Body shaming

There seems to be no end to the epidemic of body-shaming and anti-fat abuse. People feel entitled to criticise other people’s physical appearance as much as they like.

Men are less likely to be criticised than women, even men with huge beer bellies, which are very common in Northern Ireland.
 
But women are castigated for any number of supposed physical faults – being fat, being too thin, being ugly, being badly dressed, being dowdy, you name it.
 
Luckily I’ve never been criticised for being fat, as I’ve always been thin and if anything I’m underweight. Being constantly reprimanded for being fat must be infuriating.
 
There’s a general assumption that a woman is fat because she eats too much, though of course that’s not necessarily the case. But the critics don’t care about the actual causes, they just want to be viciously judgmental.
 
There’s also an assumption that a fat woman is less intelligent than a thin woman, which is equally absurd.
 
I admire those women who don’t care over-much how they’re seen by others and just carry on regardless. It takes a lot of determination and self-confidence when other people (mainly men but not always) are happily picking holes in you.

Can't cope

It’s a platitude that after losing a partner women are more practical than men and usually cope quite well with being on their own, while many men can’t cope at all and are totally thrown.
 
Many men are so used to living with a woman who organises the house, does all the cooking and domestic tasks, and maintains friendships, that without her they are all at sea.
 
They fall into complete squalor, let the house fall into disrepair, don’t do enough washing and cleaning, and are generally unable to cope. Some men sink into such despair they end up committing suicide.
 
Apparently many older men who use dating sites aren’t looking for love but are really looking for a housekeeper, someone to organise their life for them.
 
I guess the underlying reason for this difference between men and women is the way boys and girls are brought up. Girls are encouraged to learn domestic and socialising skills while boys are taught that they needn’t bother.
 
I wonder how I would cope if Jenny died. Would I be one of those men who sink into squalor, or would I get along just fine? Hopefully the latter.

Always a rebel

I’m very much the odd one out in our family. The others are pretty conventional while I’m the fiery radical.
 
My parents were conservative as are my sister and brother in law. How I came to be the exception is interesting.
 
When I was at boarding school one of the boys lent me the Communist Manifesto. I read it and thought, this makes a lot of sense, why are some people horrified by it? After I left school London was in the grip of hippyism and everyone was questioning everything left, right and centre. So naturally I started questioning everything I had been brought up to believe.
 
I questioned a lot of the things my father believed, which he hated. He actually stopped speaking to me.
 
Later on I spent several years in a left-wing bookshop in London (now closed unfortunately) and picked up more progressive ideas.
 
It’s commonplace for people to become more conservative as they grow older, but I’ve done the opposite and grown more radical. I suppose I’m acutely aware of all the misery and horror in the world and I just want everyone to have a decent life. Is that too much to ask?

High rise

High-rise tower blocks are seen as quite normal, however high and however they dominate their immediate surroundings. Nobody thinks twice about all the skyscrapers in New York or London.
 
But should they be seen as normal or as something a bit unnatural, something that should be challenged rather than accepted?
 
Mick Jagger and a bunch of other celebs have won their battle to prevent a 29-storey high-rise near Battersea Bridge in London. After fighting the proposal for two years, it has been rejected by a government planning inspector.
 
The inspector ruled that the tower block would be detrimental to the appearance of the area, being taller and bulkier than other existing buildings.
 
I’ve always taken tower blocks for granted myself, but on reflection there are several things wrong with them. They block views from nearby buildings, children have no yard or garden to play in, they need lifts which often break down, and they need elaborate fire control measures to prevent another towering inferno like Grenfell Tower, London, in 2017.
 
Of course the main reason why developers build tower blocks is because they’re highly profitable. They’re not scenic, they’re not interesting architecture, if truth be told they’re actually rather ugly.

PS: I've said before that I wouldn't live anywhere higher than a third floor. Any higher than that and I'd always be worried about a possible disaster and not being able to get out of the building.

Bled dry

It’s common knowledge that health care in the States can be so ruinously expensive that people regularly go bankrupt trying to pay the bills.
 
It’s not so well-known that care homes in Britain are also ruinously expensive and people unlucky enough to need one can also end up bankrupt from the scale of the charges.
 
My mum was in a care home for nine months in 2018 and was paying around £3000 a month. I gather the charge nowadays could be around £1300 a week or £1500 if nursing care is included.
 
That staggering figure soon mounts up. For nine months now she could have been paying over £50,000 ($68,000). How many people have that kind of money to spare? Her local authority could have offered her some financial help but it would be far below what she needed.
 
I look enviously at Sweden, where social care for oldies is provided automatically and comprehensively by the state. Why can’t social care in Britain be provided on the same basis? Obviously it should be part of the national health service.
 
Meanwhile if granny needs long-term care, it could bleed you dry.

Getting old

According to a survey of 2000 people, some youngsters think old age begins at 53. Seriously? How do they work that out? Annoyingly, there is no explanation of this odd figure.
 
I would say old age begins around 75. That was then I started to get various aches and pains I hadn’t had before and when my physical energy started to decline. Before that I didn’t feel any older than someone of 40.
 
Oldies who were also included in the survey thought like me that old age begins at 75. That’s more like it.
 
But 53? How come? Maybe they’re not saying that 53 year olds are actually old and decrepit but just that they’re showing the early signs of old age. They’re set in their ways or slowing down a bit or can’t hear properly.
 
At 53 I was not only fit and healthy but I had just moved from London to Belfast. Very adventurous for someone who was supposedly entering old age.

These odd-thinking youngsters need to talk to a few more oldies to get better informed about ageing.

The roots of hatred

Hearing all the news reports about the wave of anti-semitic attacks in Britain, I can’t help wondering what it is that causes people to hate other people, and hate them so viciously and relentlessly.
 
Is it how they were brought up? Are they copying their friends’ attitudes? Are they influenced by social media posts? Do they somehow blame Jews for their difficult lives?
 
And they think the best way of expressing their hatred is to burn down a synagogue or stab a few Jews. What do they think that’s achieving? All they’re doing is spreading fear and alarm and despair.
 
Such all-consuming hatred has to be fuelled by a view of other people as objects rather than human beings. If you see other people as human then you’re not able to inflict casual violence on them.
 
And then again there’s an intolerance of difference. They find difference threatening rather than intriguing. Instead of asking what Jewishness and Judaism is all about and enjoying adding to their knowledge, they see only something peculiar and unfamiliar that needs to be got rid of.
 
Meanwhile Jews are fearful of further horrific attacks on their community.

The seedy reality

It’s easy to become generally cynical – to decide politicians are all corrupt, landlords are all grasping, shopkeepers are out to fleece you etc
 
It’s hard to believe there are plenty of honest, trustworthy, principled people out there who get a lot less attention than the rogues and always get overlooked.
 
You might think it’s mainly oldies like me who’re cynical because we’ve had a lot of experience of people trying to con us in one way or another, but it seems some young people are just as cynical about the way life is treating them.
 
One thing I can’t help feeling cynical about is whopping price rises in the wake of some global crisis. All it takes is a pandemic or a war or a financial crash and suddenly prices shoot up, with the international crisis taking the blame.
 
But I really should try harder not to be cynical, as it takes some of the joy out of life. I should be more open-minded and philosophical and not allow the seedy reality to dominate my thinking.

Biting the bullet

I’m amazed at how many men still expect their wives or girlfriends to take care of all their personal chores, especially around clothing. Women are still expected to buy their men’s clothes, wash them, iron them, darn them.
 
That assumption went without question in my parents’ generation, and my mother took care of my father’s clothes. No doubt cursing his casual opt-out but doing what was expected of her anyway.
 
I’ve always bought, washed, ironed and darned my own clothes and I never thought of it as women’s work (Jenny and I wash our clothes jointly in the washing machine).
 
My attitude partly arises from being on my own in a bedsit for 7½ years. If I didn’t deal with all my clothing chores, nobody else would. I’d just end up with piles of filthy, nasty-smelling clothes. So I bit the bullet and did what I had to.
 
It seems there’s not much women can do about this forced labour, except to refuse to do any of it. But then you’d end up with more filthy, nasty-smelling clothes and the men would still refuse to change their ways. And fail to detect women’s simmering resentment.

Assumptions

I’m often over-estimated because of my posh middle class appearance.
People think I must have had a top job in some prestigious organisation.
Or they think I’m super-wealthy.
Or they think I live in some splendid mansion.
All quite mistaken.
I’ve always done humble jobs like bookselling and admin.
I’m well-off but not wealthy.
I live in a modest detached house.
 
It’s funny what people assume from my appearance.
I suppose I do the same in reverse.
I get other people quite wrong because of how they look.
I imagine people are poor if they wear very ordinary clothes.
When actually they might be loaded.
Or I imagine they’re narrow-minded if they look rather stern.
Which probably isn’t the case.
 
Then again there’s mistaken identity.
I was once accosted by a man who was sure I was a well-known actor.
I didn’t think there was the vaguest resemblance but he was adamant.
I had to insist several times that I wasn’t this person.
He finally gave in, but I don’t think he really believed me.
I invented an urgent appointment and made my escape.

I see the signs

I’m afraid I’ll get dementia.
I’m afraid I already have dementia.
I can see all the signs.
I fumble for words.
I lose my train of thought.
I have trouble concentrating.
I forget people’s names.
I feel vague and confused.
I don’t feel I’m fully functioning.
I forget how to do things.
I don’t understand what people are saying.
But maybe all those things happen to other people too.
Maybe they just mean we’re fallible human beings.
Maybe I hope for perfect behaviour and can’t accept it’s normal to fall short.
 
My mother had dementia.
My mother and father in law both had dementia.
So I’m not confident I’ll dodge it.
Dementia affects one in six people over the age of 80 in the UK.
I’ll be 80 next year.
I don’t want Jenny to have to look after me for years as dementia worsens.
I don’t want to end up a gormless shadow of my former self.
I don’t want my life to end in such wretchedness.
But dementia strikes at random.
There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
No vaccine.
No drugs.
No surgery.
All I can do is hope to be spared.

Instant cures

I get a lot of posts on my Facebook page claiming to have the cure for various medical conditions. I ignore them as I'm sure there's probably no such cure for the ailment in question.

Apparently a lot of people don't have much faith in doctors any more, yet they're prepared to believe unqualified "wellness" promoters online.

I prefer to trust someone who has spent many years qualifying as a doctor and not someone who simply claims to be an expert.

Yes, doctors can sometimes be frustrating because they can't give you any firm diagnosis or they insist there's no cure for the condition in question and all you can do is manage it.

Anyone who's so desperate for a cure for some absolutely awful condition they'll try just about anything is easy prey for the scammers.

I have no complaints about my own doctors (there are four doctors in my health practice and I may get any of them). They give me clear diagnoses, helpful treatment suggestions and useful health advice generally.

The health "experts" will have to look elsewhere for the credulous.

Past and present

I'm not generally nostalgic for some overall period in my past. But I do look back at the past in a divided fashion, partly remembering things I'd like to return to but also remembering things I absolutely wouldn't want to return to.

Things I'd like to return to:

• When you could just talk to someone about a problem and sort it out, without having to go online and negotiate some complicated website.
• Jobs filled on a more casual basis and not needing lengthy application forms.
• Property prices being affordable. And rental fees not being extortionate.
• Plenty of council homes for people who needed a home.
• Having most of what you needed within walking distance of your home. No hard-to-reach shopping centres and little need of cars.
• Food that was nutritious and healthy, and less ultra-processed food.

Things I definitely wouldn't like to return to:

• Rampant misogyny which was usually shrugged off as harmless banter or "just the way things are".
• Phone boxes and exorbitant long-distance calls.
• Widespread discrimination against single mothers.
• Pervasive homophobia.
• Laborious searches for information, before Google arrived.
• Washing by hand, before washing machines were invented.

I guess most people have the same sort of divided memories.

On the lookout

Does it matter if the book you're reading was written with the help of artificial intelligence? Does that somehow make the book corrupt or invalid or phoney?

The USA release of horror novel Shy Girl by Mia Ballard has been cancelled after it was suspected that most of the book was a product of AI.

Recently the literary agent Kate Nash noticed that the submission letters she was getting from authors were becoming more thorough and more formulaic. She thought nothing of it until she saw a reference to AI on one of the letters.

Publishers in general are now on the lookout for AI-generated books, but AI can be hard to detect and no doubt some are slipping through the net.

Does it really matter though if a book has AI input? Surely the key question is whether it's a good book or not? If AI enables the author to writer a better book or do some useful editing for her, what's wrong with that?

The idea seems to be that only a book written totally by a human being, with no outside help, relying entirely on human imagination and creativity, is of value, while anything that uses a machine must be inferior.

What alarms authors of course is that publishers will start producing AI-written books themselves and do away with authors altogether. Which would be disastrous for authors but probably of no great concern to readers.

Perhaps I can use AI to write my blog posts?

PS: The New York Times has cut ties with freelance journalist Alex Preston after discovering he used AI to help write a book review.

Act your age

Thankfully I don't often get told to "act your age". If people think I'm behaving in an unseemly way age-wise, they have the tact to let me get on with it and not tick me off.

What on earth does "act your age" mean anyway? What behaviour exactly is suitable for someone of sixty? Or seventy? Or eighty? Should we wear clothes that hide every square inch of flesh? Should we never say anything rude or controversial? Should we avoid contentious subjects like sex, drugs, religion or politics? Should we avoid doing anything that might be seen as childish or immature?

You could tie yourself in knots trying to act the way people expect an oldie to act - whatever that may be. Who gives a damn? The way I see it, we oldies have spent decades being bossed around by employers, bureaucrats, relatives and big companies, and in our final years we should be able to behave however we like and ignore any age-based remarks.

Perhaps "act your age" should mean act like someone who's old enough to have seen plenty of life, who's well-informed, experienced, worldly-wise and confident enough to expose young people's naivety and wishful thinking. That would be a definition worth pursuing.

Fuss and bother

I've commented before on how anything involving sex or nudity can cause a ridiculous fuss out of all proportion to what's being objected to.

I keep thinking people will become more relaxed about what is perfectly harmless behaviour, but that doesn't seem to be the case.

What am I talking about? A long list of things. Breastfeeding in public. Kissing in public. Skimpy female clothing. Visible cleavage. Bra-less breasts. Naked male chests. Nudity on TV. The word vagina. Politicians having affairs. Older people's sex lives. Photos of women with stretch marks, scars or mastectomies.

There's still a huge tacit understanding about what is and what isn't allowed, and one step over the boundary can unleash a barely-concealed puritanism.

What the complaints usually amount to is a supposed flouting of "decency" (or sometimes public decency). But decency is such a vague concept it's almost meaningless.

Given my enthusiasm for kissing and hugging in public, I'm surprised nobody has ticked me off. But we in Northern Ireland are very keen to show public affection, even to people we've only just met. It's a delightful custom.

Not so British

Just for a laugh I thought I'd try the British citizen test, which you have to take if you're applying for British citizenship or settlement in the UK.

I didn't do very well. The pass mark is 75 per cent or 18 correct answers out of 24. I only got 79 per cent. But that's quite good considering the questions are ridiculously obscure and have little to do with everyday life in Britain.

For example, some of the questions:

• When did the Habeus Corpus Act become law|?
• What was called the Glorious Revolution?
• When was the first Prime Minister in power?
• Who had important ideas about economics during the Enlightenment?
• Which two countries took part in the Battle of Agincourt?
• Does Scotland have its own banknotes?
• Who supported King Charles 1st during the Civil War?
• Where was Anne Boleyn executed?
• Who developed radar?

As far as I'm concerned these questions completely miss the everyday reality of living in Britain. It would be more relevant to test the person's knowledge of the health service, childcare, education, transport or any number of things that directly affect people's lives in 2026. Who on earth needs to know about the Habeus Corpus Act or the Glorious Revolution?

Oh and just to show me up, Jenny did the test and got 92 per cent. Smartass.

Into the eighties

It's my birthday in a few days' time (the 20th) and my modest celebration will consist of a box of Lindt truffles, a game of Scrabble and a meal at one of our local restaurants. We haven't had a birthday cake or candles for many years.

Which started me looking into the history of birthday cakes and how they came about.

Cakes have been a part of birthday celebrations in Western Europe from at least the mid 19th century. They started off very simple but became increasingly elaborate with multiple layers, icing and decorations. For a while the cakes were generally only available to the very wealthy. They became affordable to the lower classes as the Industrial Revolution led to mass production of ingredients.

So I'm 79 this year. Next year is the big milestone as I become an octogenarian. Will I still be fairly fit and healthy into my eighties or will I be a crumbling wreck? Who knows?

If I'd been born earlier, before all the recent medical advances, I might not have made it to 79. I may well have died in my sixties. I wonder what the eighties have in store?

Inside outside

 

Isn't it weird that we can never see ourselves as others see us, because we're always inside ourselves looking out and can never be outside ourselves looking in (or at).

I might think of myself as having a rather nondescript appearance, while others see me as very distinctive. I might consider myself kind and considerate, while others think I'm somewhat mean and selfish. I might imagine I'm highly intelligent while others think I'm rather a dimwit.

Wouldn't it be interesting if I could step outside myself for 24 hours and see myself as others see me? Would it be a bit of a shock as my rosy picture of myself was rapidly demolished? Or would it be a pleasant surprise as I discovered I was more appealing than I thought I was? And would I be embarrassed by some of my daft remarks and clumsy gestures?

I might think someone has got me completely wrong, only to find out that actually they've caught the real me.

If only some of those public figures who think they're so wonderful could stand outside themselves and be confronted with the mortifying reality....

Jaywalking

I'm an incorrigible jaywalker. As long as the road is clear enough I'll happily defy convention and dart across.

Jenny thinks jaywalking is dangerous and tries to stop me but I'm undeterred. I've been jaywalking all my life and I've never yet been hit by a vehicle. Ironically while Jenny was jaywalking for a few minutes yesterday she slipped and fell and got a few minor injuries.

It helps of course that jaywalking isn't illegal in the UK so I'm not going to end up in a police station.

I see it's illegal in most US states and in Canada, though people aren't too fussed and prosecutions are fairly rare, usually resulting in no more than a smallish fine.

One reason I jaywalk is that the pedestrian phase on some street crossings can take quite a while to appear and I can't be bothered to wait for it.

So why is it called jaywalking? I gather the word jay refers to a gormless hick from the countryside and the term jaywalking was coined by the auto industry to blame pedestrians for accidents. How very sneaky of them.