Testing, testing…

Don’t get me wrong, I love animals. In fact, I’m an inveterate lover of all things furry.

Do I disapprove of animal testing? Yes, and no.

I can sense some confusion on your part, dear reader, so I’ll elaborate.

It helps if you’re aware that testing on animals occurs for two different reasons. Cosmetic research, and medical research.

I wholeheartedly disapprove of testing cosmetics on animals – but then I also happen to be one of the (seemingly) rare woman who think that make-up, on the whole, is unnecessary in itself. However, as ‘cosmetic’ includes many other things, such as bath products and shampoo, I do try to buy things that I know haven’t been tested on animals. I don’t always check, but then I suppose I’m not as conscientious as some people. If that makes me a bad person, then so be it – let’s put it this way, I do not advocate cosmetic testing on animals.

However, in the field of medical research I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with testing on animals – as long as the guidelines for humane treatment are adhered to. As Dr. Beh Swan Gin (of the Singaporean Government’s Economic Development Board) puts it: “…we feel it’s more important to find the cause of diseases than to worry about the rights of mice…” [Quote taken from The Times, Friday 26th August 2005]

A little harsh-sounding, granted, but it does sum up my views quite effectively.

Militant animal rights activists can be awful; as a recently publicised news story shows. They profess concern for the well-being of animals, and express their indignation over the ethical implications of animal testing – yet do not seem to practice what they preach. Carrying out a six-year hate-campaign against a man who bred guinea pigs for medical research, which culminated in the closure of his business after the remains of his mother-in-law were stolen from the village churchyard – does that sounds ethical to you?

Stop right there, because I can guess what you’re about to say.

Not all those who lobby for animal rights are from the same mould – I’m aware of that. Sadly, however, it’s often the actions of those who are extreme that gain the most publicity. As a society we’re more willing to see the flaws and the atrocities than the good points and valuable work.

I appreciate that not everyone shares my views, however I don’t see why I should keep quiet because many of the people around me believe that I’m wrong. Do you oppose the usage of animals in medical research? If so, next time you have to take an antibiotic perhaps you should think about the animals that were part of its development. If you should ever be unfortunate enough to require an organ transplant, then remember that without the use of animals the techniques that we have developed would not be so finely honed.

If it came to a choice between saving your child’s life, would you refuse treatment because animals had been used in the research leading to a cure?

26/08/2005 ©

You don't need a surgeon, you need a therapist...

“My name is Jacqui. I contacted Living TV for an extreme makeover because I’d love to be able to stop hiding under all this hair and to start being the woman I’ve always wanted to be, instead of the teenage boy I dress like.
The only people who think women don’t need a larger chest are women who already have one. I’d love to be able to wear something glamorous, something sexy. But as you can see, you need a chest to go in there.”
[Television advertisement for Extreme Makeover UK]

You know, I nearly choked the first time I saw this advert. Why? Because the woman in question has bigger breasts than me, and she’s complaining about needing a larger chest?

Get a life, love.

These extreme makeovers have been driving me nuts. Granted I haven’t watched any of them, but the advertisements are enough to have me ranting at the television. Take this woman, for instance. There’s nothing wrong with the size of her breasts; the problem is all in her mind. If she thinks that you have to have large breasts in order to look glamorous then that’s an issue that’s better sorted out by a good therapist than by a plastic surgeon.…

I actually watched one of these shows the other day, ‘The Swan’ I think it was. Really, I should have known better, but I suppose it was morbid curiosity on my part. I spent the best part of an hour shouting at the television – they took two perfectly normal looking women (who, I grant you, would look better if they would just smile a bit more often), and over the course of the programme they managed to transform them into homogenous clones which failed to evince any outward signs of an individual personality. They ended up looking like Barbie dolls, which (I have to be honest) sickened me.

What these women really needed was to be told, in a suitably considerate manner, that there was nothing wrong with them that couldn’t be fixed with a smile and a more positive attitude. I swear, one of them was prettier before they started messing about with her face. They gave the same woman bigger breasts, when what she really could have done with was a reduction.

What’s the point of this little rant? Well, quite frankly I’m not sure. I think that this Chinese Proverb says it better than I ever could:

“If there is light in the soul, there will be beauty in the person.”

04/05/2005 & 23/07/2005 ©

Do not stand at my grave and weep…

…I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
[Mary Frye, 1932]

A beautiful poem, which unfortunately I've had occasion to copy out into cards of sympathy twice in as many weeks. Death’s one of nature’s certainties, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t a shock to us when it occurs. Whether we knew the deceased or not, death still strikes a chord with most of us, reminding us of our own mortality.

That’s the rub, isn’t it? Death is always hardest on those who are left behind. However tragic or painful a person’s demise, at the end of the day death is a natural end to their suffering. What of those who die young? You may well ask that question, but I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason, and that death comes when it’s your time – whether you feel it is, or not.

So what of the mourners, the bereaved, who are left behind to pick up the pieces? Everyone deals with grief in their own way; sometimes they accept what has happened and move on quickly, but for others grief can be an all-consuming emotion that overwhelms them.

That’s why, really, I’ve started putting this poem into the cards I send in sympathy. To remind people, if they need reminding, that people only really die if you let them – if you continue to think of them with love, then their love can be found all around you. Let them move on in peace, because as long as you have your memories of them, they’ll always be with you.

03/05/2005 ©

My kingdom for a train...

"We're sorry that the 14:48 service to Stratford has been delayed by approximately 47 minutes..."

That's great, it's very big of them to apologise, however it's currently 15:55 and I was hoping to catch the 15:33... goodness alone knows what's happened to that. Or the 15:18 come to think of it. Oh, wait, what's that coming over the tannoy? Ah, it's an apology for the delay of the 14:18 train. It's now 16:00 - be honest Ms. Service Announcement lady, the last five trains aren't delayed, they've been cancelled.

It's not that I don't believe trains can be an hour late - because I know that they often are. However, that's usually national trains, not this sodding metro service that's supposed to be taking me, and I kid you not, about 3.5 miles down the road.

I walk at a good healthy rate, and I can easily do a 15 minute mile - and if I'd had any idea the train service was going to be this bad then I'd have just walked it. But no, the timetable says one every 15 minutes off peak, so that's four trains per hour. I figured I'd easily get to my meeting on time - boy is presumption the mother of all cock-ups.

I'm late for my meeting, even if I go and catch the two buses (which, walking aside, are the alternative route), I'm still going to be late.

So, how about some honesty from Silverlink Metro in future? Why not just say that the previous 5 trains have disappeared off the face of the planet, and that you actually have no idea when a train will next grace the platform with its presence? If, instead of apologising for the delay and asking travellers to "wait for the next announcement", you were to just say "no trains until further notice" I (and, no doubt, most of the other stranded passengers on this platform) could have found an alternative route from the outset.

“We’re sorry to announce that the 14:48 train to Stratford has been cancelled. The next train to arrive at the eastbound platform will be the 15:33 service to Stratford…”

It’s 16:15, I’m going to have to take a cab…

18/04/2005 ©

Senile dementia?

Life's strange isn't it? Bit of a random question, and not an entirely rhetoric one either. I caught up, by e-mail, with a friend I haven't seen in a while...

Me: I’d better get on and tidy my lovely new tool cupboard – it’s really weird, if someone had said to me when I was 18 that I’d be excited to have a tool cupboard I’d have thought they were utterly bonkers, just goes to show you can never tell!

Him: Face it we are getting old - I got excited when I bought a drill.

You know what, he's right. Our priorities change so much, even over the space of just a few years. We go from being desperately interested in boys and make-up, to being desperate for five minutes peace and quiet, and wondering when exactly it was that they discontinued our favourite range of cosmetics... It makes sense I suppose, that as we age we want different things from life - but does that necessarily mean that we're different people?

In the space of six years I've gone from being immaculately (if skimpily) attired and perfectly coiffed to being comfortable in jeans, a scruffy jumper and with hair that often makes me look like a survivor from an oil slick incident. Does that make me a different person? Possibly, although my values, ethics, and other defining characteristics are pretty much the same. Does it make me a better person? I think it might well do, although not by any recognisable standard. I'm pretty much the same person inside, but I think the outward changes signify a serious change - I no longer care what people think of me anymore. I don't pay much attention to what I wear, I don't bother with make-up - if people see me looking less than my best then quite frankly they can take me or leave me. It's not that I don't care anymore, it's that the opinions of others are less important to me than they used to be.

Is this what maturity is? Being comfortable going to the shops with unwashed hair and no make-up on? Going out in public in clothes that should have been sent for disposal years ago? I think it might well be - at least that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it.

And yes, I do have a new tool cupboard, which I love so much that I actually hugged it when it first arrived. Make what you will of that.

18/01/2005 ©

Being able to spell ‘intelligent’ doesn’t automatically mean that you are.

The BBC recently ran ‘The Hard Spell’ – a televised competition to find “Britain’s best young speller”. In short, contestants were read out a series of words, which they then had to spell aloud. There was much praise for all the contestants, and of course the finalists – but what exactly are they being praised for? I’ll happily give them credit for not succumbing to stage fright, but at the end of the day they’re just spelling words.

Words, I might add, that they don’t necessarily know the meaning of. Words, I dare say, that they probably couldn’t use in a conversation if their lives depended on it. Ok, so they don’t need to know what the word means, as long as they can spell it, but to me it seems utterly pointless to learn how to spell reams and reams of words that you’re not going to use. A well-trained parrot could do the same thing, and I’d probably be more impressed.

Is there a point to this particular rant? Probably not actually – there was a point when I first started writing, but I ended up taking an unscheduled break due to illness in the family.

Actually, perhaps there is a point. So the best speller in the UK can spell all manner of words, I’m sure they can spell ‘meningitis’ – but does being able to spell the name of an illness mean that they have even the slightest inkling of what the ramifications might be if they caught it? Does the ability to spell ‘alcoholism’ mean that they’ll be able to avoid suffering from it when they’re older? Does the actual spelling of ‘Alzheimer’s’ in any way suggest how painfully protracted and heart-rending it can be for both the afflicted and those around them? I don’t think so.

Words have power, we all know that, but merely being able to spell them doesn’t signify a thing. It doesn’t mean that you’re intelligent, it doesn’t confer any kind of superiority – all it means is that you’ve done as you were told. I thought that learning by rote was outdated and obsolete, but maybe we’ve just taken a step back to a time when knowing what something is was the same as knowing what it was actually like.

Experience is everything, words pale in comparison. Perhaps those who believe in the Hard Spell should try learning things the hard way instead.

27/12/2004 ©

Excuses, excuses...

An alien sighting, following winds, a dying hamster, and a desperate need for the lavatory, were all offered as excuses by speeding motorists. “It is quite amazing the lengths that some drivers will go to avoid a £60 fine and three points,” Ray King, of Northumbria Safety Camera Partnership, said.
[The Times, Friday December 3 2004]

It’s not amazing at all, Mr King. In fact considering the way we’re raised on lies it would be more surprising if we didn’t embroider the truth on occasion. Yes, I said lies – if excuses were true, then they wouldn’t be excuses, they’d be reasons. Right?

I expect many people would be appalled at my saying that we’re raised on lies, but it’s true.

Father Christmas, the tooth fairy, watching TV will give you square eyes and carrots will make you see in the dark, if the wind changes your face will stay like that, and if you pick your nose your brains will fall out… you get the picture yet? Ok, so we’re quite young when those lies are told, and perhaps they don’t make an impression (although the phrase ‘formative years’ does spring to mind…), but it doesn’t improve with age. At secondary school we’re lied to as a matter of course: the hundred years war (a bit of a misnomer that, eh?), Nelson’s last words (“Kiss me Hardy” – another convenient lie, as you’d feel a bit of a twat telling a class of kids that his final utterance was, in fact, “Drink, drink. Fan, fan. Rub, rub.”), and of course the ubiquitous “your GCSE grades will have a real impact on your future employment”.

What about as adults? The theme continues: one size fits all, open wide this won’t hurt a bit… it’s not you, it’s me…

It’s no wonder we come up with dubious excuses at the drop of a hat, it’s just what we’re used to after all.

Oh, and Mr King? Perhaps you’re on a massively inflated salary, but to the rest of us £60 is a lot of money – and if telling a little white lie means we might get out of paying it, then so be it.

Besides, it wasn’t a hamster, it was a gerbil…

03/12/2004 ©