The kindness of strangers

There is an episode of Panorama on this evening that deals with the issue of stalking. Apparently it affects over two million Britons. I don't know if that's one million people and one million stalkers or two million people that are being stalked. Maybe it's one very popular person with one million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine stalkers. This, however, is unlikely. It's probably two people.

For the stalked it can be terrifying, the shadow of Jill Dando's case hangs heavy. Dando you may recall was killed in 1999 and for years it was believed that the murderer was a celebrity obsessed stalker. The 'stalker' was acquitted a few years ago though as the case against him was too thin (though not too thin to find him guilty the first time around). He's currently living a quiet life in Carol Vorderman's back garden. I can't understand why he's chosen her, I think she's a bit strange. I mean you should see the state of her curtains.

Whether Dando was killed by a stalker or not, the fact that it was a real possibility means that to be stalked is surely a very scary situation to find yourself in. It just makes you wish that stalkers found each other as fascinating as their celebrity idols, then they could stalk each other and leave the non-obsessed alone. They could have special parks away from town centres in which they merrily sit in bushes and stare at each other without being disturbed. Apart from in their heads of course.

It's certainly worth thinking about, however we probably need a few more celebrities lined up with pennies on their eyes before it's given serious consideration in council budgets. I'm not about to suggest anyone for fear of tempting fate and my suggestions coming true, causing me to be thrown in jail or burned as a witch. You could though. Try it. Just throw a few darts in a copy of 'Heat' magazine. It won't actually help raise any money to set up a stalker park of course, but try it anyway. 'sfun.

Anyway, I've got to go as I think Julia Bradbury's back and I need to stop this cat from scratching the wardrobe door.

"Here Tiddles...who's a good girl, yes you are, come on sweetie....".

*snap*

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President visits a resident President

President Obama has held a dinner in honour of the visiting Chinese President; attendees included everyone who is great and good in the world of being Chinese, looking Chinese or in Barbara Streisand’s case, once met a Chinese person and wasn’t sick down her blouse. I’m not sure why she was there, and neither it seems was she. When asked she said “I worked in a Chinese restaurant”. I like to think the person asking her then replied, flatly:

“How interesting. Why are you here?” then, upon her repetition of this comment, shoving her in a manner to ensure she stumbles backwards over her mobility scooter muttering something about her name not being on the list. I realise this didn’t happen but it doesn’t prevent me wanting it to. I know it didn’t happen because she goes everywhere with James Brolin these days, and he always looks like the only reason he isn’t punching you in the face is because he’s too far away. A fact that frustrates him intensely. So intensely he’s liable to punch you in the face.

Anyway, the reason I bring up the subject of this dinner is that it was obviously intended to improve relations between America and the Chinese people. Or perhaps to cement the brilliant relations they already have. I hope they are brilliant, after all racism is so mind boggling stupid I find it amazing that it still exists (however I am told that I live in a naïve bubble with relation to this and various other prejudices). So President Obama holds a dinner to say “we know the old stereotypes are essentially nonsense” (without stating it quite so baldly since he is so distressingly erudite this would invite suggestions of his being swapped for a double by the rascally Republicans). This is good to hear, since in our hearts we know that the Chinese are as unlikely (or indeed as likely depending upon how you choose to think of it) to be, say, wandering around with cameras taking photos of everything as Americans (or [insert nationality here]) would be.

Compare the lack of difference between Jackie Chan and Mr and Mrs Streisand.

Nice to see Jackie Chan doing his bit to resist these clichés, isn’t it. Silly Jackie. It could be worse of course, he could have turned up dressed as Mr Yunioshi, so every cloud.

Happy no ear

“So what were you thinking I would do for you today?”

It was Bank Holiday Monday and so I was watching these words plop steadily from the mouth of an out-of-hours GP. Whilst my own doctor was parked at home counting the festive gravy stains on his shirt, the man in front of me had drawn a short straw. Maybe that’s why he didn’t seem very interested in my reason for sitting before him (why wait?). A lack of interest so overwhelming he had forgotten his role in the transaction. An hour earlier I had drifted into the surgery in a fog of pain and confusion. Pain because…well…I hurt, and confusion because I didn’t know why. All I had done was go to sleep and had woken up with my ear blocked and a pain so intense that I was unable to have any thought other than “oww”. I consoled myself with the knowledge that although I was only able to think about one thing, at least that thing was relevant.

I described my symptom to the doctor and having had his verdict (sounds like a perforated eardrum) waited to hear what he planned to do about it. I was quite surprised that this was a decision I was to make myself. Not least for the fact that my description had not only involved an in depth discussion of the pain (“I have a really intense pain”) but also a helpful indication of where the pain was located (“here” [points to ear]). I was confident that my efforts would be rewarded with more than a declaration that there was something wrong with my ear that was resulting in pain. At least it was now official though. I had a hurty ear.

“So what were you thinking I would do for you today?”
“Nothing, I just don’t get out much and wanted to share. Bye!” I didn’t say.
“Well, I had hoped for something for the pain” I said.
“Ok” said the doctor, and handed me a paper permission slip to buy some painkillers.

Over the next day or so I decided I needed to see my regular GP. This was for two reasons:

1- I wasn’t satisfied that the other chap had shown sufficient interest in my hurty ear, and my regular doctor has a long history of tilting his head sympathetically and generally letting you feel it’s ok to feel sorry for yourself. He may call you a c**t when you leave but I that doesn’t bother me, I assume that of most people.

2- In the preceding 24 hours my ear had started leaking. A lot. Leaking to such a degree that I could have extinguished a small fire simply by shaking my head in disagreement nearby.

Sitting by his desk I described my symptoms (I was now ill in plural) and my doctor tilted his head sympathetically. I was reminded why he is a good doctor and promptly let myself feel sorry for myself.

“Let’s have a look at the ear” he said, and produced one of the small illuminating funnels that doctors keep for such activities. It didn’t help.

“There’s really too much stuff there to see the eardrum, so it’s obviously infected” he said.
“Right” I said, sponging gloop from my shoulder.

And so, clutching a prescription for anitbiotics I departed, feeling sorry for those people whose GP I had seen on Monday, but not sorry enough to trade places with them. I was soon to be fixed, and that knowledge was enough to make me ignore the faint ‘c**t’ I heard as I pulled the surgery door closed.


So, a belated happy new year to you.

Cheers.

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