The Rants of Cherry Black

No, not the apocalypse (do people actually believe that shit?).

This year will be the end of one way of life and the beginning of another, in theory.

If everything goes to plan, my final exam will be this Wednesday. The following day I’ll be celebrating the end of exams plus Portsmouth SitP’s first birthday (clicky for more info).

The next major milestone comes in March, which is when my dissertation is due in, and I am absolutely terrified. Shortly after is my final clinical placement, and hopefully the last time I’ll be working in a hospital without being paid.

And then that’s it. Finished. No more lectures, exams or presentations. No more staying up til 3am writing essays (I really can relate to Douglas Adams’ feelings on deadlines).

Apparently some people feel scared upon leaving academia; I wonder if this is because they haven’t worked before as I suppose that can be quite daunting. The scariest thing for me was starting the process. Giving up my job was the most unpleasant part of the whole affair, and I’m not just talking about losing a regular salary, although that was quite galling. There’s a certain safety in doing something you know you’re capable of, and you don’t tend to get that when you’re starting from scratch.

When I was learning how to use Linux for the first time, I did so at my own pace, and when it all got a bit much I’d retreat to the safety of Active Directory, something I could configure in my sleep (and frequently did so) which bumped my confidence back up.

There’s not been much in the way of safety or familiarity over the past 2 and a bit years; all of it (with the minor exception of the teeny bit of quantum physics in the first year) has been brand new to me, even down to certain aspects of essay writing (I put my name on the first essay I submitted, not knowing that this was an instant fail- oops!) so it’s been something of a journey.

The “working in a hospital” bit which comes next doesn’t worry me so much; from what I’ve seen, all newly quals start their first jobs like rabbits on a motorway, terrified about their first on-call or theatre case so I’m sure I’ll fit right in. The actual act of getting a job is pretty unnerving though. I had my first rejection last week for my “dream job” at King’s College Hospital. I didn’t expect to even be considered, but still. Sucks.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Back to revision.

This weekend was a fairly sociable one for me, usually I’m a miserable bitch who abhors any kind of social interaction, but I went out twice with two separate groups of people so it was definitely a change for me. But I’m not really blogging about my weekend.

The people who know me are probably well aware that I’m not terribly conventional when it comes to “fashion” (amongst other things). I don’t really care what the shops think I should wear, if I like something, and it’s cheap, I’ll buy it. I refuse to spend any large sums of money on clothes/shoes, in fact the most expensive thing in my wardrobe is actually in the boot of my car, and it’s my riding boots (about 70 quid). This means that I tend to buy charity shop stuff and modify it, and any “decent” clothes I fork out for will get worn to death.

I have a favourite colour and it’s quite obvious. Therefore most of the clothes I own (which aren’t t-shirts I’ve bought at gigs) are purple. I just like it, and I don’t think I can carry browns and greens as well as other people can. Plus I have literally no idea what goes with what, so if I stick to one colour scheme at least I can be fairly sure I’m not clashing.

I also actually don’t give a shit what people think about my fashion sense (to a degree, which I’ll get onto in a moment) so if I decide I’m going to go out wearing my New Rocks, a ballgown and a dressage hat, then you can expect to see me wearing my New Rocks, a ballgown and a dressage hat. Equally, I only “dress up” when I feel like it, so most of the time I will be slumming it in jeans and a gig t-shirt.

But why should you care what clothes I decide to wear when going out in public? No really, why the hell should anyone care about what someone’s wearing? Unless it’s actually offensive in its content (and I am very careful not to wear my Rob Zombie t-shirt when I’m around children or the elderly) then what right does anyone have to take issue with someone else’s attire? Sure, if you find someone’s clothing choice funny or whatever, then you and your mates can have a laugh about it, but do you really need to let that person know?

Well apparently the fashion police has its headquarters here in Portsmouth and everyone is an officer of the law. I regularly face abuse when walking around the city, mostly verbal, sometimes physical, and it always bemuses me.

On Friday, I went to the RadSoc (radiographers’ society) Christmas meal at Gunwharf Quays, a shopping and “entertainment” centre in the city. I parked in the underground car park and walked the 100 yards or so up the stairs and across the courtyard to get to the bar we met at. Walking across the car park a girl loudly exclaimed to her friend “is that a tranny?” making fairly sure I could hear her. I kept walking. On the escalator, some lads behind me were laughing loudly and one of them dared another to “go get it‘s phone number”. Walking across the courtyard some drunk arsehole made a beeline for me and stood directly in my path, getting quite close to my face, and asked if I was “looking for business” whilst his mates threw an empty cigarette packet at my head and attempted (but failed) to hit me with an empty beer can.

I just want to point out that none of this is new behaviour. I have experienced it before and I’m certain I will again. What made me feel compelled to comment was my experience on Saturday night. I had always assumed that this was just normal behaviour from the general public, but I was up in Manchester meeting with some of the guys I shared the house with in Nepal, and we went out in Canal Street. I have never been in to Manchester before and I have heard all sorts of stories about how rough it is and what a dangerous city it can be, so I was slightly apprehensive prior to my arrival, but it turned out to be fantastic. No one felt compelled to verbally or physically assault me, the atmosphere was friendly and fun-filled, and I didn’t fear for my safety once. It occurred to me that this should be the norm; people shouldn’t feel scared to walk around merely because of what they are wearing.

I genuinely worry that people who are less flippant than me are being abused in this way whilst walking around Portsmouth, and that they might not brush off these insults and projectiles quite so readily, but I have literally no idea what I can do about it other than leave ASAP.

It also pisses me off that the only place I feel safe is amongst drag queens. Those bitches look much better in heels than I do.

On Friday I finished the practical aspect of a degree module called “Inter-Professional Learning” (IPL). For two weeks every academic year, healthcare students from Southampton and Portsmouth University are bundled together into groups of 10 and given a project to do. IPL “strives to improve communication and working relationships between professionals, and helps them deliver high quality services in increasingly challenging times.” The idea being that if doctors, nurses, podiatrists, radiographers etc work together before they qualify, it will hopefully enable them to work together even more smoothly throughout their careers.

Unfortunately my experience of IPL has taught me very little about other healthcare professions (except pharmacists, which I’ll come to later) and in most cases it has reinforced some stereotypes that I know aren’t true.

For example, all of the medical students I have worked with on IPL have been incredibly self important and made it very clear that they had much better things to do (as if the rest of the group desperately wanted to be there) and in a few cases they even went as far as not bothering to show up. The male med student in the first year showed up on day 1 and day 14, and spent the time in between playing rugby somewhere in Europe.

Until this year, all of the social work students in my group have been paranoid and defensive, an attitude which can’t have been helped by the introductory lecture we had at the beginning of the first IPL which basically reminded everyone that people always blame social workers when a child is hurt or killed. I’m sure this was meant to be helpful, but it put my group’s social work student into a really foul and indignant mood.

The nurse from IPL1 was an alt-med nutter who insisted that humans don’t need vaccines as homeopathy is a much more effective and safe method of protecting yourself. Terrifying.

So yes, I am cynical about the effectiveness of IPL in its mission to improve communication and attitudes within a multi-disciplinary team. Especially bearing in mind I had the best IPL-like experience anyone could wish for whilst living in the Pokhara house; working, resting and playing with healthcare professionals from all over the world. I learnt more about what nurses and doctors do in that month that I have done over the duration of my entire degree so far. I was hugely impressed by their knowledge, and I really enjoyed our dinner conversations about the day we’d just had.

Last year on IPL2 I did actually learn a fair bit about pharmacy, but it had nothing to do with IPL itself. It was in the car journeys to the placement site, where the pharmacist and I had many really interesting conversations about the legal side to the profession, as well as discussing the vast amount of mathematical prowess required.

I follow a few medics on Twitter; some are students, some are long-qualified, and some have only just registered with the GMC. They all regularly provide me with really interesting information about their profession and healthcare in general, and there’s even a Twitter journal club where papers are reviewed and critiqued by anyone with an interest.

I have never felt compelled to stay in touch with any IPL group member once the sessions have finished, but this weekend I’m driving over 500 miles for a reunion with my Pokhara housemates (those on this side of the Atlantic anyway).

I suppose what I’m saying is that healthcare workers and students need to be personally interested in engaging with each other, as no amount of forced role-playing or ice breaking sessions will achieve a truly cohesive working environment. It is a sad fact of life that some people are content to go through their lives with the bare minimum of effort and interest, and I guess that’s why IPL has to exist. But at least those people will never become public health bores like me.

:-/

The Boring Conference is a one-day event dedicated to the boring, the mundane, the obvious and the over-looked. Nothing interesting, worthwhile or important will be discussed at Boring.

(If you’d prefer not to read nearly 1,500 words of my drivel, but would like to know about Boring 2011, have a look at these.)

Yesterday I went up to London Village (Bethnal Green, in fact) for Boring 2011. I didn’t know there was a Boring 2010 until the day after it had been held, so I wasn’t going to miss out this time. Oh no.

I started off the day in the correct manner by inadvertently sitting near the most boring man on the train, who talked at his wife for the duration of the journey IN THE QUIET ZONE NO LESS about some business deal with “the Israelis” that had apparently come very close to falling through but in the end after a lot of blah and blah it was eventually finalised and that’s why he had to stay late at work on Friday. Sure. That’s why.

Why is it the more dull the conversation, the more compelling it is to eavesdrop? Is it because I can’t believe someone could be so vacuous and so I’m waiting expectantly for the exciting M Night Shyamamananamamalananan twist at the end? No. It’s because I’m nosy.

Another thing I should mention: wearing New Rocks and a dressage hat is a sure-fire way to get 4 seats to yourself when on public transport, but it’s also a successful strategy for having both insults and projectiles thrown at you on the walk to the train station at 8am on a Saturday. But I’m used to it now, and my skull was appropriately protected.

So I got to London and made my way to York Hall, a leisure centre which has been around since 1929 and with the exception of Boring 2011, is now a place where people can pay money to watch men hit each other until one of them gives up or loses consciousness.

The queue at 10.20am was impressive, so I joined it.

At 10.49 I finally gained access to the inside of the building and also the running order for the day.

Yeah, that’s right, I bought a ticket for an event called “Boring 2011″ with no prior knowledge of who would actually be there. I had heard rumours of Ince and Goldacre so was disappointed to see them missing, but I got over it pretty quick. Especially when I opened my free swag envelope and found Haribo and badges.

The host, James Ward, opened the event with a rather self-conscious intro, followed by his talk on the early years of Which? magazine. The first ever Which? magazine covered the subject of electric kettles, reviewing three models by GEC, Russell Hobbs and Swan. Adjusting the price to match today’s inflated costs, the most expensive one (the Swan) ends up 30 quid more expensive than the fanciest water-boiler on offer at Argos, leaving enough cash to buy 14 boxes of Yorkshire Teabags. One of the highlights of this talk was the description by Which? magazine of the frequent toppling of cereal boxes as “maddening” . That and the cameras on sandcastles (you had to be there).

Tim Steiner was next with a talk on hand dryers which was not only not boring but also quite funny. He discussed the evolution of hand dryer technology over the years, with photographs, as well as the single biggest issue surrounding hand dryer development: noise. He spent a few hours in an acoustic laboratory with his own personal Dyson Airblade (jealous? I know I am) and was upset by the noises produced. To me, this talk epitomised the entire event. Perfect.

Chris TT travels a lot and therefore experiences a lot of different toilets. He catalogues his favourites and any notable ones that he encounters, including the disturbing urinals at a Dundee metal club which are shaped like a lipstick-wearing mouth.

Matthew Crosby originally wanted to present a talk on hand dryers, but as the other guy actually owns an Airblade he lost out to him. So instead he told us all about his Nando’s live-tweeting and how it has affected his life. He said he felt like he was trapped in a chicken-based Bourne Identity as strangers would send him tweets about Nando’s, usually saying that they themselves were dining in one of the restaurants and were surprised not to see him there. On one such occasion, he was actually on his way to the Nando’s in question but upon receiving the tweet he changed his direction.

Galit Ferguson chronicled the reorganisation of Budgens in Crouch End. Perfect.

Jon Ronson (buy his books, he is excellent) was invited to look at Stanley Kubrick’s photograph collection after the director died. What he found was over 1,000 archive boxes, which were full of photographs, mostly taken by his nephew, Manuel Harlan. Photographs of everything from doorways to room interiors, with a 6m panorama of an entire road; an early form of street view created using a ladder, a camera, and a lot of time and patience. I bloody love Jon Ronson.

Ever considered cataloguing everything you eat and drink over the course of a year? Peter Burnett did. In fact, he did it twice because the first go didn’t take place over the course of a calendar year. He didn’t read the whole book to us, just some selected portions.

After lunch, it was maths time with Toby Dignum‘s lovingly presented talk on the square root of two. And occasionally his cat. Did you know that there was such controversy over  that when Hippasus of Metapontum discovered that it couldn’t be expressed as a fraction, he was murdered? Awesome.

I’ve never seen the Hugh Grant film, About a Boy, but thanks to Leila Johnston I don’t need to. She has identified the key filming locations used, mapped them, and visited and photographed them. She explained that instead of being a romantic comedy, it is a French-style film about ennui. Very apt.

Future Portsmouth SitP speaker, Matt Parker spoke passionately and in great depth about barcodes, including the more fancy and modern QR codes. He demonstrated his party trick of being able to predict the last digit of a barcode when given the preceding digits, as well as explaining ASCII for those who were previously unaware.

Greg Stekelman (The Man Who Fell Asleep) proved his love for the London Underground, or more precisely, the Victoria Line. He detailed each line, with key facts, celebrity endorsements and personal anecdotes, and I was enthralled.

Helen Keen explained the connection between NASA, Nazis and Satanists (clue #1: the name) and told us that there were no boring shuttle flights. I believe her.

Will Barratt talked about the Loebner Prize  which is awarded to the most convincing computer generated conversation. He noted that the most convincing tends to also be the most defensive, paranoid, or boring.

Rhodri Marsden hates small talk. He’s rubbish at it. He tends to ask questions like “what’s Wigan like then?” or when asked about his recent adventures, he talks about having an anal blood blister lanced.

There was another break, after which Josie Long talked at length about her Alternative Reality Tour. I love Josie, but she did go on a bit, and it didn’t seem particularly relevant or well targeted and I noticed people nearby getting a bit tetchy.

Not quite as tetchy as during Mark Stevenson‘s talk though. He was absolutely fantastic at Portsmouth SitP recently, and is a lovely bloke, but yesterday’s effort didn’t really work, in my opinion. It was an incredibly aggressive and sweary piece about “why cynicism is boring” but it didn’t fit with the theme of the event, and apparently a few people even walked out. It’s a shame really.

Richard DeDominici made me laugh a lot. His talk was in the Pecha Kucha format and was about health and / or safety. Including the sharp edges at the holocaust memorial (very dangerous during icy weather) and the application of those bobbly strap-hangers they used to have on tube trains, to be used in Tokyo during earthquakes.

Felicity Ford treated us all to the sound of the coffee machine near her office. A machine whose noises are more pleasant than its coffee. She went on an audio odyssey, recording the vending machines of the British Isles, and she shared a small part of it with us.

Finally Adam Curtis delighted the audience with a story about his colleague, Andrew, who was cataloguing “the bits in between BBC TV programmes” going back 60 years. There was an amusing interlude featuring Michael Parkinson and Robert Redford, where Parky incorrectly states that the name “Lena” backwards spells “anal”.

Overall it was a brilliant day, but disappointingly, not at all boring.

… Which I shall probably delete when I wake up and re-read this.

EDIT: Nah, it’ll serve as a good reminder of why proof-reading is important, and why blogging at 2am is not the best idea.

So, I’ve just got home from yet another awesome Portsmouth Skeptics in the Pub. And when I say awesome… well. Bloody hell.

So I get to The Globe Inn (or the Fat Fox, I don’t think I noticed its name when I arrived) and start setting up the equipment with loads of time to spare. Loads. By pure luck I found a VGA cable long enough to reach the ceiling mounted projector, literally minutes before leaving my flat (I am totes organised, promise) so when I unpacked everything I asked the barman for the projector remote. He couldn’t find it. He also informed me that the projector hadn’t been working for months.

Bollocks.

It was around about this moment when I noticed Mark Stevenson, tonight’s speaker, sat at the bar. “Oh hai, I run this shit, we have no projector and I think I’m going to cry” I thought. Then the barman casually mentioned that he had his own projector. With him. In the building. Mark offered him a blowjob, I offered him drinks. He accepted one and refused the other, you get to decide which was which.

So lovely barman brought out his BEAST of a projector. What a beauty! Huge bugger, HD ready with more inputs than a [insert filthy joke here] and the awesomest position and keystone adjuster I’ve ever seen. Yes? What of it?

Anyway, we hooked it up, I faffed with the PA and off we went!

Mark’s talk was excellent, but I already knew that, having seen him back in May at Winchester SitP. If you haven’t seen the talk then buy the book. Srsly. Buy the damn thing, it’s cheap and awesome, like all the best things and people are.

So the talk was excellent, I think I have adequately established that. The Q&A was very good, the usual calibre that I’ve come to expect from our wonderful crowd, plus some interesting unexpected ones too.

Anyway, the whole talk and the Q&A will no doubt be available at Skepticule for your listening pleasure. Prepare to be enlightened.

But the thing which you will never experience from the recording is the sheer awesomeness of the whole event. A bunch of people with similar interests yet interesting differences meet up in a pub and are entertained by someone with something intelligent, insightful and always interesting to say.

Yes I’ve said “interesting” about a million times but it’s the middle of the night and I’m still euphoric so bugger off.

So we meet in the pub, talk about awesome stuff, lovely people choose to come along and record the whole event, others take photographs, most just enjoy (and contribute to) the atmosphere, and it means that at least once a month I go home grinning like an idiot. Usually after being pretty much forcibly removed from the pub at closing time, as we’re still nattering about something terribly important like what comedians are like in their downtime or how fast you’d need to run in a circle in order to time travel.

Seriously, I’m actually euphoric right now. I apologise to the people I’m currently having Twitter “conversations” with as I doubt I’m being terribly articulate.

Anyway, I think I’ll leave it there. But seriously, if you’re in the Portsmouth area and want a fantastic way to spend a Thursday night, then come along. You’ll have to wait til January though.

Sorry!

And so begins my last week of working on the Isle of Wight, and I’m actually going to miss it. This placement in particular has been really good, I feel like I’ve learnt so much, and because of it, I’ve been made to feel like one of the team, which is fantastic.

But there have also been downsides: today had a couple of rather memorable ones.

The first one was really unpleasant and will probably stay with me for a while. A 90ish year old female patient (who I shall call Betty) was referred to the department for a lumbar spine x-ray. A message came through with her referral form telling us that she must be examined whilst lying down due to her mobility issues. We thought “fair enough, she’s in her 90s, no problem” and called her into the room. Her carer pushed her wheelchair over to the imaging table and we went through her details. Confirming her mobility issues, her carer agreed that she might be more comfortable lying down, but would be in pain anyway die to numerous previous fractures and her general frail state. Betty lay on the table on her side with her arm underneath her ribs so instead of getting her onto her back, we decided to attempt the lateral first, as she was obviously in a lot of pain. I asked her to move her arm forwards so it was clear of her spine, and when she moved it she screamed in pain. Both myself and the radiographer I was working with were really unhappy with continuing the examination this way, so we decided to ignore the earlier “advice” and perform the examination with the patient on her feet.

I helped Betty to sit up, and when she gave me her hand I noticed that the sleeve of her blouse was covered in fresh blood. I assumed that maybe a scab had been knocked off or something, but upon closer investigation, it turned out that her skin was so fragile that it had torn when she moved her arm. There was a three inch haematoma and open wound on her right elbow and it was bleeding a fair amount. We quickly continued with the x-ray whilst a colleague contacted A&E to get someone to apply a dressing to the wound.

Betty was much happier standing and the x-rays came out really well, although they clearly demonstrated her osteoporotic state. Personally I don’t agree with putting someone of her age and condition through such an examination; obviously the risks of the radiation aren’t a factor, but the pain and indignity are, and I really do doubt that the results of the x-rays will affect her treatment- it’s not like she’s going to be asked to lay off the skydiving for a few weeks so her back can heal.

After seeing her over to A&E, we filled out an incident form as is required following a patient suffering an injury whilst in our care. Whilst doing this, complaints started coming in about a leak in the waiting area, and sure enough, there was a torrent of water cascading down from the ceiling in the corner by the window. A few inco-pads were thrown down to absorb the water, but they couldn’t hold back the tide, and all they did was draw attention to the colour of the water. As suspected, it turned out that a sewage pipe in the ceiling had cracked, therefore making the flood slightly more unpleasant. Regardless of this, patients were still merrily walking through it, ignoring the warnings and traipsing it through the waiting room. One mother even walked past the cones that were used to block the area off and guided her son pretty much underneath the flow of effluent.

So I decided to take action and used some clinical waste bin-bags to set up a cordon, and mopped up the footprints and puddles in the waiting area. All the while dodging the waterfall which appeared every time someone upstairs flushed the toilet.

Luckily, shortly after lunch the estates department stopped the leak and arranged a clean-up. Let’s hope the smell is gone by tomorrow.

I’ve just started week four of six of my first clinical placement of year three. It’s kind of a big deal as it’s one of only two before I register with the Health Professions Council and become a real-life radiographer.

I was dreading this placement on the Isle of Wight as the last time I was there I didn’t get enough clinical experience, due to lack of opportunity and I had to do some recovery time over the summer. But this time round things are so much better; not only am I enjoying working in the department, but I feel that I’m making headway on my competency framework (it’s like a log-book of our experience).

So it’s not the hospital stuff that’s the problem, predictably, it’s the commute.

It’s only about 15 miles, but it’s been taking anywhere between one hour to two and a half, and the combination of the drive, hovercraft, and two buses can be really tough if they don’t all line up.

But it’s not even the journey as such that’s getting to me.

As a student, there are various offers and discounts available to me, but occasionally when I ask for them, I get a reaction which effectively says “WTF?” and I’ll admit that it gets pretty annoying. This happens a lot on the Isle of Wight buses, I’d say at least once a day, I’ll ask for a student ticket whilst showing my ID and I’ll still face disbelief and requests for further evidence. This is despite travelling with Jo, who is also a student, but a more “conventionally aged” one. She almost never has to show ID, even on occasions such as today when I was told I have to show ID every time I board a bus.

I don’t have a problem with showing ID at all, I usually show it before being asked, the problem I have is with the attitude and blatant ageism of the bus drivers. I’ve had them actually laugh in my face when I’ve asked for a student ticket, while the less “forward” drivers will merely ignore my request and try to charge me full price. Most of the time I’ll just roll my eyes at Jo and laugh it off, but to be honest, it’s really pissing me off. I only turned 28 last Friday, but it’s not even about that; age is completely irrelevant, it’s a STUDENT ticket, not a TEENAGE one.

Is the concept of a “mature” student too alien for people? Because amongst healthcare students, it’s fairly bloody common.

I have three more weeks of this; that’s 28 more chances for age-related humiliation, and I can’t guarantee that every one of my responses will be polite.

End of rant.

On Wednesday this week, I started my penultimate placement block which is 5 ½ weeks on the Isle of Wight at St Mary’s Hospital. I’ll admit I was really not looking forward to it, but actually the placement itself has so far been really good.

The part which hasn’t been so great, as always, is the commute. On Wednesday it wasn’t terrible, in the morning it took 1 ½ hours to get in, and just under 2 hours to get back. But on Thursday it was the first day of Bestival, a middle-of-the-road, hippie music festival on the Island. This meant that the queue for the hovercraft was huge, but luckily for us, there was priority boarding for travelcard holders. When we got to Ryde, the place was already crawling with festival-goers, and there was rubbish all over the pavement- bear in mind this was at 7.45am!

The journey home was even worse, we waited at the bus stop for an hour, and when it eventually arrived, it took an hour to move 2½ miles. Then when we finally arrived in Ryde, we could barely move because of all the kids waiting for buses, and the piles of rubbish that they had thrown around.

Because the festival doesn’t finish until Monday, I have asked to work the late shift to avoid the worst of the traffic on my return journey.

The thing that I really don’t understand, is why the hell the Isle of Wight is the venue for two large music festivals every year. For a start, the residents really don’t like outsiders, at all, so a bi-yearly invasion of 60,000 people must be horrible. But of course it’s not just people that are the problem, it’s the things they bring with them, like cars, for example. What kind of inconsiderate prick drives to a festival on a tiny island? I guess the answer to that is a rich inconsiderate prick as it is one of the most expensive water crossings in the world.

(I assure you that we do)

So today was GCSE results day, meaning the media was full of pretty 16 year old girls jumping for joy clutching A4 sheets of paper. It also means that it’s been 11 years since I reluctantly collected my envelope from Bournemouth School for Girls, to find that I had achieved at least one of every grade, A to F, including a fail!

Looking back, it’s actually quite funny how irrelevant these grades are to me now. My two best marks, the A and B, were in French and German, and nowadays I can just about manage a brief shopping transaction in French, while my German allows me to sing along to Rammstein when I feel like it (although Mr Brien never covered quite the same topics of conversation as Mr Lindemann does!).

The F was for Religious Studies, which was because I wasn’t particularly interested in knowing the “what” (reciting the five pillars of Islam or the Lord’s Prayer is dull) I wanted to know about the “why”, and that wasn’t on the curriculum. Knowing the ins and outs of the Abrahamic religions is pointless if you don’t follow them, but knowing why someone would choose to believe these tenets makes for a much more engaging session. But alas.

The fail was for Textiles, a subject I was forced to take as I couldn’t do art, and my cooking skills were dangerous. I protested by handing in my final project (two dress-shaped pieces of sparkly material with a couple of stitches holding them together) and renacting a famous Red Dwarf skit during the written exam. Well now, not only do I make and modify my own clothes, but I also own a sewing machine AND a dress form, so they can take their “ungradeable project” and shove it!

I got a C for double Science, because the teachers seemed less interested in the subjects than the students. Physics was taught at a minimal level, with the bare curriculum being transmitted to the students, with no room for enthusiasm from either party. Since leaving school I have developed a pure, unadulterated love for the sciences, physics especially, so much so that I have a carbon atom permanently inked onto my skin as a symbol of my desire for evidence and the scientific method. I’m also about to start the third year of my BSc, something I would never have imagined ten years ago.

But I think the most telling grade was for Information Technology. My grade for this subject was influenced by two factors, the first being that it was a short course, not even a full GCSE, and it wasn’t even *really* IT, it was “typing”. A half GCSE in “how to be a good secretary” wasn’t something I considered worth my time, especially as by this point I was already building my own PCs, fixing other peoples’, and messing around with DOS code in my own time.

The second factor which influenced my IT half GCSE result was the decision my mother made to take me to the Summer Solstice celebrations at Stonehenge the night before my exam.

Stonehenge had been completely closed off to the public for 15 years, meaning that those wishing to celebrate the solstice there had to do so in the car park or by the side of the A303 instead of being amongst the stones. But for the first time in a decade and a half the ban was lifted and the solstice of June 2000 was to be enjoyed properly by druids and hippies alike. Neither myself, my mother, nor her friend Vicky were hippies and we certainly weren’t druids, but we were up for a laugh so on the evening of the 20th of June we hopped in the Land Rover and headed off to Wiltshire.

The reason why English Heritage had closed off access to the stones was because the revellers began partying a bit too hard, causing damage to the stones, and generally being dicks. As far as I can gather, this is pretty much how the solstice is “celebrated” these days, with disrespectful idiots clambering all over the stones and blaring dance music until sunrise, using it as an excuse to get off their tits in the name of an ancient pagan tradition. The following quote comes from this excellent article in the Independent:

“…I am against vandalism and drunken rowdiness as it is detrimental to everyone. The stones are of great cultural and spiritual significance, just like Westminster Abbey. It is right for people to have access to these places. But then, people don’t go to Westminster Abbey to take drugs or commit drunken violence, do they?”

This video was made about the year 2000 Solstice celebrations which demonstrates the atmosphere at the time quite well, and I even spotted myself in there at least once. My favourite bit is when the female druid beats a drunken idiot with her staff for climbing on the stones. Photos from recent celebrations seem to be dominated by such morons in wooly hats standing on the stones and demonstrating a complete disregard for a site of immense archaeological, astronomical, and spiritual interest. (I’m not a member of any particular God Squad, but I’m also not inclined to go piss in a cathedral…)

Soooo anyway, we went along, we danced, we tried to keep warm, and we passively inhaled a fair amount of airborne narcotics. We watched the sun rise above the stones, gazed in equal amounts of wonder and lethargy, and then we trundled home, singing Carpenters songs and generally making merry.

Then, about an hour later I hopped on my moped and went to school to sit my IT exam. I got a D by the way, but I then went on to implement and maintain a corporate computer network and provided IT support for nearly 7 years so it’s all pretty irrelevant really.

I guess what I wanted to say was, even if you think you’re not going to achieve much, there’s always a chance to turn things around. It’s never too late.

</fluffy feelgood blogpost>

I expect the next one will be an angry rant, don’t worry.

The residents of Cosham are bitching about the possibility of having their evening television viewing interrupted by the air ambulance. Yes, that’s right, some of the residents who choose to live next to a massive hospital are complaining about not being to watch Big Brother uninterrupted. Oh and apparently the downdraught knocks over their patio furniture too. Boo fucking hoo.

Currently, the air ambulance can only operate between 8am-6pm and a planning application has been sent in to make the service 24 hour, but some local residents regard their television viewing as more important than saving lives.

I’m assuming that in registering their complaints that they are also registering their ineligibility for airlift in the event of a serious illness or injury? Of course not.

If you live in the Portsmouth area and want to let the council know your opinion, the planning application can be found here or on the Portsmouth City Council website under Planning, and search for “helipad”.

Without wishing to labour the point too much, in countries like Nepal, if you are seriously injured and cannot afford the bus fare to hospital or don’t have anyone who can take you, you will die.  If you’re lucky enough to get back to your home, you will die there, if not, it’ll be an agonising, public death with no medical attention whatsoever.

Come on England, get your fucking act together.