have to wipe, wash, dry and dress you, when eating becomes difficult, when breathing becomes a strain, the very very worst thing remains – the mind is…

My dad did crossword puzzles when other pastimes became impossible. He did them in his head. Let's face it, no longer being able to hold a pen can't be much fun. He'd struggle to make himself understood when we filled the words in but upon completing the grid together the sense of achievement, the triumph, the bright eyes – if only for a moment – gave me an inkling of how important this achievement was.

I also remember the good times – that's the important thing to remember here.

£25 seems a pitifully small sum of money to give, especially if the current massive outpouring of goodwill advances the understanding of MND/ALS and eases the suffering of those whose lives it destroys.

Please don't make the mistake of thinking you can have a bucket emptied over your head and then give your money to just any charity – the biggest do not need your money right now. Cancer affects much greater numbers. Fighting cancer is important. Everyone I know has someone in their lives who's survived, or succumbed to The Big C. Yet…

The effects of natural or man-made disasters are, nowadays, there for all to see – often within a scant few hours of the events happening. Such things are often forgotten a scant few hours or days later – there's no personal connection thus the average human simply can't grasp the impact.

More fleeting events such as, oh I don't know, the continuation of famine and poverty worldwide caused by the diversion of funds away from those who need them most, cause me to stop and think.

Just after the shock of 9/11 I donated money, like many, to the American Red Cross's appeal. My donation was misplaced. Blood donations had to be destroyed as the existing infrastructure was unable to cope. A vanishingly small percentage of the blood got through to 9/11 victims. Sure it swelled their coffers but…

I failed to donate after Hurricane Katrina wiped out much of e.g. New Orleans. If the richest country in the world cannot look after its own why should I, a man of moderate means living in the UK, even think of doing so?

There's nothing wrong with donating time or money. There's nothing wrong with feeling better that you've helped by giving money. I'm not going to get into 'Liking' or retweeting though – suffice it to say I know people who think pressing a button HELPS!

Right now it's great that MMD/ALS is, even tenuously, high in the public's consciousness. Don't be an arse and say they're 'stealing' from more established causes. Don't try to justify your charity's position by saying 'no-one OWNS #icebucketchallenge.' Some little person somewhere managed to do something innovative without the benefit of advertising departments and focus groups – and it worked. Just accept it.

There's nothing wrong with a spur-of-the-moment donation either. On this 9/11 (ok, 11 September 2014) a Manchester, UK dogs home was the victim of a nasty, cowardly arson attack which killed around 60 and caused a massive surge in donations. By lunchtime the day after £622,000 (a cool million US$) had been raised. It easily doubled in the few days following – something that no-one could have predicted.

"Think first, donate later." It's how I operate now. I happen to believe it's the responsible way to approach the thorny issue of wanting to do something good whilst staying within the confines of an ever-shrinking pot after all the bills have been paid.


This post originally aired 20 September 2014.

Glasses

My eyesight is deteriorating as I age. In the early nineties (last century!) I was short-sighted and experienced headaches whilst driving. Now it's the long-sightedness of my advancing years.

We get regular eye tests at work but my urge to remedy the sight issue has fallen between the cycles. No problem, I bought my own – these. They have spring-loaded sides which, it has to be said, gave me some initial discomfort. Running boiling water over the sides and gently re-shaping to fit my unique head profile proved a permanent solution.

Now, I think they add an air of sophistication to my otherwise-morose appearance, and the design fits my needs very well. I can read comfortably and, if needs be, look up at my family or the telly without too much re-focus disorientation.

The best bit – their aspect ratio means I can look over the top of the frame without touching the glasses!

Look, I know I should have visited a qualified optometrist/optician but…

For the reasons outlined above, and for the freedom-from-magnifying-glasses this product brings me, I award Baz's seal of approval

Voted

Yesterday, before work, I voted. In the greatest of British traditions I was able to make small talk with one of the sitting councillors (not up for re-election) and wished his candidate every success in the polls. Not that I was voting for the party. That was the easy bit – the area demographic made the result a foregone conclusion.

The hardest bit was getting into the building – the Entrance arrow confusingly pointing to a glass panel next to the door. I asked, a few other people had already commented on it, but none had actually suggested that it be moved! See, politics and the processes around politics aren't always boring!

More small talk later, my attempts at ingratiating myself with everyone there complete, I left for work.

In the early hours of Friday morning the local result was announced. I care nothing for the national or European picture, for this year mine was a protest vote – see the day before yesterday's post for more on this.

The area's Conservative (incumbent party) candidate won handsomely. UKIP came second, Labour third, the Liberal Democrats a far-away fourth.

Oddly given the 2012 election result, a new low for the party, the Liberal Democrats actually managed to increase the number of votes cast. By 3! This despite their candidate's failure to electioneer, the total lack of leaflets distributed on his behalf and despite me giving my vote to someone else. People are, it seems, creatures of habit.

Why am I writing about this if it's not that important?

Dunno.

Voting

We've got the local councillor and the European Parliament elections here tomorrow. I'll be honest and say I'm thinking of voting UKIP. Taking their stated aims at face value and remembering all politicians lie is the key to my decision-making process. I'm all for saving the money currently used to prop up the economies of new entrants to Europe and helping Britain first.

Incidentally… No, not incidentally, call me a racist and we'll have an argument.

Mine this time will be a protest vote. It doesn't matter if you consider UKIP to be a bunch of racist, sexist, lying, self-serving scumbags, the alternatives here are just not palatable – and all parties have their rebels. A few elections ago, when seemingly every voter and their dog catapulted green issues into the spotlight, I was one of those idealistic box crossers. It seemed to make a difference then, so why not now?

Aside from that aberration I've been a lifelong Liberal/Liberal Democrat party voter, even member for a couple of years. Disillusion is now the order of the day, centred on their inability to organise any presence at all in this voting district despite my previous attempts at engagement – my time utterly wasted.

After this year's count and another failure, I WAS considering sending an email to the local LibDems party leader, to twist the 'I told you so' knife… but that just wouldn't be fair. Blogging and talking about it at my ADN account are.

After the debacle of the last Labour governments' repeated waste and stealthy destruction of our safe financial future; the Conservatives' unholy alliance with the LibDems and their accelerated destruction of our safe financial future, and the futility of voting Green this time around, what's left?

To be fair the 2 local Conservative councillors are nice guys, approachable, and they regularly turn out for local events. A part of our community. But voting for 'em? No.

Oh, and my perception of the Green Party is that they're trying to save the planet. An admirable thing to do even in the face of vested interest, but… We've already had 3 identical leaflets of theirs delivered. My emailed observations that they were wasting our precious resources but were at least doing better than the LibDems was returned to me as undeliverable.

So, back on track, to where this started, a UKIP protest vote?

What the hell am I protesting ABOUT – why this stream-of-consciousness claptrap?!

Something. Dunno.

Hand of shame

I have, like the vast majority of humans and humanoid creatures on this planet, a right hand. I'm naturally left-handed but the right is used frequently. Doors, steering wheel, scissors, shaking others' hands… though the list is not endless, 'versatile' is a fair description

My right hand has a special purpose, a now-open secret going back nearly 10 years…

My wife hasn't picked the phrase 'Hand of Shame' randomly, nor was it chosen by accident. Not really.

The first time was on holiday/vacation – a cruise down the River Nile. The second on our Honeymoon, at the Blue Waters Resort, Antigua. When our first daughter arrived we had a brief period of respite, which ended a couple of years after a very successful and mercifully-brief potty training period.

It's a small hand, almost unnaturally small for a man. It's matched very well indeed to its companion. It's called upon to go to places a man's hand ought not to fit – in short, it's likely more versatile than yours. Unless, that is, you can play the piano or do impressive prestidigitation. In which case mine's floundering in your right-man-hand's wake.

Now, do you recall I mentioned it's used for shaking hands? At this point you should engage your imagination…

A few minutes ago, with a tiny amount of assistance from the writer, and with no safety net, it unblocked our toilet.