“You’ve had an accident on your bike,” a familiar voice gave me something I knew.

“You’re in the hospital,” and the familiarity fled with being awake.

A few more dreams, and I slowly recognised myself lying in bed, surrounded by scrubs and unfortunate people.

I pushed myself upright, and oddly felt the mattress move beyond my arm’s length, and the man opposite me moved from the floor to the ceiling. So, I stayed half-way up for a while, wondering which plane I was on, and where I was supposed to be comfortable. My shoulder suddenly stopped supporting me. I landed face-first in the bed, and the pain in my collar pushed its way into my understanding.

“Bloody hell” didn’t quite make it past my throat, partly thanks to the pillow surrounding my face.

So I fell asleep again, it seems, because my memory kept blinking.

Eventually, I came round more like a morning’s awakening in the dark, and again felt unfamiliar. I kept trying to patch together what was happening, and couldn’t remember anything leading me to here. I remember feeling hungry towards the end of the day, then the blinking of pastel colours, unpleasant smells, and suddenly the sound of someone screaming: “Scratch my bum! Fuck you! Scratch my bum!”

Towards the morning, I started to understand where I was. The familiarity I first experienced came from my wife, who had been by my side all night. I also noticed the number of people around me in medical clothes: nurses, staff, and who I assumed to be doctors. It was comforting that so many people about would look after me. I was able to put a rather disturbed face to the voice asking for his bum to be scratched, too.

I also began to work out which bits hurt more than others, and start to patch together what happened. I was completely deaf in one ear, but fortunately my wife sat on the other side of my bed and helped me understand why I was there. I kept asking her simple questions:

“Where was I? Did I hit anything? When was that?”

Weeks later as I write this down, I am still missing any memory of the reason for waking up in hospital. I remember working from home on something rather exciting, and feeling enthused about the things I’ve been pulling together at work for the past few months. Then, the blinking started and settled slowly into being in hospital. I’ve lost 12 hours. My wife filled in the details for me, and we’ve managed to piece together the rather underwhelming story of what lead me to pastel-coloured blinking, and a lot of pain.

After work, I took our dog for a run alongside my bike up and down the street just outside our house. This had been a bit of a treat for the past couple months for both of us. I enjoy him relishing the speed and bursts of energy as he effortlessly lopes along the wheels having more fun than the boring pace of two legs. Recently, we had taken him round a reservoir and ran him for 8 miles. He loves it. I got him a lead that attaches to the handlebars so he can’t wander into traffic. That evening, this seems to have been a mistake, as he must have paused suddenly, or bolted into a familiar patch, pulling the handlebars to a sudden stop while I kept going.

Some neighbours found me face-down on the road, creating a rather splendid puddle of blood. They knocked on my door and my wife called an ambulance, which sped her and me to the hospital. I was assessed as an emergency, scanned and kept in the resuscitation area while they made sure I wasn’t immediately likely to create a bigger mess. They kept asking me questions, but I kept repeating myself, and demonstrating my inability to think clearly. I was conscious the whole time, but cannot remember a single blink of it.

The next few weeks were occupied with many trips to and from hospitals, and I picked my way through a few important lessons. I learned how good my wife is at looking after people who mostly cause her trouble. She came with me in the ambulance, through the critical area and past weeks of me mostly sleeping and failing to do much housework. She seemed unruffled by my being basically bed-bound, and helped me to smile (even when my face stopped working). She helped me make sense of medical discussions, often using examples she knows from dogs, cats and other mainly quadrupeds. The first lesson—alongside not cycling with a dog tied to your handlebars—was to marry an incredibly gifted and kind person. If they happen to be a vet, that’s an added bonus.

Fortunately, I was also looked after in the form of my colleagues and friends as they supported me. I was sent dozens of messages from the online world of twitter, facebook and my inboxes. My boss informed me in no uncertain terms that he wanted me to go back to bed instead of trying to work, despite my rather bad timing of being ill during the public launch of our project.

Unfortunately another lessons was not pleasant. The comfort I had received from the scrubs and medical uniforms as I woke, wore thin. After coming round to my limited senses, I ended up asking half a dozen people if my collar bone was broken. It was hurting a lot, and I could not lift it properly at all. It seemed obvious to me that it was broken: I could feel the bones moving where there should have only been one, and the big bulge over the most painful bit was a beacon.

Each time I asked, I watched as they read my chart and assured me it wasn’t, that I just had a concussion and nothing broken.

“Keep it moving, so it doesn’t become stiff.”

I cannot remember a single doctor or nurse looking at my shoulder, just my notes.

I sadly learned not to trust the advice that comes first if it seems wrong. Eight days after the accident, my reluctance to move the arm (in case it went stiff) became clear as a consultant took a few minutes to look at my shoulder and nod to himself: “That’s almost certainly a fracture. It looks painful.” The X-Rays he took did not need much explanation, but made me wince. I was told to keep it still.

This lesson was repetitious, and I cannot list every study-session I had on the topic. I must admit I am still depressed about the treatment I received in hospital. Some of the stories were painful at the time, and funny now; but I am trying to work out the final thesis of the lesson. So I will tell one more story here.

After a few days of being home, I went to bed saying: “My face feels very odd. Half of it feels tired and the other half tingly.”

The next morning, half my face was paralysed, calling for another trip to the hospital. Actually, it called for 4 trips to hospital over the next two weeks. Eventually, I saw a specialist. He was optimistic, though, and I think he half-read from my face that I was shocked by his diagnosis:

“Well, you’ve done an impressive job by breaking the hardest bone in the body!”

He explained that I’d fractured my skull, through my ear canal and pinched the facial nerve. I’d known for a while that my eardrum had ruptured, but this seemed to be the cause. He was reassuring, though, and said that he could see some small movement in my face, and that he did not believe the nerve had been killed but was just impinged, and that my course of action was to let my body put itself back together.

That was my main occupation for around five weeks. Though I did have my shoulder put back together with some screws and a plate, which made it a lot more comfortable. Over the whole time, I was astounded at how tired I was, and a lesson I’ve picked up is that a body needs rest to recover. It was a shocking lesson. It was shocking because it’s obvious, but I’d never known just how much rest my body demanded of me. More weeks later, and I still struggle to stay awake for a whole day, and run into fatigue sometimes quite suddenly.

I now seem to be mostly mended, with only a few niggles remaining. My face is only slightly lopsided now, making my giving a talk to a conference last week a lot more fun than it would have been otherwise. I can now hear about half-way through my right ear too. My arm is supposed to be in a sling for another two weeks, meaning I’ve put my most useful arm out of serious action for a total of around 8 weeks! But I can type and make coffee, so it’s not unsurmountable.

Looking back through this post, I’m struck by how much this has been full of experience alongside a series of painful instances. Before a few weeks ago, I had never broken a bone—so took up an introductory offer and went for 2. I had never had surgery of any sort, and have learned not to be too nervous of general anaesthesia. I also learned not to stand up after surgery too soon. I am hoping that as I get back up to speed with work and life that I don’t become depressed, though the fatigue is beginning to become annoying.

The internet is full of information of dubious quality, and I have recently spent quite a bit of time trawling a particular subsection of this by trying to trace family information. I have found many lists of names, and I appear to be lucky that my maternal side seems to have been recorded doing things (been born, married, and buried in the main) for quite a long while. There is a frisson of expectation when climbing the family tree, hoping to find an interesting branch or two and praying not to find any thorns or rotten fruit. Certainly the most interesting character I have found so far was a bloke named Richard, and his story is one that stirs up something confusing to me.

Richard Peyton Bailey

You see, Richard Bailey—my seventh or so great grandfather—was born in Lancashire around 1740. One story says he was a carpenter, and he made the long voyage across the Atlantic as a young man to seek his fortune in Virginia. Nothing I have seen even hints at the motivation for this travel, but several of his family made the journey as well: his father and possibly even grandfather made the same journey. For whatever reason, he settled in a place that I remember visiting as a child, a part of the world which would later become West Virginia. He and his family were pioneers of Western Virginia, long before the time that would split the West from the rest of Virginia.

He seemed to have lived a vivid and dangerous life. He defended his family and friends from Indian attacks, and built a structure called “the fort” that seemed to have been a long-lasting local landmark. His family settled and set-up and set about creating the kind of America that I learned about in my school lessons in US history. His was an archetype of American life: so much so, it almost feels that but for a twist of fate, we could all have learned about Richard Peyton Bailey instead of Daniel Boone. When we sang “Land where my fathers died…” it never struck me at the time just how many of my fathers had done their perishing in America.

It was another story that was most exciting. A single line from a document stored on a genealogical site:

“He served in the Virginia Militia as a spy during the Revolutionary War between 1776 and 1783.”

If this is true, Richard Peyton Bailey, my great grandfather fought in The American war in the very regiment commanded by a certain George Washington, Godfather of all American symbol-folk and the fellow on quarters and dollar bills.

There is no way of knowing whether Richard was a man who fought for a cause or a creed. He could have been a mercenary, or a conscript (though I have some doubts that a commander would trust a draftee as a spy). I cannot ask him whether he believed in a land of freedom (from monarchy) and bravery (in the face of tyranny), or whether he approved of using Boston Harbour as a teapot. But his life is symbol enough. He was to leave the old country of England, and build a wildly independent life with his own two carpenter’s hands. He would defend it by all means, even against the forces of the land of his birth. He would leave his family an inheritance of freedom.

But I’m not a Republican

For me, Lancashire is now a couple hours up the M6. It is the county of my wife’s family, and I’ve spent time visiting her relatives less than 20 miles from where my 7th 8th and 9th great grandfathers-Bailey were born, Christened and sometimes married. My wife was born there.

I shall be publishing this piece on a day that I wonder how Richard would have celebrated: a British Royal Wedding. I imagine him issuing me a rebuke in a heavy Lancastrian accent, refusing to lift his glass with me in toast. He is far removed from me in time, but his symbolic life is at the heart of a mindset opposed to Monarchy. That is part of my heritage: leaving kingdoms to join a republic, build a new life, and to defend it.

But I’m not a Republican. At least, I have no particular aversion to the British form of monarchy. I am instinctively drawn to its sense of stability, and its wholly different symbolic tradition. I do not find the idea of living under an autocratic regime appealing, of course. And I have no doubt that it was the powerful grinding away of the royal office over centuries that we are left with the polished and relatively non-offensive institution of the current monarchy. There is, however, something stable in the idea that the head of state has been raised and trained to office from childhood. In a time of short-term professional politics, the heritage and context of political and symbolic positions being woven into family encourages me.

This, then, leaves me in a bit of a bind. I am drawn to the stability and heritage of British royalty but I am equally repelled by its seemingly mindless adoration from arch-conservatives and the cultural baggage that comes with it. The benign symbols to which I am drawn become something hideous in the publications of the nationalists and bigots. They become something, in the unlikely hands of the American “Tea Party”, that is altogether reprehensible.

I also think about this event in more human terms. There are strong elements of the intrusive, the voyeuristic, and imperfect catharsis in the ubiquitous Royal coverage. Everything is recorded, broadcast and consumed. From my relatively sequestered channel of social media, I have read about the dress, the carriage, the cost, the Queen and the bride’s family. The papers publish every detail, and their commentaries are full of criticism on grounds of cost, taste, politics, and seemingly whim. From people minutely dissecting every possible aspect of what otherwise should be a celebration of a day.

It is a wedding, and I was not invited. What right have I to see and comment and titter and snarl.

As disturbing as the adoration of bigots may be, and as much as any may have a political stance against monarchy, or a justifiable complaint, you demean yourself by being… by being simply rude.

To be Upstanding

So, today will not be watching the Royal Wedding. Partly this is due to my not having a TV, but mostly because I would feel like I were gatecrashing an event to which I was not invited. On balance, however, and in light of the official and public nature of the occasion, I will be lifting my glass and throwing a party. I shall wish my best to the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. I shall pray for their wisdom, and for their future reign. I shall pray that they make it safely through the mindless criticism of the rude reformer and the unwanted baggage from the unwanted fanatics. I shall bear in mind my own inheritance of equality and think on the past reigns of less welcome monarchs, and hope for the balance of stability they might, in their official role, bring to the world.

Guest post by Stephen Leighton

So who am I? My name is Stephen Leighton and I’m the owner and head roaster at Has Bean Coffee based in Stafford. Has Bean is an online retailer, roasting and selling fine specialty coffees from all around the world direct to home consumers. So, before I go into the main part of why Zach has kindly let me guest post here, here are some basic:

What is specialty coffee?

Specialty coffee—simply—is coffee that is grown for the specialist market. It differs from coffees grown for the commodity, mass-produced market in price and quality. Specialty coffee is bought by conscientious importers and roasters who care about the sustainability (of course this is a broad brush and there are some unscrupulous buyers) of the product they are buying. If a fair price isn’t paid then it ceases to exist.

Fair Trade is fair enough isn’t it?

Fair Trade in the commodity market is indeed fair—much fairer than the prices they would normally get. It also imposes guidelines for growers to have social programs to look after the people that work for them and the environment. But in the specialty sector of the market, Fair Trade has no place as prices paid to farmers are much greater than the Fair Trade price. In a very sustainable way, good products fetch higher prices that can be fed down the line.

What about the social responsibility for non-Fair Trade coffee?

Well, you tend to find that good people sell good coffee: its just the way it tends to go. Good farms need good people to pick because quality in selection is vital. These people demand good conditions and good wage; and they themselves are rare commodity.

But to make sure of this there is nothing like going to visit the farms.

This post is about one of these visits and the coffee that came from it. This is no hard sell—we don’t even have any of this coffee yet—but an insight into what it takes to find coffee and what relationships go into this.

Back in 2008 I was invited to go and be a judge for a program called the Cup of Excellence that was being held in Bolivia. This was my second time in Bolivia judging this competition (the previous being back in 2006) and one of many jury’s I have participated in. Bolivia is one of the best-kept secrets in the coffee world: small farms great altitude make for a fantastic climate. Unfortunately, coffee buyers are put off by the unstable economy and political situations along with the issues of coca and illicit drugs that are legally allowed to be grown in Bolivia.

At the end of the competition, we had cupped many coffees over and over again and one, for me, really stood out. But until you get home from the competition, you really don’t get to find out which farms are which. Before we left, we went to an event where the farmers could meet the jury members and ask them questions. I remember this particular time, it was being held in what could only be called a greenhouse, and it was sweltering. Being of fair skin and not being good with the sun, many breaks for me were taken to creep outside to a breeze. On one occasion, I got talking to one of the farmers who spoke great English. It was his first time competing and he didn’t know where he had finished, but was just proud to have made it to the international jury. We chatted and swapped business cards and went on our way.

When I arrived home, I dived into my emails and there was one from this chap just saying he was pleased to meet me and that he hoped I had travelled safely home. Intrigued by this contact, I got my cupping scores out and was able to match my scores to the coffees we had cupped. I found that not only had Mario’s coffee made it to the finals, but it was the one coffee that had stood out head and shoulders for me in the cuppings.

Excited by this, I waited in anticipation for the auction of this coffee—hoping we would be able to secure it. With a lot of jostling and a really high bid, we were able to fight off the competition and secure the lot.

Negotiations ensued, and we have taken all of the coffee from the farm ever since! We also found out that we are the only people ever to buy the coffee. In the past they had never been able to find a route for their fabulous coffee to market.

But I had never been to the farm, so this year I decided it was time to do so. So I made a marathon journey of 36 hours from home in the UK to La Paz, then another 3 hour car journey to the farm.

I spent the whole week picking with the pickers eating with the family, living on the farm, in the community. I kept a diary of my time there at the links at the bottom of this post, so I wont repeat whats already been written, but it was amazing! The local community heard I liked football so arranged for us to play a game of farm workers and me against the community. Afterwards we spent the evening chatting and drinking beers watching the sun go down. Truly magical.

We also recorded a special video for our weekly videocast we do called “In My Mug” which you can see below (link here if it doesn’t load for you):

So when we get asked: “Do you do Fair Trade coffee?” we push out our chest and say “No! We can do better than that.”

This article © 2010 Stephen Leighton; all rights reserved. Images via flickr licensed as stated and used here with the author‘s kind permission.

Image via Wikipedia

This morning, after switching on the kettle, I set my laptop on the kitchen surface and shuffled through the BBC iPlayer’s “Factual” category—looking for something interesting to keep me company as I made my porridge and coffee. I stumbled across Question Time, and noticed that this special edition was being broadcast from the United States—something to do with an election? I was thrilled to discover the entire panel was American, with the notable exception of a personal hero of mine: British professor of history at Columbia University Simon Schama.

Things, however, did not go according to plan, and I was very soon restraining myself from damaging my employers’ Macbook with the wooden spoon I’d shortly before been using to stir my porridge. After realising that unless I switched off the iPlayer in short order, I’d either have to remove the spoon from the screen or from my clenched teeth.

I took a minute to reflect on my reaction.

As a quick introduction to Question Time, for my American readers—clearly something the audience at this recording had been denied—the format of the programme is straightforward. David Dimbleby chairs a panel of note-worthies, and selects from a series of questions submitted by the audience for the panel to answer one by one. It is a political programme which has featured many of the most important British figures including Tony Blair—while still Prime Minister. The panel usually consists of a politician or two, a political theorist or commentator (often an academic) and, often, a slightly more off-beat character such as Ian Hislop. Which candidate does the panel believe could and would restore America’s battered image abroad?”

Dimbleby: Which candidate does the panel believe could and would restore America’s battered image abroad?”

Schama: “Barak Obama”

Appreciative applause.

The historian then outlined his reasoning that the Democratic candidate’s heterogeneous past and perspective of global citizenship could only help America’s “perhaps undeserved,” tarnished foreign reputation. Specifically, Schama noted, the rhetoric of war as a last resort rather than an simply useful option could play an important role in diplomatic relationships.

One of the other panelists, this time from a more Republican-friendly platform, stated that he believed John McCain would fulfill this role more effectively.

Cheering, whooping, and a few boos.

The panelist then went on to outline why he thought the reputation of the US is not tarnished in some places abroad, and that many African nations actually admire American foreign policy. He also stated that Iraq could turn out to be a dramatic success. Each of the rest of the panelists then discussed their preferences and reasoning.

Several audience members were then asked their views, and this is when my breakfast  began to take a less supportive role in my morning. One man was asked who he’d like to see in the White House, and his emphatic response of “John McCain” brought whoops and cheers before he could speak more of his mind.

Unfortunately, however, he did speak more.

With a notably impressive display of condescending superiority, the gentleman in an expensive suit addressed Simon Schama, beginning with: “You’re a typical professor. You are it. With all respect, our country is not hated overseas, I’ve been to fifty-five countries…” continuing that the US “brings hope to people” and that it is not hated overseas. “We’re the most charitable nation on earth, as evidenced by George Bush, and all the work he did…”

We are respected and loved by millions of people BECAUSE OF WHAT WE DO FOR THEM! AND WE DIE FOR THEM, AND WE DIE FOR THEM!

His tone then took on a challenging note: “with all respect, don’t talk about our country being villafied overseas, when we are respected and loved by millions of people BECAUSE OF WHAT WE DO FOR THEM. [emphasis his, as he shouted over the cascade of applause and the chairman's attempts to direct the discussion.] “AND WE DIE FOR THEM, AND WE DIE FOR THEM.”

I was already impressed by this increasingly visceral outburst, when he capped his performance with a patronisingly disgusted gesture allowing the typical professor his reply. As Schama began his response, the suited gentleman continued his tirade, raising his voice over the top of audience and Schama… and it all continued to escelate until eventually, Schama was able to say “if I’m a typical professor, you’re a typical blowhard; let me finish.”

The spoon, by now, was nowhere near the pan, and I found myself gawping at the screen in irrational hope that the man would shut up.

The problem, from my perspective, is not about which candidate wins this election, nor from which side of an all-but-imaginary political fence one happens to stare through. The problem is the offensive-defence of American rhetoric. It’s pre-emptive, visceral, and primitive. It makes respectable-looking people speak without thought. It damages credibility, and makes the speaker look like a bafoon. And I remember it firsthand.

Having been raised in the States, I know the blood-pounding-in-the-ears nature of political discussion. The goal is to be right, absolutely; and to make sure anyone watching knows you’re the right one. The problem with this is that facts are tactical, discussion conduit, and people incidental It’s all a vehicle for your personal perspective (the right one) to be broadcast with as little ambiguity as possible. And this kind of debate might even lead to interesting dichotomies and contrasts if it wasn’t all done under the influence of adrenaline.

You see, from an outsider’s perspective, this suited businessman illustrated America. “We’re right!” “We’re the most charitable!” “We fought for you!” “We freed Iraq, goddammit!” and: “We’re not hated abroad! Don’t tell me we’re hated, don’t you talk about our country…” The logical element of the discussion is abandoned, and it’s down to bare-knuckles. “I can’t understand your words, man, cause my ears are throbbing, so I’m gunna SHOUT at you so I can hear my own damn voice!”

My response surprised me: I tsked, and muttered: “typical American, can’t see he’s trying to tell the world what it thinks.” I appreciated the irony of this hateful person insisting we’re not hated. I found the fact that a professor’s extraordinary career and the phrase “with all due respect” could be used as conduits for hatred actually quite funny. I would have laughed and enjoyed a British moment of personal, quiet exultation in the foolishness of the speaker if it hadn’t been for one thing.

The audience.

The audience rose to this diatribe with a fervency of whooping, cheering, clapping and shouting. The whole place suddenly became a bowl of people shouting down the suited man, the panel, Dimbleby and each other. I stood gobsmacked in my kitchen—spoon dripping oats onto the cat—and begged God not to let any of my friends watch this.

I couldn’t watch it any longer; I switched it off and cried.

The thing that many Americans don’t realise, is that the rest of the world is watching what they do—but not out of jealousy or pride. Decisions and perspectives made in the country with the largest economy on the planet affect the rest of us, so we’re watching reasonably closely to get a glimpse of the future through the decisions being made now. And most of us can’t comprehend just how any decisions are made under the circumstances.

Until Americans are willing to put emotional defensiveness and denial aside from their rhetoric, there will be a continued decline in their perception overseas: regardless of political perspective, good deeds or noble willingness to sacrifice. And, by the way, America as a concept is hated by some people overseas. We need to deal with it, not shout them down or question their right to not like us very much.

And, the question came again to me: “Where are all the considerate, contempletative Americans I knew growing up? Where are the people who give more generously than any other nation? Where are the peace-makers and volunteers? Where are the AIDS workers, teachers, and nurses?” I only pray that when the hubris of the TV-talkers dies, the dignity I know lives on in the US is left standing.

CC: flickr, "Lightning and Stars" By Bill Liao http://flickr.com/photos/liao/

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with sleep. I can remember being so upset I couldn’t sleep because I had to go to bed. Maybe this has bled into the present.

The funny part of it all, is I’d much rather not be asleep most of the time. My wife has always confused me with her desire, pretty continuously, to be unconscious. There is so much to think about, to read, to play, to discuss—why sleep?

So, now, it’s 2:15. I know that tomorrow I will feel wretched, and that can’t help. It started by me so very nearly falling asleep around 11:00. It’s been boiling, and I don’t really get on well with hot weather—especially when it’s so humid. I thought I had it tonight, though, with a nice cool bath, then In bed at a reasonable time to watch My Family with Wendy on iPlayer. That ended, so I switched on “Just a Minute” and turned down the screen until it was dark. I dozed off towards the end, only to be woken by something beeping somewhere. It stopped, but the damage had been done.

Next I switched on “Quote, Unquote” and walked downstairs for a glass of water, and had a bottle of lager instead, hoping the little alcohol might help a bit. It’s so much cooler down stairs, so I decided to remove myself to the sofa, still with “Quote, Unquote”. I had just settled when my phone dinged. It had finally delivered a message to Wendy, I’d sent before dinner. Then, after settling in again, Wendy’s phone received the text message. Her phone, a new one, now beeps every few minutes until the message’s been read… another trip across the room.

That’s when it started raining: by now I’m 15-minutes deep in Gardener’s Question Time. At last, it’s cooling off. Then it starts with the Thunder—which I have always hated. This rain literally poured down, and the thunder went through the house with a shuddering thud.

Gardeners’ Question Time gave way to “Word of Mouth”, which I can’t remember. By then I was feeling anxious, about literally nothing.

It’s the oddest feeling: beginning like discomfort, then a physical sensation in my arms. Finally, I can’t be horizontal any longer, and it’s another walk across to the smaller settee. I can’t actually put a thought to this ridiculous anxiety. I’m not scared about anything, really. My job’s brilliant, my mates are fantastic, and my Wife’s amazing. Sure, not everything’s perfect, but I’m not even thinking about my painful back or where I’m at with God or any of the other possible panic producers.

I decided to share, and it seems to help. The thunder’s past, my arms don’t feel funny, and I’m not worried at nothing. It’s just this strange, almost twilight of the night: 2:32. I ache a bit, which isn’t good, and I feel like moaning online is a bit sad.

I’d hate to meet me in the morning.

I have just discovered that I would have made a worthless vet.

It is a good thing, because I have sometimes wondered if I should have chosen that course following a degree I have at times considered unhelpful (linguistics). Perhaps I should clarify that my wife is a vet, and that I sometimes feel that her job is a real ‘thing’ to do, whereas being without a named vocation is a bit abstract.

However, tonight I was asked to accompany my wife to help while she was ‘on call’  because she thought I might be helpful replacing fluids in a terrier a few hours after the practice closed.

Sure, shouldn’t be too much trouble.

The little, old terrier had managed to pull its catheter out, so the drip was hardly flowing into its vein at all, so my wife had to replace the catheter and re-attach the drip. So, I held the dog with its head away from its foreleg and raised the vein for a needle. Suddenly, the room began to shrink and grow very warm, and the dog began to get further away from me.

"You look very pale, are you OK?"

"erm…, I think you should hold the dog…"

I then stumbled away from the table and had to sit on the stone floor for a few minutes waiting for my heart to return to normal and the room to cool.

It turns out I can’t really take the feeling of a dog struggling away from a needle while watching it disappear under the skin. It doesn’t mentally bother me. I have no concerns about it, and the idea doesn’t really put me off, so it doesn’t make much sense to me that I should so nearly faint when actually there. Maybe it’s something to do with the antiseptic smell or the warm, close room.

A few minutes later  I was fine–even able to help wipe up the table and carry the old thing to her kennel. It didn’t help the embarrassment, though. Imagine a big, strong lad like me nearly fainting over a centimetre of needle in an old dog?

So, Tim Ferris has decided to start punching people. I know, shocking. I have often thought about this, and thought about the consequences of actually carrying out my own form of impromptu corporal justice. To me, three thoughts rise from this idea:

1st, and slightly cliche’: "Where would it all end?" With only a personal standard of right and wrong, where does the line get drawn? There would inevitably be situations in which my view of the right reaction would be in conflict with someone else. No doubt, this would almost always be at odds with the person I decide to punch. What constitutes a ‘punching offense’?

Second, there does seem to be, in both British and American society,

Caledonian Road, Kings Cross

a complete lack of regard for personal consequences in public. Having lived in Kings Cross, Central London, I’ve probably seen about the worst people have to offer. From middle-class, middle-aged men trawling the streets in posh cars for paid sex to drunk teenagers being violently sick or urinating on the street. Many times, while catching a bus to university or walking back home, I was forced to think about mine and my wife’s safety. We saw someone casually walk into a phone box and rip out the coin compartment. I was harassed almost daily by the drunk homeless who hurl abuse about themselves like Pigpen from Peanuts. This is a bleak picture, and we also witnessed people giving up large portions of their lives in drop-in centres or with the Salvation Army, befriending prostitutes and making a difference. More about that later. The point here is that there is not enough regard for others’ dignity, and I must admit, I’ve often wondered if some sort of bodily reminder might stop someone’s abusive, uncaring actions.

Finally, what about them? I wonder if I’ve ever been in a position to merit a stout punch in the face? (This question is not directed at immediate family or my wonderful spouse!) While at a stag do (bachelor party) a few weeks ago, I was concerned that our group  was being too loud. Granted, this was not a typically-rude party, and most people were sober enough to walk the half-mile or so back to their hotel, but we were being very loud in a small pub. At one stage, the best man was performing his duty of making an ass of the lot of us by slapping another member of the stag party firmly on the arse while shouting: "Whoopah!". Anyone who’s met the best man will know his voice booms out like Brian Blessed, and the older gentlemen at the table next to us did actually shout for us to be quiet. (Most of us couldn’t hear above the "Whoopah!") Had I been trying to enjoy a quiet chat and pint in a wonderful Tudor pub, and the table next began shouting like this, I might have been tempted to punch a few faces myself.

So, will I start punching jerks again? On balance, I don’t think so. I’d have only myself to answer to, and I know who I am, and that I am not infallible. I’ve also made mistakes, and wouldn’t have wanted to have been punched for them all. On the other hand, there does seem to be a lack of respect going around, for which a normal citizen has very little recourse. What do you do when a hippie spits on you? Well, since the problem is systemic, there seems to be only one course of action: make the system better. Those volunteers in a Kings Cross drop-in centre were making a tangible difference, for absolutely no thanks. (The homeless they served treated the women as if it was only right for them to give up every morning to cook them breakfast and provide them with clothing!) And, we’re told to turn the other cheek. I can only think this is ever more relevant in a society losing its mind. There is no longer a social standard for issuing a challenge (though I can see its appeal), but there is an example to follow for those of us who follow Jesus, and it’s entirely counter-cultural:

27-30"To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously. (Luke 6:27-30, Message)

Live generously. How the hell do we do that?

Also, I like this Windows Live Writer thing. It’s very Mac-like, ironically, and easy to use. It’s also a lot easier than logging into my CMS, but I haven’t seen how it posts yet. For that: here goes…