I have been thinking about getting older, not that I have a choice in the matter. Well pondering about the advantages and downside of advancing in years. The big advantage of getting older is of course it means you are still alive.
Is there such a thing as getting older? Or can we reasonably choose between say 20 and 45 what we do. For example, many of my peers lauded the advantages of having one's offspring "early" that is you are still young enough to enjoy yourself when the kids have left the nest - I often wonder if in fact that is an advantage as in their eyes you are still then young enough to be unpaid nanny for their progeny, instead of finding yourself by embarking on a world trip. Having your kids later might mean that they can look after you while they are still young and fit enough and don't have the disposable income to do the world trip thing as they are still paying uni fees.
As for the sex thing, does the ability to dispatch the durex, put away the pill, trash the thermometer and go equipped with built in contraception, that age brings the female of the species, lead to more? Well maybe, providing the hot flushes, headaches, mood swings and other menopausal mayhem don't dull the desire. But then again men-o-pause can be exactly that as himself may need an interlude in between performances before he can take the show to the provinces.
At what point does experience no longer count in the workplace? Forget the fact that you are over the hill in the IT sector at 30, in most sectors (apart from the sports and sex industries) you are considered an asset if you bring your knowledge capital and know how....but there is a creeping parenthesis that puts you into the older but no longer wiser bracket - a time where they are no longer seeking your opinion but leaving Saga brochures on your desk which has also been moved closer to the door.
Looking on the bright side, (with the aid of varifocals) with the right combination of health, wealth and happiness getting older can be getting better and regardless of the trials and tribulations of life its definately not a rehearsal and so what if it takes longer to do stuff, we can still be a class act
Friday 25 September 2009
Thursday 24 September 2009
Mobile Foaming at the mouth
I have come to the conclusion that mobile phones are no more than social props for those who have difficulty coping in the real world. They have moved from being a useful tool to get in touch in cases of emergency – for example, when that matching kidney is being swiftly transported to the regional renal hospital or come home quickly Great Uncle Eustace is breathing his last and has asked for you, to a fill all down time with the pitter-pat of text and chat. You see them in the streets with that walky runny "I am so important" sidewinder swagger with phone jammed to the lug 'ole and oh so desperate.
Have people lost the ability to sort out the urgent from the important? Or is it a case of if no one needs you right now, then your usefulness and therefore career trajectory is on the slide? Better to be chattering into the void whilst negotiating the fast lane of the M6 at rush hour in heavy rain than to be concentrating on getting to that meeting safely. How many of us have had to dodge the sneak-a-peep textual intercoursers in the course of driving through town – or worse still, the traffic light texters, those who just need to get in that final gr8tng word of banal8t before realising the lights have been at green for the last 20 seconds.
I suppose it is safer when driving or operating machinery, but the sight of those buck edjits prancing round B&Q and other similar torture centres with their silver clad shell likes shining in the sun like piercings gone wrong irrit8s me– why when they get out of the car do they have to assume the position of a Borg drone; ear piece and mobile clipped to the belt like one of those tan leather strap on tool belts? Of course the uniform of the damned is only complete when finished off with the multi-pocket cargo pants, slogan socks and deck shoes.
Why do we need such intensity of being contactable and being able to contact others? Does this create a quasi sense of importance or does in feed into our anxiety areas? Its the same with the "news" (what ever that is) it's now on tap pumped and streamed to our systems with every nuance, twist and turn, spin and opinion, readily available to be ingested and acted upon. But are we really any better off with this information overload? How much time to we get to take on board stuff before we are bombarded with more stuff? It's like a race to bring us a disaster faster with the movie moguls racing to get the rights to bring the bad news to the big screen complete with special effects. Apparently, Sylvester Stallone is already pumping himself up to play the wrestler who allegedly murdered his wife and son before ending his own life using a weights machine to strangle himself – obviously not having to wrestle much with his conscience about the impact on the family and loved ones.
So I am left wondering if all these wonderful advances in technology have in fact got in the way of living – the just in time generation becoming the blink and its gone generation – but don't worry we have a digital record of the moment you missed
Have people lost the ability to sort out the urgent from the important? Or is it a case of if no one needs you right now, then your usefulness and therefore career trajectory is on the slide? Better to be chattering into the void whilst negotiating the fast lane of the M6 at rush hour in heavy rain than to be concentrating on getting to that meeting safely. How many of us have had to dodge the sneak-a-peep textual intercoursers in the course of driving through town – or worse still, the traffic light texters, those who just need to get in that final gr8tng word of banal8t before realising the lights have been at green for the last 20 seconds.
I suppose it is safer when driving or operating machinery, but the sight of those buck edjits prancing round B&Q and other similar torture centres with their silver clad shell likes shining in the sun like piercings gone wrong irrit8s me– why when they get out of the car do they have to assume the position of a Borg drone; ear piece and mobile clipped to the belt like one of those tan leather strap on tool belts? Of course the uniform of the damned is only complete when finished off with the multi-pocket cargo pants, slogan socks and deck shoes.
Why do we need such intensity of being contactable and being able to contact others? Does this create a quasi sense of importance or does in feed into our anxiety areas? Its the same with the "news" (what ever that is) it's now on tap pumped and streamed to our systems with every nuance, twist and turn, spin and opinion, readily available to be ingested and acted upon. But are we really any better off with this information overload? How much time to we get to take on board stuff before we are bombarded with more stuff? It's like a race to bring us a disaster faster with the movie moguls racing to get the rights to bring the bad news to the big screen complete with special effects. Apparently, Sylvester Stallone is already pumping himself up to play the wrestler who allegedly murdered his wife and son before ending his own life using a weights machine to strangle himself – obviously not having to wrestle much with his conscience about the impact on the family and loved ones.
So I am left wondering if all these wonderful advances in technology have in fact got in the way of living – the just in time generation becoming the blink and its gone generation – but don't worry we have a digital record of the moment you missed
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Fangs for the memories
Today I want to talk about phobias, not generally but mine. I am conscious of the fact that bloggus interruptus may occur as my phobia, well one of them may prevent me from going on with this - as in I may have to distract myself by whatever means I can which may include leaving the house.
I will start with the minor irritations as opposed to the big kahuna - these I can deal with without coming out in a cold sweat or feeling that sensation of cotton wool in my chest.
Anyway, cigarette ends is one - I am not on any anti puffers podium nor do I mind people smoking its the end product I can't stand. I am unable to lift fag ends without wearing rubber gloves or wrapping news paper round my hands. Its the smell that gets me and makes me chunder. I think it may be something to do with my parental unit being from the war generation where non-filter fags were partially smoked extinguished and then re-lit later I never liked that smell.
Moving swiftly on, I am not struck on winged instruments, that is birds. I don't mind them wandering around as long as they don't flap and wander around me that is. Last time I went to the local park it was bucketing with rain and the swans and geese and ducks were hungry and I had brought a couple of loaves of bread and was standing chucking big bits into the water when they got me in a pincer movement, I was circled by a pulsating pavlova of white wings and shrill squawking as they competed with each other for my bags of bread. Well, I ran screaming back to the safety of my car with every man, woman, child and their dogs laughing at the sight of this crazed banshee creature sliding over the swan shit in the pouring rain.
Of course, I have been building up to the main event the jaws of my dilemma the molars of my mortification, and the root cause of my problem - FALSE TEETH there I said it. I am now focusing very intently on what I am typing as opposed to the mental images that are skipping across my conscious like little dental plates of tiller girls doing a steradent frothed can-can in my mind.
As a child I didn't like it when my elderly great aunt, she of the white hair, white powdery complexion topped off with blood red lips that made her look like a ghostly geisha, used to think it was funny to let her top set slip down and act out the giant from Jack and the beanstalk...fee..fi..fo..fum..
It got worse over the years and actually made me switch careers in my early days from nursing to social work nursing = potential to have to deal with false teeth, removing them, washing them and refitting them like a bloody bricklayer shuggling them to get them to fit in the gummy cavity wall lining.
I can't even watch The Simpsons when Granpa's falsers are on the move like into Santa's Little Helper's mouth I have to turn away. And if there is a You've Been Framed type programme on the giggle box I keep a cushion handy to cover my face.
I am not dental phobic and have no problem going to the dentist and injections, drills and pain don't bother me but they know to move all sightings of plates and bridges out of my line of sight.
Its not really even the teeth bit that gets me, its the pinky, shiny, plastic pretend gums, attached to them like a set of mouth based maracas with a smattering of chattering.
This is not meant to offend people who have dentures, despite me making light of it, its as real to me as say a fear of spiders is to another person.
Now off for some retail therapy..
I will start with the minor irritations as opposed to the big kahuna - these I can deal with without coming out in a cold sweat or feeling that sensation of cotton wool in my chest.
Anyway, cigarette ends is one - I am not on any anti puffers podium nor do I mind people smoking its the end product I can't stand. I am unable to lift fag ends without wearing rubber gloves or wrapping news paper round my hands. Its the smell that gets me and makes me chunder. I think it may be something to do with my parental unit being from the war generation where non-filter fags were partially smoked extinguished and then re-lit later I never liked that smell.
Moving swiftly on, I am not struck on winged instruments, that is birds. I don't mind them wandering around as long as they don't flap and wander around me that is. Last time I went to the local park it was bucketing with rain and the swans and geese and ducks were hungry and I had brought a couple of loaves of bread and was standing chucking big bits into the water when they got me in a pincer movement, I was circled by a pulsating pavlova of white wings and shrill squawking as they competed with each other for my bags of bread. Well, I ran screaming back to the safety of my car with every man, woman, child and their dogs laughing at the sight of this crazed banshee creature sliding over the swan shit in the pouring rain.
Of course, I have been building up to the main event the jaws of my dilemma the molars of my mortification, and the root cause of my problem - FALSE TEETH there I said it. I am now focusing very intently on what I am typing as opposed to the mental images that are skipping across my conscious like little dental plates of tiller girls doing a steradent frothed can-can in my mind.
As a child I didn't like it when my elderly great aunt, she of the white hair, white powdery complexion topped off with blood red lips that made her look like a ghostly geisha, used to think it was funny to let her top set slip down and act out the giant from Jack and the beanstalk...fee..fi..fo..fum..
It got worse over the years and actually made me switch careers in my early days from nursing to social work nursing = potential to have to deal with false teeth, removing them, washing them and refitting them like a bloody bricklayer shuggling them to get them to fit in the gummy cavity wall lining.
I can't even watch The Simpsons when Granpa's falsers are on the move like into Santa's Little Helper's mouth I have to turn away. And if there is a You've Been Framed type programme on the giggle box I keep a cushion handy to cover my face.
I am not dental phobic and have no problem going to the dentist and injections, drills and pain don't bother me but they know to move all sightings of plates and bridges out of my line of sight.
Its not really even the teeth bit that gets me, its the pinky, shiny, plastic pretend gums, attached to them like a set of mouth based maracas with a smattering of chattering.
This is not meant to offend people who have dentures, despite me making light of it, its as real to me as say a fear of spiders is to another person.
Now off for some retail therapy..
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