Se muestran los artículos pertenecientes al tema life.
Get healthy. Eat lard.
There is a product in food that needs contain no such warning even though it is deadly. This product is hydrogenated oil, otherwise known as trans fat.
I was working in a school yesterday where all the children were given toast during registration. I ate a slice myself and even kept a couple of slices to use in the numeracy lesson about probability. At break I looked at the margarine used to butter the toast. It was labelled as a 'healthy alternative' but the label revealed that it contained 43% trans fat.
What is appalling is that the deadly nature of this substance has been known about for years. In the USA there is an increasing rebellion against the use of hydrogenated oil but in the UK it is business as usual.
There are plenty of articles on the web about trans fats and it isn't my intention to add to what is already known. I just feel the need to add my own experience to the list.
I was recently diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. Despite being tubby for a good few years I've not been particularly unhealthy so it came as a bit of a shock to discover that I had raised blood sugar and raised blood pressure. For most of my life I have lived on a diet rich in fruit, vegetables and fresh foods. The only deviation from this was a term when I worked away from home and lived more on take aways and ready meals. My weight increased significantly and it is agreed that there is probably a causal relationship between my change of diet and my resultant loss of health.
The problem with trans fats is that the body cannot metabolise them. They are stored like so much wax on your abdomen and in your ateries and cause insulin resistance. This leaves the bloodstream loaded with glucose that has nowhere to go but the urine and insulin that cannot perform it's proper function of storing glucose.
Why are so many more people becoming obese? There are a variety of reasons but one important reason is that some of the fat we eat is being deposited and cannot then be shifted.
What should happen is that trans fats and hydrogenated oils should contain a health warning as least as severe as that contained on cigarettes. It is unlikely to happen.
Trans fats are ubiquitous in foodstuffs. Food processing depnds on them. The fast food, take away and restuarant industry depends on them and they are not easily replaced in the short term. Butter replacement spreads depend on them and it would take years to replace them with acceptable alternatives.
The result of banning these killer substances would spell economic disaster because the food industry is so dependent on them.
Will the Government act? They will if we cause a fuss.
You can see it when it isn't there
Some great optical illusions here:
http://www.ritsumei.ac.jp/%7Eakitaoka/index-e.html
This one isn't a spiral.
Civvies and rubber tubes
I've often reflected on the strange relationship people in various professions have with the rest of the world. it seems very existential. It maybe explains the way teachers behave.
In the military, ranks are clearly deliniated and you have to know your place. Civilians, the people you are employed to defend are a second class citizen on the Army camp. We'd all 'volunteered' to give blood and were lined up waiting. "They're only civvies," shouted the sergeant, indicating the doctor and nurses, "you don't need to salute or stand on ceremony with them." It seems to be a sort of tribalism among people in uniform in the same line of work.
It was the same when I worked in mental health. I did a placement at a London prison. The only people the prison officers (screws) seemed to dislike more than the prisoners were the 'civvies' that worked there. The same ethos seemed to prevail.
During my time there there was a 'celebrity', one of the ********** two. He had to be treated with kid gloves because the media and some politicians were interested. I don't think he was aware of his celebrity and the screws didn't like it that someone was 'special' like this.
Then he went on hunger strike. He wasn't in any danger but there was obviously some concern that he might come to harm and nobody wanted the publicity. I was instructed to feed him.
I was given the feeding kit which consisted of a ryles tube, which was supposed to be pushed up the nose and down the oesophagus, A jug, a funnel, a large syringe and a box of Complan. Since I'd never done anything like this before I expressed my concern but was told that it was my job so get on with it. Short shrift from the screws.
I told the prisoner what I had to do and asked, "Are you scared?" He said, "no." I replied, "then you bloody well ought to be because I've never done anything like this before."
In the event he decided to start eating again so I didn't have to do it.
I did use the 'stomach pump' a few times, though, on people who overdosed. That consisted of a bucket, a rubber tube pushed through the mouth and down the oesophagus, a funnel and a big jug full of luke warm water.
With the tube in place and the funnel on top, water was poured into the funnel. It was then placed over the bucket and the stomach contents were evacuated by syphonic action. You did it a couple of times. I don't know if it saved anyone's life, but I'm sure it deterred overdosing compared to todays rather more gentle approach.
But I was writing about 'tribalism' in institutional professions and I have the same feeling about teachers and the attitudes we sometimes express about our charges, their parents and the people around us. Do we ever switch from teacher mode? I know lots teachers who talk to everyone like they talk to children. Are we all like that?
And how do we feel about 'civvies' in our schools?
Can someone lend me a skirting board ladder?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/bristol/5291028.stm
It took me back. I was a hayseed and had this inkling to go to sea so when a job appeared in the Bristol Evening Post for a deckhand, I applied. I got a job on a sand dredger for the Bristol Sand and Gravel Company. It seemed like a big ship at first but it shrunk very quickly from familiarity.
Going to sea proved to be a big disappointment. It was actually going to Severn Beach and the sand banks beyond to dreg up sand. My job consisted of scuttling round the deck with a brush and shovel keeping the scuppers clear. The dredge would shower me with water and I was always sodden. It was also my job to make the tea and the fry up. I still make a good fry up.
I left that job after a few months.
My dad worked as a customs officer. He knew all the dockers and their nicknames and was friendly with several of them. The bionic maggot was a very small man who got his name on the basis of, "F*ck me, you wriggled out of that quick enough." He was always at Eastville Stadium on dogs night and like my dad, always broke.
The docks were a place full of stories and I only know a few. Lots of things were stolen and it was seen as perks of the job.
My dad told of the case of honey samples in special porcelain jars with a bee moulding on the lid. As he passed the case during the day, the number of pots reduced until there was just one left. He said it seemed a shame to leave it all alone so he brought it home.
One of the dockers was a carpenter who spent his time making a wardrobe from mahogany he stole. The wardrobe was a work of art and he was teased by everyone, "how are you going to get that out of the gate." But get it out of the gate he did. One minute it was there with the french polish drying, the next it was gone.
The customs men took it in turns to be keyholders for the bonded warehouses that held tobacco, alcohol and other products subject to duty. One night a police car picked dad up because an alarm was ringing on one warehouse. They walked around the warehouse and found nothing. As they walked to the door, one of the policemen picked up a bottle of scotch, knocked the top off it and said, "look, there’s a broken one, it would be a shame to waste it." They sat down for an hour and got totally drunk.
Because I was a regular at the docks for a while I was able to get a job in one of the warehouses for a short time. The dockers and warehousemen were forever playing tricks on each other. Three card brag was a popular lunchtime diversion which I used to play.
There was one docker called ’drugged haddock.’ He’d been to see a film where he obviously missed the plot and the next day asked what a ’drugged haddock’ was. Apparently he’s misheard ’drug addict’.
One day the foreman got into a tizz and shouted, "How am I supposed to get up there without a ladder? Some bastard’s nicked me skirting board ladder." I was called over and with great urgency told, "Get over and find Bill Fricker and ask him to lend you a skirting board ladder, and be bloody quick, we haven’t got all day." I was halfway round the dock before the penny dropped. For the short time I worked there I had to live with the nickname ’skirting board ladder’.
There was a paper seller who used to stand outside the Co-op building on Broad Quay. He wore a scruffy duffle coat with string tied around the middle and an old cloth cap. I would often buy a paper from him and have a chat. One evening he asked if I wanted a lift home. We went to his car which turned out to be an enormous Armstrong Siddeley, something like a Rolls Royce. Apparently he managed several newsagents shops but would never forget the pitch he started out on.
I think it’s marvellous that people are now recording the little histories of little people who were really clever and inventive.
To die, to sleep, to sell light bulbs
Next week is decision week. I’ve concluded that I’m not going to get a job teaching ICT. Anyone who can login to a computer can teach ICT and there are plenty of unemployed teachers who are cheaper than me. So what can I do?
The problem is that I’m at an age where skills don’t count for much. B&Q would probably consider me as a reliable employee with an exemplary attendance record and a good knowledge of DIY. But would I be happy working in a shop? It really doesn’t appeal. Neither does being a security guard at Tesco.
I’ve worked in Mental Health and always enjoyed it, but I’m not fond of shift work, and nights have always been something of a horror story for me. You dare not fall asleep in a ward containing psychotics and psychopaths.
I’m publishing a whole heap of my teaching materials on the Web but they won’t make me any money or get me a living. I just feel its better if others have the opportunity to use them rather than my efforts going to waste.
I’ve written a couple of kids novels, Sci-Fi/Fantasy sort of thing which never made it from the slush pile to be read by anyone but which quite a few kids have enjoyed reading. I’m very tempted to get a number of copies printed on a PoD basis to sell via Amazon and elsewhere on the Web.
The problem with that is that it is a very ego driven thing. I think what I write is worth reading but would anyone else? It’s a risky investment and I’m already getting a bit short of money. I would also feel extremely guilty if some poor kid got one of my books for Christmas and thought it was a load of rubbish.
I like singing and don't mind doing a turn in a folk club, but would anyone turn up if they had to pay for the privilege?
Working won’t kill me. It’s being without a job that will do for me. My Grandfather worked full time until he was 96 and died a few weeks after giving up work. It only goes to prove that idleness is deadly.
So any suggestions will be welcome. I can obviously do some supply, but I need to active and productive.
All suggestions - well helpful ones anyway - considered.
No smoke, no fire and no job either
Down the Jobcentre again yesterday and wishing I wasn't there. I thought I had a personal appointment but discovered that the 50 or so people jostling for position were all timetabled for the same time. How quickly you were called seemed to be a matter of luck.
We were all in a big room that contained 5 chairs and a twenty or so touch screen computers that allowed you to search for jobs. Most of them didn't work and a careful search, when I got the chance, found no jobs for me.
Fortunately, luck was on my side and I was called quite quickly. The clerk, realising that the school holidays meant there were few jobs advertised got the business over with quickly and I was on my way. As I was leaving the building an alarm bell sounded, which was probably the fire alarm.
I drove past the Jobcentre on my way home and there was a fire engine and a hundred or so people swarming around outside in the pouring rain. Most of them were probably dependent on the benefits they would receive after signing on and had to put up with the discomfort. There didn't appear to be a fire and nothing was reported about the incident.
The Jobcentre staff are polite enough, but the system is too impersonal and leaves one feeling rather worthless. A lot of the jobs on the computer seem to be agency work and in generic adverts that may or may not point to a real job.
I'm quite worried that I have a lot of working years left yet and no prospects for September.
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On the dole
I arrived just before nine and there was already a large crowd waiting to 'sign on', that is to register their continuing unemployment. Those, like me, who were there to register for the first time went upstairs and sat in a waiting area. Nothing much happened for half an hour. The staff sat around chatting and there was no sense of urgency.
The man I was sitting next to had just been released from prison as the top document of the heap he was holding made clear. He was very agitated, angry and clearly annoyed about the wait. Several of the youngsters registering looked quite lost. It's a sad place.
First off I was seen by an efficient and polite lady who checked my form then asked me to sign it. She also copied my passport, last payslip and a bank statement to prove my identity and address. Quite how a foreigner can defraud the system, as the popular press alleges, is a mystery.
Another half an hour wait and the ex-prisoner is really angry. He makes the valid point that even if he hasn't a job to go to, there are better things to do than sit around in a Government office.
I'm directed to another desk where a smart young man explains to me in broken English that I have to sign on on Friday, then every two weeks after that. I also have to sign an undertaking that I will try to find a job.
The clerk was obviously a recent immigrant, probably from the Baltic and I don't have any problem with that. My attitude to immigration/ emigration is one of almost total indifference. What worries me about a jobcentre clerk with poor English is that some people, who are likely to be in difficult circumstances, may feel aggrieved that he has a job while they don't. They are also people who often need very clear and explicit instructions. I don't begrudge the young man his job, but interviewing unemployed people seems innappropriate, somehow.
The staff were polite and friendly, but even with an appointment, it took nearly one and a half hours to transact maybe ten minutes of business. Forms already filled in writing had to be transferred to computer when there's no obvious reason why I couldn't have filled in an on line form and saved someone the trouble.
I hope I don't have to go back too many times.
Come inside you silly beggar, come inside
Though she be never so ugly;
Lilies and Roses will quickly appear,
And her Face look wond'rously smugly.
The Beggar’s Opera, John Gay
Before starting my PGCE I worked for a year in a mental health unit for people with challenging behaviours. The residents had a considerable amount of freedom, although they mostly stayed in bed or sat in the smoke room.
I remember one day the senior manager storming in and shouting that in future, no resident should be still in bed after eleven am, and that she would be back the following day to check.
The following morning, from eight o’clock all of the staff were frantically trying to get the residents up early, but to no avail. I knocked on one door and shouted to Eileen, “come on, get up, the boss will be here soon.”
Quick as a flash, Eileen replied, “There’s plenty of time, she said we could stay in bed till eleven.”
Residents had little money beyond some meagre benefits and most of this went on cigarettes. Several of the women had another source.
Mabel was in her late fifties. She was mostly ungroomed and unwashed and usually smelled pretty awful. She was a long term resident who seemed to be always talking, using many profanities, to her voices. She had only two or three nicotine stained teeth and for all the world looked like the wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz film.
Years of medication had left here with tremors and a condition called tardive dyskinesia, which caused her to grimace, roll her tongue and make other bizarre facial and body movements.
Despite all these disadvantages, whenever Mabel was out of cigarettes she would make her way to the corner of the street and loiter there.
Without fail, she would be back twenty minutes or so later with money, cigarettes and a family sized fruit pie.
Crime wave
There’s something about me and traffic wardens…
I parked in the patrolled car park yesterday, put my money in the machine and ended up with no ticket and no money back. I told the lady behind me about the problem, but thinking of those to come I used my whiteboard marker to write neatly on the glass, the date, time and the message, “eats money, doesn’t give tickets.”
I had barely finished when a traffic warden arrived and demanded to know what I was doing. He wasn’t interested in my lost money. He was concerned about the “vandalism.” He told me not to leave and got to work on his radio.
Since he was marching up and down, pretty much ignoring me I got a post-it note from the boot of my car and wrote the same message on it. I then rubbed out the whiteboard marker message and stuck the post-it note in its place.
Within minutes there were police car sirens everywhere and four police cars arrived in the car park with seven policemen, all to deal with little old me. Not far behind followed a Scientific Support vehicle. A small crowd gathered, attracted by all the flashing blue lights.
The officers gathered round the traffic warden and the scale of the offence was explained. One of the policemen then came over to me and asked what I’d been doing. I explained that the machine had eaten my money and not given a ticket, so I’d put a note on it to warn others.
The policeman took the note from the machine, conferred with his colleagues and they all disappeared without another word to me. They didn’t even ask my name. The traffic warden said nothing either, but just stomped off to look for another victim.
I didn’t get my money back, but on the positive side, where do you get that much entertainment for a pound these days?
Thirty pieces of silver repaid in full
Today, I met this last of the old guard of the local party in the Co-op. He told me that he had finally decided to leave and that with his going the local Labour Party now consisted of a former Tory Mayor and his family and friends. The local trades union delegates had long since abandoned the party along with all the activists and members who worked as teachers or in the NHS. Few members were interested in standing for the council. Meetings were rare and even more rarely had a quorum and it was obvious that everything about New Labour was controlled and managed from the centre, with local parties being largely irrelevant.
I felt like asking if he wanted his 30 pieces of silver back, but it was obvious that the corruption of the party he had cared about for 60 years into a sleazy mirror of the Tories he hated had left him broken and without any political direction for the first time in his life.
The revelations that Blair had wrested control from the unions and, apparently, replaced their donations with 'loans' from millionaire businessmen in exchange for honours was too much for even a life long Labour Party member to swallow. When the Lord Levy arrest was announced he resigned. He had at last accepted that Blair and New Labour had nothing in common with the optimism and idealism he had embraced at the end of the war.
I suspect that there will be many more such resignations in the coming days and weeks.
The fallout from these revelations is worrying. The corruption apparent in New Labour is also clearly there in the Tory party, and police investigations are focussed on both main parties. Both parties are struggling electorally and if they both collapse under the weight of sleaze there is no credible political expertise ready to fill the resultant vacuum.
Only a bird in a sooty cage
On the allotment pigeons are a nuisance. Flocks of them in the fields are a pest for farmers. In the trees by the brook they are simply a pleasant part of the scenery.
Early this week, one of the local pigeons found it's way down the chimney and behind the fireplace. It made the occasional rustle but that was all. I asked RSPB and following their advice, telephoned to get a quote for removing the pigeon. I discovered that the cost was for removing and refitting the gas fire and was, maybe, £400. I was also advised that the pigeon wouldn't survive more than a couple of days.
A call to the insurance company revealed that birds had to cause damage to warrant a claim. Falling down a chimney didn't count.
We decided that it would simply have to stay there because the rescue cost was just too great. It would be over soon anyway.
The pigeon had different ideas. It became quiet after two days, then rustled again. After another quiet day it again rustled and I was feeling guilty that it's struggle would be in vain.
Examining the fireplace, I guessed that the tiled decorative panel in front was only plasterboard and might be cut between two rows of tiles.
I removed the fire surround and tried cutting between the tiles with a craft knife. An hour's work made a groove and blisters but was obviously impractical. In a final effort I cut the panel in half with an electric saw.
At midnight, the panel was divided and a gap appeared just large enough to reach in and retrieve the frightened bird. After nearly a week it was still full of struggle.
It spent the night in a box with some greenery and water and early this morning I got up and released it in the garden. It immediately flew up into the trees in a snowstorm of feathers.
Why did this pigeon matter? A friend who shoots sometimes gives us brace and I feel no guilt about pigeon pie. This pigeon had become our pigeon. It refused to give in and in a way seemed to deserve another chance.
Aren't human emotions impractical sometimes?
Back in bed after releasing the bird, the chorus of cooing outside seemed just that bit louder than usual, and that scruffy pigeon in the hazel tree ...
...I think that one is ours.
Traffic wardens
On Saturday, I drove to the centre of the city, parked the car and went to the roadside ticket machine. Having entered my registration number and inserted the requisite coins I pressed the button and nothing happened. I retrieved my coins, tried again and concluded that the machine had probably run out of tickets. I drove round the corner, used a different machine and parked.
I noticed there was a telephone number on the ticket machine to report problems so I decided to be a good citizen and call it. A thoroughly rude and abrupt man answered and the following conversation ensued.
“Wardens, yes, what do you want?”
“The ticket machine on Wellington Street is not working.”
“You didn’t enter your registration number.”
“I did, I’m just letting you know…”
“You didn’t put in enough money.”
“I put in the correct money…”
“Press the button to get your money back.”
“I have my money back, I’m trying to tell you to that the machine is …”
“Just go back and do it properly.”
“Please listen, the ticket machine on Wellington Street is not...”
“That’s because you’re not using it properly.”
“Please stop arguing and listen. The ticket machine on Wellington Street isn’t working. I have now parked somewhere else, and got a ticket from another machine.”
“So why are you phoning me?”
“To tell you that the machine on Wellington Street isn’t working. It’s a nuisance if people want to park.”
“Which machine is it?”
“The one outside the library.”
“What number is on the machine?”
“I don’t know, I’ve parked somewhere else now.”
“There are four machines on Wellington Street, how am I supposed to know which one it is?”
“There is only one outside the library.”
“I have work to do, I haven’t time to deal with nuisance phone calls.”
And he hung up.
Maybe people don’t usually phone the wardens to report problems. Maybe traffic wardens deserve their reputations after all.
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