Immensely grateful

How immensely grateful I am for being in a (more or less) secure, civilised, democratic, peaceful country. How immensely grateful I am for having a warm, comfortable, safe home.

How immensely grateful I am for not

• Starving to death
• Being relentlessly bombed
• Fleeing a despotic regime
• Being trafficked
• Being tortured
• Being jailed for insulting the King
• Being conscripted
• Being a slave

How immensely sad it is that all these horrific things are going on around the world and so little is being done to stop them. How immensely sad it is that those with enormous power are not using their power more wisely.

How immensely shocking it is that a dubious embrace at a Coldplay concert gets as much attention as the destruction of Gaza. How immensely shocking it is that a film star's revealing dress gets as much attention as the bombing of Ukraine.

How immensely envious I am of those young children who know nothing of all this and still believe the world to be a kind and altruistic place.

Politics? No way!

There are many reasons why I always ruled out becoming a politician. It's been suggested a few times that I would be an excellent one, but goodness knows why. The very idea is laughable.

The most compelling reason was the constant clash between what I would want to do, what my constituents would want me to do, and what the party line happened to be.

To have to keep deciding between those three things must be hugely stressful. If for example I thought it was sensible to close a local hospital and transfer all its services to a new and better equipped hospital a couple of miles away, but my constituents wanted the local hospital to stay open, and the party line was something different again, what would I go with?

Then there's the mounting hostility towards politicians generally, for being out of touch with their constituents, pursuing expensive vanity projects and lining their own pockets. Female politicians especially are subject to a never-ending torrent of abuse, personal attacks and death threats. Many politicians have been forced to install elaborate security systems simply for their own safety.

And despite threadbare knowledge of the subjects I would be legislating on or making decisions about, I would have to add my shaky opinions to what might already be some totally misguided measures, with who knows what unforeseen consequences. What do I know about interest rates or planning applications or carbon emissions? No more than the average person-in-the-street.

No, I just couldn't have done it. I wouldn't have lasted six months.

Safety first

It's a strange paradox that although we all want to feel safe and secure and protected, at the same time we do things that are absurdly reckless and dangerous.

We want to feel safe. We want to know that whatever life throws at us, whatever misfortunes we run into, we'll survive the challenges and our lives won't be ruined or ripped apart.

We seek dependable partners, we accumulate money, we buy houses, we surround ourselves with friends, we live somewhere peaceful and civilised, we look for secure long-term jobs, we avoid people we find difficult or disturbing.

At the same time though, we constantly do things that threaten our safety, put our lives at risk, and jeopardise everything we hold dear. There's a part of us that chafes at the endless safety-first approach and yearns for a bit of adventure and excitement and throwing all caution to the winds.

So we find ourselves getting hopelessly drunk, driving at crazy speeds (or both), chain smoking, jaywalking, getting into fights (well, the guys anyway), climbing wobbly ladders, not to mention bungee-jumping, sky-diving, rock-climbing and snorkelling.

I freely admit to driving too fast (on occasion), to jaywalking, to climbing wobbly ladders. And a few other reckless habits. I mean, they're not really THAT dangerous. I haven't come a cropper yet, have I? So there you are then. No need to worry.

Of course the other paradox is that it's often the thrill-seekers, the ones forever putting themselves in danger, who live to tell the tale, while Cautious Clara is unlucky enough to kill herself in a freak accident involving a faulty safety harness.

We all want to be safe. Except when we don't.

A yen for risk

I'm fascinated by the way people crave risk as much as they crave safety. Human nature demands this strange contra-diction.

On the one hand we want safety. We want a home, a job, friends and family, things that make us feel protected and secure, things that ward off the horrors and uncertainties of the outside world.

But at the same time we don't want to feel too staid and set in our ways, we want a bit of excitement in our lives, so we also want risk. We drink too much, eat too much, drive recklessly and take dangerous drugs, busily compromising the very same safety and security we're striving for the rest of the time.

Some people go farther. The reliable bank clerk and home-owner who also has a yen for rock climbing, sky diving, bungee jumping or surfing. Or even a fervent desire to work in war-torn countries where they face death every day. They can only take so much safety and security before they crave the exact opposite, something that is physically threatening but gets the adrenaline going like nothing else.

Personally I have a strong yearning for safety, and I steer away from risk. I'm a timid soul who seldom does anything riskier than exceeding the speed limit or standing on a cliff-edge.

If I feel any sense of risk in my life, it's only the vicarious danger oozing from the media, with its screaming headlines about cancer epidemics, plane crashes, multiple pile-ups and mass shootings.

I guess that's one reason we're all such avid news-consumers. It gives us that exhilarating whiff of looming peril that livens up our usually predictable existence. It persuades us we're taking constant risks when in fact we've never been safer.

But I think I'll pass on the bungee-jumping for now, if that's all right with you.

Watching the Strad

It may seem strange to you and me, but musicians casually carry around instruments worth hundreds of thousands of pounds as if they were of no more value than a paperback.

They're so used to owning them, and so used to keeping sight of them at all times, that they seldom get stolen. Musicians watch their instruments as carefully as a parent watches a child.

The recent theft of a £1.2 million Stradivarius violin from a London sandwich shop is most unusual.

Of course one reason Strads are unlikely to be stolen is the difficulty of reselling them. They're so recognisable (there are only a few hundred in the world) that dealers would be instantly suspicious. You'd be lucky to flog it at the local market for a fiver.

Violinist Stephen Bryant's violin* is worth about £250,000, but his only precaution against losing it is to watch it like a hawk. It's so precious to him that such habitual vigilance is second nature.

Some musicians do have an instrument minder - someone who either carries the instrument or makes sure the musician is looking after it. But many musicians would only trust their personal attachment to something that is so important to them - something crucial to their self-identity.

In 2008, violinist Philippe Quint was so grateful for the return of a 285-year-old Stradivarius left in a New York taxi that he treated New York cabbies to a special private performance.

It's surprising that musical instruments aren't kidnapped and held to ransom. If they're so precious to the musicians, presumably they'd be prepared to pay quite a lot to get them back. Maybe they do, but it's all kept very quiet. Or should I say, molto molto pianissimo.

* Leader of the BBC Symphony Orchestra.

Pic: Min-Jin Kym, whose £1.2 million Stradivarius was stolen, and is still missing.

Feeling the pinch

If you thought nobody would have the nerve to steal from a charity shop, you'd be wrong. In fact right now thefts are rocketing because crowded shops make it easy.

The recession has tempted more and more hard-up people into charity outlets, and it's hard for the staff (often elderly volunteers) to keep a close eye on what's going on.

Usually there's no security equipment and volunteers have no specialised security training. So things like clothes, DVDs and books are disappearing in droves.

Whether the thieves are taking things for their own use or to sell on to others isn't clear, but it's certainly making a big dent in charity income.

The British Heart Foundation estimates they're losing up to £2.5 million a year - money urgently needed for medical research and improved treatments. And that's just one charity.

Do the thieves believe their own needs are more important than those with heart disease? Or do they simply not care and just see charity shops as easy pickings?

If people really are desperate enough to steal, you'd think they would at least choose big commercial companies that can afford to lose some of their fat profits rather than organisations trying to help the sick and vulnerable. Have they absolutely no conscience? Or shame?

It might also deter people from donating to charity shops if they think their offerings will simply be ripped off for nothing. Donations are slowing as it is, with hard-pressed households hanging on to things rather than replacing them.

It's depressing to see how many people have the morals of a turnip.
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How about that? Scientists have discovered the world's first known vegetarian spider. Bagheera kiplingi, which was found in South America, lives almost exclusively on the leaf buds of wild acacia plants. All the other 40,000 species of spider are thought to be carnivorous. Let's hear it for those ground-breaking arachnids!

Behind the gates

I don't see the attraction of a so-called gated community. Why would anyone want to live behind high-security walls and barriers where just getting in and out is like being at Fort Knox? What are they so afraid of?

There's a huge block of apartments going up just a few streets away, which are being sold on the basis that the security measures are so elaborate you need never worry about crime.

But the local streets are perfectly safe anyway. The chances of anyone nicking anything are practically zero. You could leave the telly in the middle of the road and it would still be there three hours later.

It's sad that some people have such an exaggerated fear of crime they're convinced their homes will be stripped bare unless they're protected by every security device known to man.

I'd hate living like that. I want to just walk in and out of my house without a fuss. I wouldn't want to run a gauntlet of security guards, padlocks and access codes every time I popped out for a newspaper or a pound of tomatoes. It may be necessary for a gawped-at celebrity, but is your average homeowner really that vulnerable?

How easily fear turns into raging paranoia. And how cleverly the idea of gated communities trades on it.
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Work shock: Once again I'm a victim of the mania for job restructuring. It looks as if I might soon be out of work and back on the jobhunting treadmill. Watch this space....
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Blog shock: Good grief, I'm on the shortlist for Best Newcomer in the Irish Blog Awards. Some mistake surely? The bribe must have been far too generous....

Lovers reunited

Last weekend I took the ferry to Stranraer to collect Jenny and her possessions from Glasgow, where she was working for 14 months. Like hundreds of other Northern Irelanders before her, she found a job she wanted in another country so she was commuting between Belfast and Scotland roughly once a week. Now she's landed a new job in Belfast and she's back home again, I'm glad to say.

It was an interesting experiment, as prior to the Glasgow job Jenny and I had only lived apart for the first few months of our relationship. We certainly learnt a lot about ourselves: that we could be pretty independent on our own but still missed the physical proximity and everything that goes with it - instant sharing of thoughts and feelings, talking through problems and plans, and of course the regular hugs, kisses and other intimacy. If one of us had a crisis while the other was elsewhere, proper support was difficult at the end of a phone line. The myriad emails, texts and phone calls were wonderful but a poor substitute for the real thing.

I cooked lots of proper meals for myself while Jenny stopped cooking and lived on instant snacks. I cleaned our house in Belfast while Jenny cleaned the flat in Glasgow. I managed to keep the accounts solvent despite two lots of spending in two different places.

But although I adapted to Jenny's absences well enough to begin with (and quite enjoyed being on my own), as the months wore on the constant separation felt more and more odd. At one point I felt like someone's mistress, always waiting for a phone call and a fleeting encounter. At another point it seemed I was the one living in Belfast and Jenny was just popping over to visit me. Over the last few months our divided life felt increasingly unnatural and disruptive, so I'm relieved we're together again. Probably our new proximity will take some getting used to when we've had so much personal space, but we're both agreed - no more separations unless we're desperate!

As for the ferry: the total lack of security is still glaring. Our car was not checked in any way either going or returning. It could have been stuffed with enough explosives to wipe out the ferry twice over but hey, let's live dangerously! And wow, is it different from the sedate, demure aircraft ambience. The ferry is more like one big party: everyone milling around, stuffing themselves with food and drink and generally letting their hair down - notably on Sunday night when all the footie fans were singing fit to bust and looking for punchups. Not the ideal spot for two book-clutching intellectuals (i.e. us). Haste ye back? I think not. Especially as neither of us took to Glasgow - too dour and gloomy beside the exuberance of Belfast.