Delaying the Inevitable

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’ t...

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 p...

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...

After  hearing Jeremy Hunt banging on about introducing 'airline' like safety to the NHS, a budget airline decided to try introducing NHS like safety to their airline. Here is a leaked response to a customer complaint: -------------------- Dear valued customer Thank you for choosing Porc Air. I'm sorry your experience was below your expectations. I hope to address the points detailed in your letter.  Firstly, you relate concerns about the airworthiness of the aircraft itself. I should point out that the airline doesn't actually own any of its own aircraft. You think we would, considering we're an airline. Wrong, buddy. Although we are liable for all the running costs - staff, fuel etc. a private company rents us the aircraft at high costs, while making additional profit from the selling of snacks, drinks, oxygen masks etc. Please direct any concerns to them (good luck with that!) Secondly, I'm sorry you were disappointed that you had to shar...

Memories of working in Sierra Leone: I’ve had enough of this. Their voices start to blend into the mechanical monotony of the air conditioning unit. Sitting opposite each other at the far end of the table, they gesticulate like policemen directing traffic at a busy junction. “I’m just going to get some fresh air, I’ll just be outside” I say as I begin to shuffle past them to the door. They pause their conversation to theatrically rearrange the furniture; ensuring I don’t come within a couple of metres of them as I go past. As the door opens, the stale heat envelops me. I light a cigarette and make my way over the cobbled courtyard to a welcome area of shade. We’d just got a call to say the little boy had died. The news was like a sucker punch. Hit after hit after hit had been raining down but this had come when we were looking the other way. He’d been through so much. From the day he arrived at Kerrytown, he’d never been far from death, but his malnourished body had foug...