Appellations

I should confess my culpability; in adversity will I prove to be the good person I have always imagined or hoped? I finished Any Human Heart on Friday. I don’t think “profound” so apt, but certainly moving; sad stories are the best, those I remember anyway. Is “sad” a deserved label? I remember that same empty feeling having read Doctor Doolittle as a child, sad because it was the natural end of things, but there’s more to William Boyd's novel than that.

John refuses to patronize pubs with royal or aristocratic appellations as a matter of principle.

I’ve noticed a week or so will elapse before I pick up my next book, and again I’ve no idea what I’m going to read. Logan rates Gogol (a recommendation from a fictional character!) or there are traditional classics from such as Dickens or Hardy - I like a bit of tortured soul. They jostle for position and I’m increasingly aware of how little I’ve read, but I tell myself there’s plenty to keep me busy. Then there are those I have; numerous writers telling me how little I know. As a teenager I was all maths, science gave a kind of certainty to the world, yet now I often feel the opposite; it describes everything, telling me nothing. Muriel Rukeyser wrote “The Universe is made of stories, not of atoms” - bloody poets.

Decline and fall

We don't want to know that 'Hitler invaded Poland' - we're more curious about what you had for breakfast. Unless you happened to be there, of course, when Hitler invaded Poland and your breakfast was interrupted.
-- Any Human Heart

I'm finding all this blogging malarkey rather hard going at the moment; it must be what happens when I try to read and write at the same time. I am at least making progress with Any Human Heart, as slow as predicted but on the finishing straight. Logan Mountstuart; once annoying, objectionable even, becomes more interesting with his inevitable decline. Only that’s not really it, he's always of interest; I think I'm naturally drawn in by the end of things, and I have a feeling this is leading somewhere profound. It's good advice though, this blog was started with a similar sentiment but as the years pass, meanders all over the place.

I'll have to think more on this too; the fall of The Roman Empire, the mass suicide in Demmin, those two off the top of my head but why this theme? It's something to do with how we handle hardship, what it says of our character, our ability to control our own destiny and our choices or lack thereof. How, though most can be giving when times are good, it's how we act in adversity that reveals our true nature. With that in mind I should probably stick to the news, for now.

The trouble is I can't remember what I was doing when Diane Abbot made that racist comment last week, and much as I try to be upset, I'm not. It was, regrettably, the fun involved in seeing her wriggle out of "white people love playing divide and rule", and the unfortunate slip of the keyboard the following day when Ed Miliband, having given the miscreant a "dressing down", referred to the recently deceased Bob Holness as having presented "Blackbusters". Then there's the Scottish referendum on independence - the SNP says it wants one, the UK government wants to take measures to ensure its legality and (as we've come to expect) Alex Salmond still finds something to complain about; such childish nonsense yet what can I say that's of any worth? Logan records that world events - such as his wonder at men walking on the moon - are poorly served by his journal when there are far better sources; better, his friend tells him, to concentrate on the minutiae. Only, I don't have breakfast.

Take them down, take them all down

Tuesday morning, 1 A.M.

It took me a while to find some sleep last night, until early into the morning, to the point of being able to mark off the time at which I realised I could now breathe more or less properly; my cold can be downgraded to a sniffle, and I always seem to have those. My daughter is back in school and I am back in work - at least she gets half-term and a long summer holiday. However, despite this and my latest cold wiping out the latter part of Christmas, the sheer relief leaves me wildly optimistic I can complete the week in one piece - well, it’s only four days.

I shall use the calming/chloroforming power of television, a long list of unwatched DVDs and a plea that we didn’t get round to watching much - to extend the festive period for one more week, or until I finish season two of The Wire, whichever comes sooner. In-between I plan to sneak in more of The Misfits, Friday Night Lights and Blu-ray presents Das Boot, The Wild Bunch and all those films I always say I’ll make sure to watch on iPlayer but somehow never do. Unrealistic wishes aren’t just for Christmas, though I think I can safely say I’ll finish those mince pies.

The altar of something must be done

I rarely drink but I know a few who do, some a lot, and I’m not so removed from the world as to deny the problems of binge drinking. I am however detached enough to avoid the temptation of believing everything can be fixed, that something is always better than nothing. The “something” in this case is a plan to impose minimum prices on alcohol. From The Independent:

A recent study suggested that a minimum price of 50p [per unit] would prevent more than 2,000 deaths a year. [28-Dec-2011]

Here’s the difficulty I have: I don’t believe it. I simply don’t believe that 2,000 deaths per year are caused by binge drinking facilitated (and this is the important bit) by cheap alcohol. What I suspect are thousands of deaths where it has been judged alcohol consumption played a part - the rest being conjecture. Whether alcohol played the significant part might be evidence-based - though I doubt it - what remains is dodgy statistics and wishful thinking. How on earth do you determine the alcohol was low-cost? More than this, how do you determine the elimination of this low cost would have made any difference? Removing low cost doesn’t remove the lowest cost option, it merely changes it; and my limited experience of people intending to get rat-assed is that price doesn’t come into it, if it did they wouldn’t be going to a pub/club to get paralytic; which leads to my other annoyance.

Given “progressive” is a word so in vogue, this is regressive in nature. Minimum priced alcohol is a measure advanced by one section of society with the intent of imposing on another - the poorest, financially. There’s no incentive for those introducing the measure to question the ropey science, since they won’t be affected in any way. It’s an illiberal example of the liberal-styled middle class not helping, but telling the poor how to live - how unusual.

Steady

It is a certainty that any extended time off work will be accompanied with whatever cold/bug is available. So it has been this Christmas, where I first started to feel off-colour Christmas Eve, kept “it” at bay for the larger part of the main day - helped by a paracetamol and ibuprofen combo, but finally succumbed Boxing Day where I spent most of the time stumbling around, bent over, waiting to throw up. I am back on the upward slope, full of cold - or the after-affects - and food. My in-laws were particularly generous; clothes I will actually wear, Blu-rays I will actually watch and a large box of chocolates I will actually... well, it’s chocolate isn’t it.

I’ve watched a few films - not many; I was surprised to like The Young Victoria as much as I did and Son of Rambow lived up to its reputation. I caught up on three series of Fringe, the first series of The Wire, Misfits is terrific and there’s a new series of Friday Night Lights waiting. I’ve even started on a new book. So I've relaxed, eaten a huge amount and I’ve suffered too; I may even have lost weight - an illness can be unpleasant, but it’s effective. Yes alright, maybe not.

The goldfish lives

My last day was also the most tiring I can remember; I was overwhelmed with a need to sleep, and not a drop of drink contributed to that feeling - well, maybe a little. The first day following was dropping off presents and picking one up - a goldfish. I successfully avoided the cat; I can only hope this alternative will prove less expensive after a frightening amount spent on a tank; it cost so much it ought to clean itself.

The next day the guinea pig died. Grief - if that’s not too strong a word - is so difficult to witness in a child, but a garden burial, a Jaqueline Wilson book and a day to remember has eased the loss, if not all the tears. I’m sure I read somewhere of pets being useful in teaching children about death. This time I didn’t mention heaven, though I have in the past. In the time we have - I tried to say - we love those around us and are loved in return; we love and are loved, that’s what life is.