Beware statistics

How sceptical we've all become about statistics. We just assume straightaway they've been massaged, fiddled and adjusted ad nauseam to give the desired result rather than the real one.

The health service is improving by leaps and bounds? Schools are doing a fantastic job? We've all got more money to spend than ever? We just don't believe the figures any more, there's a funny smell about them.

A lot of the time, they just don't chime with our personal experience, or our friends' experience. The health service has never been better? So how come Uncle Ted has been waiting six months for a heart op? How come I've been waiting nine for physiotherapy?

The fact is that too many people have a vested interest in cooking the figures to their own advantage. Politicians looking for votes. Drug firms dependent on safe medicines. Police forces expected to solve crimes. If the stats look bad, they'll give them a little tweak in the right direction.

We all know examples of people being caught with their pants down. When A&E waiting times dramatically decreased it was discovered that senior managers had stealthily improved them by falsifying admission and treatment records. The figures were worthless.

Individuals are no more reliable. If someone's asked how often they have sex, "Several times a week" is a lot more likely than "Actually, I can't get it up. I've been a washout for six months." Who freely admits their failings and weaknesses?

Statistics gathered by reputable academics with no axe to grind may be 100% legit. Unfortunately these principled souls are thin on the ground.

So those precise-looking figures may look good in a newspaper headline. They may be presented by a jolly authoritative chap in a smart suit from the Institute of Something-Or-Other. But most of us take them with a bucketload of salt and think "Sure. So who stands to gain? Where's the pay-off?"

(Bet you didn't know that 57% of estate agents are transvestites, 23% suck their thumbs and 39% are satanists? Who'd have thought it?)

NB: This post was completely rewritten on 17.10.08

Challenge the bullies

I could have reacted in different ways to being bullied at school - getting my revenge by turning into a bully myself or doing my best to protect other victims.

It never occurred to me at all to put on the bully's hat and make someone else's life wretched, make them suffer the same way I had to. I don't know how people can harden themselves like that, freeze their emotions and become tormentors in turn.

No, in my case it bred a life-long sympathy for victims, not just of bullying but of any misery or hardship inflicted on the innocent by abusers of power everywhere. Knowing what it's like to be belittled and humiliated, knowing how much psychic damage that can do, I wanted to defend others in the same trap.

As a journalist in my younger days, I was always keen to write about people in rotten circumstances, neglected by officialdom or their own families. I exposed decrepit housing, health service cock-ups, lonely old people, unemployed youngsters, loan sharks. Hopefully I righted a few wrongs and freed a few people from anxiety and fear.

Later I took part in political campaigns to support women, homosexuals, council tenants and access to abortion. I joined in protests against the Vietnam War, poll tax and the National Front. It felt good to stand up and be counted, to be voicing my anger with hundreds of others rather than sitting at home shrugging my shoulders and saying "Well, that's the way of the world."

For five years I was a trade union rep, rallying my workmates when the management was up to something sneaky - trying to freeze wages, extend working hours or cut holiday leave. We'd dig our heels in and say a collective no to their relentless asset-sweating. Sometimes we won, sometimes we lost, but I felt ecstatic those times when the bosses retreated.

If enough people stand up to the bullies, they can always be defeated. But it's easy to be intimidated by the sheer ruthlessness of those who regard treating other people badly as the natural order. If you're picked on time and again, it's hard to fight back, especially if you're left to flounder by those who could help. So don't be shy - throw someone a lifebelt.

Excited to death

Is this a sad story or a happy one? John Parsons, a 71 year old retired engineer from Barry in South Wales had dreamed of having a motorbike for years - but his wife Myra wouldn't let him.

After her death from cancer last summer, he finally bought the bike and was really excited about riding it.

But the day after it was delivered, going out on his first ride, he had a heart attack, fell into the path of an oncoming Range Rover and died. The excitement was too much for his heart.

You could say it's a sad story because he died prematurely from an unlucky accident. But there again it's a happy story because he'd had a good life and died fulfilling a dream. I go for the latter.

And before you ask, I've never wanted a motorbike so Jenny has nothing to fear.

Picture: John and Myra Parsons

Absent friends

A lot of women complain they can't find a suitable man - either they're stuck with a useless dickhead or they know a really bright, considerate guy who's giving them the brush-off.

Luckily I've fared pretty well with sexual relationships, but I have a similar problem when it comes to making friends - they're either liabilities or non-starters.

I really envy those people who have a wide circle of friends to give them support and encouragement at times of personal crisis or triumph. Right from my childhood I've never stumbled on the simple knack of forming deep and lasting friendships that go beyond the initial chatty bonhomie and light-hearted banter. There's a connective threshold I've never managed to cross.

I've tried often enough. Plenty of people have struck me as potential friends, people whose company would be rewarding and inspiring, but if we got together at all, too often it would be for weeks or months at best. Then inevitably something would go adrift, our meetings would lose their impetus and we would gradually lose touch.

On the few occasions when a friendship has lasted longer, the seeming friend's chronic unreliability, neediness or plain craziness has finally turned it sour.

I feel embarrassed and bemused that I lack this simple universal skill so routine to everyone else. It's discomforting when other people announce casually that they're "going out with friends" or they've "got a friend in a million", and I'm unable to reciprocate with my own happy tales of friendship. I always suspect they're secretly pitying me for my backward personality.

But no matter how much I watch other people effortlessly chattering to their friends, trying to work out how it's done, I'm left as baffled as ever by their social dexterity - like someone who's tone-deaf trying to understand music.

There it is, though, and I've learnt to be philosophical about my blind spot and to appreciate those gifts I do have. There are far worse traits than a failure to connect.

And at least I have one solid, enduring relationship that transcends friendship and gives so much extra meaning and significance to every aspect of my life. Jenny and I clicked instantly and we never looked back. A wee miracle.

Titanic's fatal flaw

A big dilemma for defenders of the Titanic, as new research suggests the ship was so fragile it could have sunk easily in stormy weather, with or without an iceberg.

Researchers for a new documentary 'Titanic's Achilles Heel' believe the ship had already broken in half by the time the stern had risen by 10 degrees - which could have happened in any heavy seas.

So even if it hadn't hit an iceberg, it could still have sunk on its maiden voyage or soon afterwards. A hurricane or violent weather was all it needed to finish it off.

It has always been believed till now that the Titanic only broke in half when the weight of incoming water forced the stern to rise to 45 degrees.

But footage of newly-discovered sections of wreckage convinced the researchers this was wrong and that the ship had substantial design and structural flaws from the start.

A naval architect on the team described the design of the expansion joints in the hull, which allowed the hull to flex in choppy seas, as 'unimaginably crude'.

What this means of course is that if the Titanic had not split up so quickly, and had stayed afloat for longer, hundreds of passengers and crew could have been rescued instead of perishing in the icy waters.

What's more, if it had gone down in a violent storm, with no iceberg anywhere in sight, the cause would have been a total mystery until such time as incriminating fragments were found and the failings revealed.

But the knowledge that 1,500 people confidently set sail on this glamorous new liner, unaware that structural botches could kill them in an hour or two, sends a shiver down the spine.

Even the accumulated riches of wealthy globetrotters are no protection against a fatal miscalculation by an unknown craftsman.

(from report in the Belfast Telegraph)

Fur and whiskers

A lot of people have pets as substitutes for children or lovers, but since I've never wanted children and I already have a very affectionate lover, a pet is not on my shopping list.

When I was a child, my parents had a Scottish terrier but the poor dog was driven neurotic by my super-strict father who would punish him for vices like not sitting patiently in his basket while we ate.

In his later years he would pad around nervously and cringe whenever my father approached him. My father used to say it was the dog's fault for being rebellious.

I know several people utterly devoted to their dogs or cats, which clearly enrich their lives and give them immense pleasure.

But I find it odd when pet-owners say they prefer animals to people, that animals are always loyal and friendly while people are treacherous and two-faced. Well so they are but they do have their attractions too - you can't have a conversation with Rover about the emotional impact of Mark Rothko or the narrative skills of Ian McEwan.

I feel sorry for pets that are treated like accessories and playthings and denied their proper dignity and respect. At one time it was the height of fashion to dress dogs in fancy coats and I would see all these humiliated tartan-clad dogs trying desperately to make themselves invisible.

Worse still, the dressed-up dogs might then be trained to do party tricks like standing on their hind legs or jumping through hoops, while their owners beamed with pride at these demeaning feats.

And as for the trend towards ever-tinier miniature dogs, so small you trip over them and their fragile bodies are subject to nasty afflictions like chronic arthritis, that's a sort of canine equivalent of Chinese foot-binding.

No, I love watching the neighbour's ginger cat prowling our garden imperiously, sniffing for traces of alien cats invading its territory. But one of my own? No way. I still prefer rock and paperbacks to fur and whiskers.

Ambition

I've never been ambitious, never been one of those thrusting, go-getting, ladder-climbing individuals who can't rest until they're at the top of every heap and not just one of the toiling masses.

Or rather I've never been ambitious in the job sense of wanting an important, influential position with a fat salary and lots of people under my wing.

I'm sure my parents were always disappointed by my missing ambition gene and wanted to boast that their wonderful son was now Editor of the Daily Trumpet or Chief Executive of Toptome Bookshops. They probably thought I was wasting my potential or shying away from challenges.

But no, the only ambitions I've ever had were the more prosaic ones of just wanting to have a good time, stretch my mind a little, fall in love and earn enough to be comfortable. The prestigious corridors of power never seemed that glamorous to me, more like precarious thrones that other people were always plotting to usurp.

I've always been quite happy as one of the toiling masses, doing low-level jobs that others turn up their noses at. For one thing, I rather like dealing with the general public. I like the constant novelty of personal quirks and eccentricities and general loopiness. I'm fascinated by the strange things that go on in people's heads and how seldom they do what you expect them to do.

I've no wish to hide away in an office all day, shuffling papers, drafting targets and mission statements, monitoring sick leave and dreaming of a bigger BMW.

I remember a bookshop manager I once worked under, who was burning with ambition and desperate to be recognised as the steely-eyed executive he knew himself to be. He was permanently hyper-active, whizzing around like a dervish and introducing a new procedure every half-hour.

He chain-smoked incessantly and always looked as though a pack of wolves was snapping at his heels. This compulsive frenzy alienated the entire staff and we were forever trying to engineer his departure by fair means or foul. How his wife lived with him I can't imagine.

I'm glad I never turned into someone like that. Ambition? A volatile substance I'd rather not handle in case it explodes in my face. I'll leave it for those better equipped to play around with it.

Image courtesy of Time Magazine

Ian's gay blinkers

I was pleased to see that other politicians leapt on Northern Ireland government minister Ian Paisley Junior as soon as he described gays as 'repulsive' and said they harmed themselves and harmed society.

Not so long ago they might have taken no notice and accepted his defence that he was entitled to voice his own personal opinion on a matter he felt strongly about.

Today however such vicious abuse is considered not only unacceptable in itself but also hugely damaging to the department he represents, which is responsible for equality issues.

Assembly members are so disgusted they've drawn up a censure motion against him and want an unconditional apology. So far he has refused to apologise and insisted on his right to heap insults on an already much-maligned group of people.

He's quite oblivious to the elephant-sized blunder he has committed. He's stuck in some 1950s gay-bashing time warp and hasn't noticed that public opinion has moved on and left him behind in his Janet and John utopia.

As Danny Kennedy of the Ulster Unionist Party pointed out: 'The reported comments would not be acceptable anywhere in mainstream British political life.'

Unfortunately Ian Paisley Junior thinks he is a law unto himself and can casually disregard equal opportunities provisions.

If anyone is harming society it's people like him pouring further contempt on vulnerable, insecure homosexuals who are already prone to self-doubt, distress and in some cases suicidal tendencies. What they badly need is not condemnation but reassurance, support and human decency.

And how about the harm from those heterosexuals who think nothing of abusing children, committing adultery, beating their wives and mistreating prostitutes? That's more than repulsive, it's deeply sickening. Those who live in glass houses....

Dress codes

I'm always bemused by workplace dress codes. As far as I can see, asking employees to wear special clothes that conform to some arbitrary company image is almost entirely pointless and misguided.

For all the effort people put into finding the right suit, not looking too sexy, choosing sober colours, or toning down the jewellery, how much difference does it actually make to the business they're working for, or the customers?

The idea is that chaste, decorous clothes inspire confidence in whoever you're dealing with and get the cash flowing, but I have my doubts.

After all, suits are the norm for some of the least respected jobs - politicians, estate agents, car salesmen - but they don't cut the mustard there. And no intelligent adult is going to swallow some dodgy mortgage deal just because the man in the bank is in regulation pinstripes rather than a racy shirt and chinos.

On the other hand, casual clothes are routine in some of the most successful businesses ever, like IT and online shopping. And nobody doubts a plumber's expertise when he walks in wearing stained jeans and a torn T-shirt.

I suspect the motive for dress codes is not so much company credibility as controlling the staff and showing them who's boss. Give them too much personal freedom and they'll just get too bolshy to do a proper day's work.

Believe it or not, I've only possessed one suit in my entire working life! I've spent most of that time in bookshops where just about anything goes clotheswise. I could have worn a gorilla suit and it wouldn't have stopped Harry Potter flying off the shelves.

In fact the female staff would often wear eye-wateringly short skirts and low-cut tops, and the only effect on trade was a marked increase in the number of goggle-eyed middle-aged men buying unlikely titles from Fiona or Natalie.

And it wasn't just lack of ambition that made me opt out of management - it was more the awful thought of the obligatory white shirt, sombre tie and neatly-pressed suit. To my mind, not so much high-flying executive as slicked-up ticket tout. Thanks but no thanks.

Green conundrum

I must admit I'm very two-faced about the idea of a looming global crisis. I see all the terrifying headlines about the imminent collapse of the planet, and I just don't take them as seriously as I'm supposed to.

I tell myself the scientists know what they're talking about, and I'm keen to do my bit to prevent catastrophe, but at the same time I want to continue the same comfortable lifestyle I'm used to.

I know flying is highly polluting, but it doesn't stop me jumping on planes. I find a dozen ways of justifying it, from the futility of personal boycotts to the much worse pollution of deforestation or farting cows.

Do I leave my equally toxic car to rust away in the garage? Of course not. I can't possibly rely on the vagaries of public transport to get me where I need to go. And I've frozen to death at bus stops once too often.

Much as I agree with slashing energy use, I'm not quite prepared to shiver through the winter or dump all my household appliances to stop the odd Arctic glacier melting.

I suppose deep down my problem is this - if the environmental crisis is so colossal and so desperate, then it can only be averted by lifestyle changes on a scale far exceeding the petty tweaks and gestures of well-meaning individuals.

However much I'm told that every little bit helps, we all have to pull together, it's a joint effort blah blah, I can't help feeling that everything I'm doing is a mere drop in the ocean that counts for little.

At the end of the day, a threat this big has to be confronted by national governments. Relying on individual goodwill is a bit like rearranging the deckchairs as the Titanic heads for the iceberg. Or fighting Hitler with Dad's Army. There's just too much at stake.

Hate walls

Despite the peace process, there are still dozens of peace walls in Belfast keeping sectarian factions from laying into each other. And the number isn't going down, it's going up.

There's a big controversy around the plan for a brand-new 25-foot peace fence next to, of all places, an integrated* primary school. It seems thugs are going through the school grounds to attack nearby Catholic homes.

The Northern Ireland Council for Integrated Education is saying, hang on a minute, why a 25-foot fence? What attempts have been made to find a less drastic solution through negotiation, discussion and the involvement of the local community? Why is the only answer a crude physical barrier?

At this rate, North Belfast will finish up as one long peace wall from end to end, Berlin-style. Is this the best we can do?

The irony is that we in South Belfast never see the peace walls, unless we have reason to go through the north of the city. For us, they're as unreal as they are to the rest of the world, bizarre structures we only see on TV when there's a local flare-up.

One reason for the permanence of the peace walls (or should I say hate walls) is that the politicians find them a big embarrassment. They prefer to ignore them and pretend sectarianism has died and we're all saying a cheery hello to the neighbours over the freshly-trimmed privet.

They're unwilling to admit the walls are a continuing scandal and that some serious work is needed to get them all dismantled.

They may be a fashionable attraction for tourists who fancy a little frisson of ghoulish horror, but the long-suffering residents are desperate for a normal life that doesn't involve being in a Colditz-type compound 24 hours a day.

When are the warm handshakes at Stormont going to be matched by warm handshakes across the real-life sectarian divides?

* with both Catholic and Protestant pupils

The price of fame

Millions of people are pining desperately to be celebrities - to swap their dull, everyday lives for a spell in the global spotlight, their every move watched and remarked on by the teeming masses.

I can't think why. Myself, I couldn't imagine a more horrible fate than being scrutinised and dissected by every voyeuristic Tom, Dick and Harriet who feels like passing an idle moment with a bit of mindless celeb-gawping.

I'd be trapped in my own home, protected by state of the art security systems and unable to walk the local streets in case I'm attacked by a stalker, besieged by shrieking fans or simply stared at like a monkey in the zoo.

I'd have to watch my appearance like a hawk to check I was thin enough, glamorous enough, confident enough, youthful enough. A few surplus ounces or a crumpled jacket and the media would pounce, telling the world I was letting myself go and my career was on the skids.

Even if I sought refuge on some far-flung Pacific island, the pararazzi would follow and snatch illicit shots of me in the buff, smooching with some unknown beauty who would then have to go into hiding herself.

Worse still, I would be a sitting duck for every journalist and passing low-life to heap abuse and contempt on me whenever the urge took them, on the grounds that (a) if I put myself in the public eye then I'm inviting custard pies and (b) I have to pay the price for my privileged lifestyle.

Who needs it? Why would anyone want to put themselves through all that for the sake of banner headlines in the tabloids? And to those who say, ah but it would be worth all that to have shedloads of money and untold luxury, well sorry to buck the trend but I prefer being able to slouch down the street in my worn-out jeans muttering to myself without the entire British population sneering at my degenerate habits over tomorrow morning's cornflakes. Anonymity? It's just fine by me.

(see also Paparazzi no thanks)

PS: Talking of celebs, Happy Birthday to the gorgeous Julian Clary, a spiffing 48 tomorrow. Julian's columns in the New Statesman are just LMAO funny.

Lying politicians

I really want to believe in politicians. I really want to believe in their promises, their beaming smiles, their grand plans. I truly want to believe that once they're elected, the country will be a better place and all our lives will be happy and complete.

But I don't. I just don't. I've seen so many politicians over so many decades, and been betrayed and let down by so many of them, that I no longer have any faith they'll do what they say.

What else can I think when the new English Wonder Boy, the new Saviour, Flash Gordon himself, who on Thursday had promised us all genuine 'democratic accountability', had on Friday - the very next day - agreed that MPs should not be subject to the freedom of information provisions.

I can't say I'm surprised. I don't kid myself any more. Politicians lie. They lie all the time, day in and day out. They lie about everything. They lie about the small things, they lie about the big things. They lie about weapons of mass destruction, cash-for-peerages, ending poverty, ending sectarianism. The list is endless.

What's more, they know they lie and it doesn't bother them. The only important thing is gaining power and keeping it, and if that means lying shamelessly, so be it. I could cite one or two honourable refuseniks like Tony Benn and John McDonnell, but of course they're the exceptions that prove the rule.

Cynical, moi? Not at all, just clear-eyed and realistic. I've seen so many false dawns and rude awakenings in my time - from the insipid socialism of Harold Wilson to the mass unemployment and industrial carnage of Margaret Thatcher - that the harsh truth stares me in the eyes.

There's only so many times you can trust those grinning faces before you realise they're all different versions of Jekyll and Hyde. There's a good reason why the popularity ratings always put politicians at rock bottom, with estate agents and car salesmen.

So much as I would like to put my faith in one of those earnest, well-scrubbed faces pleading for my vote and promising me another great leap forward - sorry, guys, don't hold your breath.

Tipsy town

Is it insulting or flattering that a new survey finds Belfast to have the biggest boozers in the UK? Depends on your point of view, I guess, and your own partiality for the liver-eating liquid.

The survey by PCP of Luton, a company that rehabilitates hardened drinkers, found that people in Belfast spend an average of £47,568 on alcohol in their lifetime.

Leaving aside exactly how they arrived at that figure, which a trained statistician would probably rip to pieces (and actually it works out at only £2 a week more than the next booziest city, Cambridge), it certainly makes me think about Northern Ireland's astonishing capacity for boozing, on every possible occasion on the flimsiest of excuses ("Hey, I found the budgie - fancy a drink?")

That £47,000 is a hell of a sum. Just think what you could do with it instead - a hefty deposit on a house, a trip round the world, an incredible number of CDs, or a huge wardrobe of designer clothes.

Visitors from other countries are constantly dumbfounded by the British and Irish tendency for relentless drinking - not just a glass of wine to embellish a meal, but pint after pint of the stuff until they've literally taken leave of their senses.

It's not just recklessness or hedonism. Scientists say some people have a special metabolism that can digest rivers of alcohol without a serious physical reaction (apart from hangovers, that is). In other parts of the world, people simply can't process such an overload of booze so they drink very little.

Personally I take after the latter, as I've never been comfortable with more than a glass or two of alcohol, even as a wild teenager. More than that can bring an instant headache and almost complete incapacity the next day. I'm always amazed by the ability of other hangover-struck individuals to act completely normal and compus mentis.

It's ironic that with such widespread religious observance in these parts, there are so few teetotallers, or even light drinkers. Somehow people manage to square their insatiable urge for a brimming tankard with a God who teaches moderation in all things.

Is it possible that one day we'll learn to appreciate quality over quantity? I'll drink to that!

Interview pitfalls

I've done plenty of interviews in my life, but they never cease to be nerve-shredding occasions. However well-prepared I think I am, so often there's something unexpected to trip me up.

I might start off confidently enough, with fluent answers showing my obvious suitability for the job in question, but how easily it can all be derailed. Sooner or later, any of the following may occur:

1. One of the interviewers reminds me of Basil Fawlty and I spend the entire interview trying desperately not to laugh.
2. I'm asked a totally unexpected question ("So why did your grandmother leave Romania?"), my mind instantly goes blank and I'm left staring inanely at the panel.
3. One of the interviewers is so aggressive I have a mounting desire to pick up the water jug and empty the contents all over them.
4. I accidentally upset the water jug and it soaks everything in sight, including all the job applications.
5. I realise a box of condoms has fallen out of my trouser pocket (I can't even recall buying it).
6. One of the interviewers is sweating profusely, and my increasingly bizarre theories as to why this should be are hopelessly distracting me (I'm pretty sure they've just had a quickie with someone in Accounts).

If my guardian angel is on the ball, none of the above happens and the interview goes swimmingly. If my luck is firmly out, I'm assailed by every mishap possible and wish I was anywhere else in the world but there.

But the upshot can be surprising. What I perceived as a perfect interview, wowing the panel with my glittering personality and dazzling expertise, leads to a deafening silence and polite evasions when I pursue it a week later.

On the other hand, the seeming interview-from-hell, where everything went arse-upwards from minute one and I virtually crawled out on my hands and knees, is followed an hour after by a job offer and the revelation that I was "the outstanding candidate". Who can fathom it?

I think one reason I stay in a job for quite a stretch is simply the terrifying prospect of another round of anxiety-ridden interviews en route to my next perch. Never mind a cure for cancer, what I need is a miracle drug for interviews. Oh, and strawberry-flavour, please.

(see also Flirty's Embarrassing Interview Experience)

Far too thin

I've always been thin, especially when I was young and verging on the anorexic, so the women I know are always trying to fatten me up and make me 'healthy'.

Giant chocolate cookies, jam-smothered scones, chunky sandwiches and bowls of chips are pushed in my direction to stop me wasting away any further.

Actually my weight is perfect for my height, but the widespread prevalence of beer bellies and hefty hips makes me look like the oddity. I was actually asked the other day if I had ever been anorexic, so commonplace is it these days.

Even Jenny, who's well used to my body by now, still thinks I'm too skinny and ought to fill out a bit. But she just wants a comfier backrest, if you ask me.

Those who struggle constantly with their weight insist I must be naturally thin and able to stuff myself silly with calorie-rich titbits without gaining an ounce. Well, that was true once but nowadays I have to watch the pounds too.

It's ironic that if I were female I could savour my lucky conformity to the willowy stereotype of Ms Drop Dead Gorgeous. But physical size is fairly low-down on the Ideal Man checklist - what matters more is the size of his bank account and the size of his home. And possibly the size of something more personal.

I'm constantly amazed by the well-upholstered, ample-bellied males that women are happy to be seen with. The only arena in which male thinness is a definite plus seems to be the gay world - I certainly stirred a bit of interest there when I was younger (a lot younger).

For me though, the odd remark about my thinness is just amusing. But it's the thin celebs I feel sorry for. If there's no bulging flesh to be seen, anorexia is the word on everyone's lips - and a hundred denials mean nothing.

(see also Size Zero)

Abortion limbo (2)

The embattled Miss D, the Irish 17 year old who sought an abortion but was doggedly obstructed by the Health Service Executive, has now thankfully been given the go-ahead by the Irish High Court.

The court says she is free to travel abroad to have the abortion (which the law forbids her in the Republic).

They've ruled that the HSE was acting quite improperly in preventing her from carrying out her decision, and confirmed that there is no statutory or constitutional bar to her leaving the country for this purpose.

The HSE is left with a large quantity of egg on its face, while Miss D can at last decide the future of her baby without outside interference.

I wish her well and hope she has the emotional and psychological strength to deal with the loss of her potential child.

Of course this whole legal wrangle wouldn't have occurred if it was easier to get an abortion in the Republic and the Church didn't still have such a stranglehold on all those in a position to change the situation.

The Church's censorious view on abortion doesn't even reflect the general feeling of the Irish people. Since 1967 an estimated 45,000 pregnant women have voted with their feet and travelled to Britain for terminations. They are prepared to defy the law and lie about their nationality to achieve their wishes. Just how long will this desperate exodus continue?

(see also Abortion Limbo)

Digging for gold

Well, who'd have thought it? Under a soggy carpet of peat, heather and gorse near Omagh in County Tyrone, grazed by innocent sheep for generations, lie around 14 tonnes of gold, worth tens of millions of pounds. And there could be a lot more.

Farmer Sam McKinley was staggered when he heard the news. He thought the only benefit of the Cavanacaw bog was his glowing skin after tending the sheep on a summer's day.

But yes, there really is gold in them thar bogs. Enough to compete seriously in the global gold jewellery business, worth £3 billion. Enough to produce rings, earrings and pendants as good as those last made by Celtic goldsmiths in the Bronze Age.

The company running the new mine is called Galantas - Gaelic for "elegant thing". The sole jeweller in Omagh selling Galantas gold has been almost cleared out, such is the demand. They've had customers not just from Northern and Southern Ireland but as far away as Brazil. A price tag of £1,200 on some items is no deterrent.

Local residents still can't quite believe something so glamorous has emerged from Omagh, the town best-known up till now for the Real IRA car-bomb that killed 29 people in August 1998, the worst single atrocity of the Troubles. Now Omagh will be known for jewellery as beautiful as the pottery from Belleek, a few miles away on Lower Lough Erne, and the glassware from Tyrone Crystal at nearby Dungannon.

It's a well-deserved economic boost for this pretty and unassuming town, perhaps providing some compensation for the dreadful misery unleashed on it nine years ago.

And who knows what might be lying under all those other bogs? Has anyone got a spade?

(For more details, see today's story in the Independent)

Abortion limbo

The Republic of Ireland may be rushing into the future at breakneck speed and shedding its insular past with gusto, but when it comes to abortion, attitudes are still remarkably strait-laced.

Miss D, who is 17 and four months pregnant, is asking the Irish High Court to restrain the Health Service Executive from stopping her going to Britain for an abortion.

She has been told her baby has a medical condition which means it won't survive for more than three days after birth.

Her mother supports her wish for an abortion, but the HSE has opposed it, informed the Gardai (police) and actually prevented a passport being issued so she is unable to travel abroad.

The reason she wants to travel to Britain, like many other pregnant women before her, is because abortion is still illegal in the Republic, except when the mother's life is at risk or she is suicidal.

As Breda O'Brien writes in the Irish Times: "A police state where women suspected of being pregnant could be prevented from leaving the country would be utterly repugnant."

It is still not accepted in the Republic that it is up to women to decide whether they want to continue a pregnancy or not. The State and the Church still insist on getting involved, despite the widespread opposition of women who have increasing autonomy in virtually every other area of life but not in this one.

It may well be the case that some women who have had an abortion later regret the fact and feel profound grief and remorse. They may also suffer medical complications that mean they cannot conceive again. But the risk of traumatic consequences is no reason to take away a woman's right to control her own pregnancy and decide whether or not she wants her baby.

The High Court is due to make a decision sometime this week. I sincerely hope they decide in Miss D's favour. But how absurd that this issue is on their agenda in the first place.

PS: Here in Northern Ireland the law on abortion is so confused the Department of Health is about to issue detailed guidelines on provision for it. This follows pressure from the Family Planning Association which is working to increase women's reproductive rights.

Marriage vows

Jenny and I didn't intend to get married. We had been happily living together for 14 years and didn't see any point in doing the paperwork as we knew we were firmly committed to each other.

Then one day J was told that if she died her local authority pension could only go to her husband. Cohabitees of whatever vintage counted for nothing and wouldn't get a penny. We chewed this over for a while and wondered whether we should swallow our scruples and go legal or leave our future finances to chance.

We decided to get married strictly as a piece of creative accounting, with the simplest ceremony possible. No way was it going to escalate into a mortgage-size white wedding with all the trimmings, 200 guests, a five-course banquet and a fleet of limousines. We would just have felt consumed by something out of our control, like Jonah being swallowed by the whale.

Managing to keep our parents well out of it, we arranged a 10-minute hook-up at the local register office, with a couple of good friends to witness the magical moment when we gazed into each other's eyes and agreed to share our pension entitlements. Oh, and our passionate devotion.

Then, what better way to build up our strength for the nocturnal obligations of marriage than some sumptuous aphrodisiacs at our favourite eaterie, washed down by the best aphrodisiac of all, a few generous glasses of champagne. All in all, a very enjoyable and stress-free marriage which did the business without us feeling railroaded into some stifling extravaganza.

I know lots of people (like Flirty) will think I'm a hopeless spoilsport and party-pooper, pouring cold water on what for many couples is obviously an occasion for the biggest and most uninhibited celebration they can muster.

Well, if that's what works for them, I sincerely wish them every happiness, but personally I can't see how a £25,000 bash would have made our nuptial vows any more serious than a solemn promise in front of two valued friends. Different strokes for different folks, as they say.