Delaying the Inevitable

He rakes the soil and picks off stubborn weeds and lays a cane across the flower bed. Pressing down, he makes a shallow drill and waters where the seeds will soon be spread. He picks the seeds his kids had bought for him and spaces them with care along the line. He stops a while to try and catch his breath, then slowly stands and marks the row with twine.  His clothes hang loose from his cachetic frame; the doctors say the cancer has now spread. He’s sowing plants he will not live to see, as are we all.

Midlife Crisis When I was young I often thought I’d be a plucky astronaut But the wildest trips I’ve had to date Have been on the A68 When I was young I thought there’d be Just one true love out there for me But I didn’t have to travel far I married Sheila from HR When I was young I thought there’d be No need for sleep for folks like me, And in the end I was kinda right The baby stays up half the night When I was young I didn’t see What the future had in hold for me A doughy joke, devoid of plans With a CV written in comic sans When I was young my life was great Without so much dumped on my plate Without the pressure bearing down On my shitty house in this shitty town Pressure to try and clear my debts Pressure to give up cigarettes Pressure to bring the kids up right Pressure to make verse rhyme and scan And as my time slowly advances I’m looking out for second chances To start to wrestle back control To pull me out

You were my first             I hope you didn't realise at the time             fumbling ,  flustered, faltering                        you probably did Totally different from what I expected             fear in my eyes             and in yours                        till the end Chaos followed by silence             a silence so complete, so pure, so absolute                                       and then back to work             replaying events in my head                                                           for a week Things are different now             but I won't forget             you never do                                   your   first unsuccessful resuscitation  

Our writing prompt this week was "I could never tell". Did two pieces in the end because I couldn't ignore Trump *shudders* So there's a Santa and Trump medley. ********** I could never tell my kids the truth about Santa. It’d break their little hearts. In our short lives the feeling of wonder should be treasured, protected for as long as possible, like a delicate nestling. Why break the illusion now?  There’s plenty of time for that when they’re grown up. But what if they se e some thing?  A half-awake glimpse in  the shadows?  And then it hits them, the fat, jolly red-suited man isn’t who they thought he was all along. No,  siree  Bob.  Underneath that furry crimson costume beats the callous heart of a monster. We’ve all heard the reports. He runs that North Pole factory like a Victorian workhouse.  Those queues of elves, spending hours going through security at the start and end of their shifts.   They’re nowhere near the Living wage. They don’t have a

We live in a pop-up world. Pop-up restaurants, pop-up shops, pop-up furniture, pop-up houses, pop-up jobs, pop-up lives. We all have our fleeting moment to shine, before the page starts to turn and we fold, ready for the next generation to pop-up in our place. But what if we don’t shine? At some point, even the most influential people in history like Caesar, Shakespeare, Lincoln, Einstein will be completely forgotten.  What chance have I got? I doubt I’d ever make as much of an impact on society as, say, Jedward. My time’s running out and I’m staring on slack-jawed, like a medieval serf transported to the modern day and asked to pilot a fighter jet. Things are changing too fast for me to keep up. Things are grittier, more impersonal. I wanted to get back to the things I enjoyed as a kid, but even my favourite kids shows have been updated to reflect our brave new harsher world: Postman Pat’s on a zero-hours contract with Deliveroo, Fireman Sam’s striking about unsafe publ

There comes a point in most peoples’ lives when they realise that the dreams they had as children probably aren’t going to come true. I’m 34, with a wife, two kids and another one on the way and I’m starting to think I’ll never be a rock-star astronaut cowboy. I should’ve gone to rock-star astronaut school. Missed opportunities. But as you get older, the everyday concerns of life get in the way of your dreams. You work hard at school, work hard at college or university, work hard at work. All the time thinking it’ll get better. It’s like the end of the Shawshank Redemption, you’re Andy Dufresne, crawling through that pipe of shit towards a life of freedom. But when you get to the end of the pipe, you realise there’s another, and another, and another, until you can’t remember what it’s like to not be crawling on your hands and knees yearning for a different life. But by then it’s too late. You’re institutionalised. One of the pipe-people. Make the most of it. Raise a pipe-family.

The only health related things that seem to be increasing under this government are waiting times and blogs by angry healthcare workers. But with the prospect of further junior doctors strikes, I've written some advice for junior doctors, the public and Jeremy Hunt. (Not that he'll listen mind you, it's like shouting at pigeons in the park, but at least it gets it off my chest). For Junior Doctors: 1.        This is a contractual dispute. The intricacies of doctors’ rotas/banding system are about as interesting as the Galactic Council debate scenes in the first Star Wars films. Some managers don’t understand the system, and the government sure seems like it doesn’t, so keep messages simple: “We don’t currently have enough staff or funds to operate a 5 day service. Without increasing staffing or funding, stretching Junior Doctors more thinly over 7 days is unsafe” and “By the government’s own admission, this contract discriminates against women. This is unfair”

It’s not well-known, but Stevi e Wonder is superstitious. Very  in fact. The writing’s on the wall , to be honest . He’s  a nightmare to work with  - the recording studio is always full of rabbits’ feet ,  he won’t work on Friday the 13th, and he once almost blinded a backing singer by throwing salt over his shoulder.   But why do seemingly rational people  believe such irrational things? “Magical thinking” is defined as the belief that an object, action or circumstance not logically related to a course of events can influence its outcome. For example, examining the pattern of tea leaves in a cup cannot (given what we know about the principle of causal relations) logically predict the future. I’ll stick to  astrology , thank you very much.   There’s numerous examples of magical thinking -  whether it’s  ‘black cats’,  ‘lucky’ mascots,  ‘walking under ladders’, ‘breaking mirrors’, ‘homeopathy’, ‘organised religion’ or ‘string’ theory .  And it’s not just humans who display superstitious

A few weeks ago, it was our 10 year medical school reunion. Many of us have gone our separate ways: to alternative careers or alternative counties. The majority, though, have remained in the NHS. To many of us, the NHS is like a cantankerous relative that always gets drunk at weddings. However difficult they might be, for all their faults, you love them and would miss them if they weren’t there. But what are the faults with the National Health Service, and is there anything we could do about them? It’s not National Over the years, the NHS has gone through more “responsible bodies” than Dr. Who. To get an idea of the current structure, imagine the most complicated Powerpoint slide you’ve ever seen, and then ask MC Esher to paint it. The picture below might help, but don’t spend too long on it, as it will have changed some more before you get to the end. Every few years someone comes up with more corporate doublespeak – be it “Vanguards”, “Clinical Senates” or

I thought I'd better take a break from writing about things like politics and the NHS. So I decided to go for a less controversial subject - religion Mysterious Ways My kid thinks that God’s a spy. God a spy? I wonder why - Perhaps it’s the phrase: “mysterious ways” I’ll set him straight, one of these days I’ll sit him down and tell him “Son, Religion’s great for everyone - God’s not a spy, he’s quite alright - Superman (without kryptonite) Religion is so good: I think it’s fair to say It’s made Northern Ireland Just what it is today It’s fun to go to church, To say “God, you’re the Man - But what’s with all the floods? And why’d you kill my Nan?” “Thanks for all the bunnies, The lakes and mountain glades; Thanks for all the puppies, For cancer and for AIDS”. He’s such a super guy, I think that you can tell - (But if you don’t believe in Him You’re going straight to Hell)

I’ve got a confession to make. I’m in my early thirties, I have a wife and kids and a fairly responsible job, and for the vast majority of the time I’m winging it. I am technically a grown up. In 2010, whilst loading a pram into the back of our second-hand Skoda I felt the last vestiges of my youth float up into the ether. And from that moment on, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for someone to sit me down and explain to me what it is to be grown up. To talk through tracker mortgages, self-assessment forms and school catchment areas. To  explain  pensions, life insurance and to tell me how to bleed a radiator. To give me a card I can keep in my wallet that says “Adult”. One that I can look at every now and then say to myself “Don’ t stress about it , you’ve got this”. I ’m  starting to think it  is n’t ever going to happen. That I’ll go through life an imposter: busking-it, making it up on-the-hoof, a joker in a world of sober-suited professionals with “5 year plans”. But then

You can't stop progress. Unless you developed a new way to stop it. Which would be progress in itself. Anyway, here's a short story called Progress Progress “That’s the problem with these new builds, they lack character”. Terry leant back under the archway, sheltering from the persistent drizzle. “I mean, sure you can get all the mod cons and everything, but where’s the period features? Where’s the heart?” “Yeah I can see your point mate” replied Ted. He’d known his old friend long enough to realise it would be better not to engage him in debate when he was off on one of his rants. He’d use the “duck and cover” method – try to get by with nods and grunts until this blew over. “I mean, look at my place – 1882 it was built. Think about that for a second. 1882 – that’s over 130 years ago.  Do you think that thing will still be standing in a 100 years?” Terry gestured over to the building site, wagging his bony finger like a disappointed teacher. Ted attempted his