Civilization V

Is it sensible to admit to an addiction on a blog? I don’t know, but I am gong to risk it. I am addicted to Civ V. For those of you who know nothing of it, this is a computer game in which one tries to build a civilisation and to beat the others trying to do the same. I find it completely addictive.

I get home of an evening and I have to be very firm with myself: Civ has to wait until all the outstanding work is completed and there are no outstanding jobs to be done. I know that, once I start playing, the chances of me returning to anything work-related are slim to the point of non-existence.

Eventually, I have finished all the emails, written all the papers, made all the notes, completed all the presentations. Then, and only then, I hit the button to open the game. Who will I be tonight? Will I play as Caesar or Nebuchadnezzar? Shall I continue yesterday’s game or start a new one? Last week I had great fun as the Japanese Emperor annihilating the French and the Germans!

I realise it is very juvenile, but you know what, it is good fun. Whether it is good for me is another question altogether. Perhaps I should be out playing?

A Nightmare Journey

Some very dear and good friends invited me to a party in London today. The party was starting at lunchtime and sounded good fun. It also promised the opportunity to meet up with many other old friends whom I had not seen for a long time. I definitely wanted to go.

On the down side, I live quite a long way from London. The train journey, even on a good day in the middle of the week, takes almost two hours. On a Sunday, this can be considerably more. And I could not stay in London: guests to dinner and work tomorrow. However, the party sounded too good to miss and, as I said, they are very good friends. So, I booked my train ticket (for an extortionate amount of money) and set my alarm accordingly, a thing I never do on Sunday mornings.

Unfortunately, my subconscious brain had obviously decided that it did not listen to alarms on Sunday. When I finally awoke, I stretched luxuriantly, rolled over in bed and told myself how much I liked Sunday mornings. I turned on the radio and lay there in a contented fugue. I am not sure what triggered the memory, but suddenly there it was: you are going to a party; you have to get on a train.

I hurled myself from my bed, drew a bath, rang for a taxi to get me to the station. By the time I left the house, I was more than half an hour later than I had intended and I had missed the fast train. The slow train, I have to tell you, is just that: it stops at every pile of bricks on the route, plus some unscheduled places that I couldn’t understand. A journey that would normally take an hour and three quarters took just over three hours.

But it didn’t really matter. The train was comfortable, I had my laptop and was able to do the work that needed doing today; and parties like this are not timetabled affairs. I told myself to relax and got on with the paper I had to write. When we eventually arrived, I made a beeline for the taxi queue (inevitably today very busy) and waited my turn.

My taxi driver was in a bad mood. He complained about the bollards; about the weather  (admittedly awful), about the traffic (negligible), about the new one-way systems. I was glad to alight.

The party was wonderful. So was the food. So was the company. I regretted that I could only stay two hours, but was glad that I had made the effort. All too soon, I had to start making my farewells. Back in a taxi, I reflected on a really good party and the pleasure of old friends.

I reached the station. I strolled towards the platform: the platform number was not yet up. When it appeared, I headed for the barriers. Just as I got through I heard my name called: it was a friend from work. We chatted as we headed for the train. Now, I have a dreadful confession to make: I travel First Class. I know it is extravagant, but it is far less so than most people think and it is so much more comfortable. I just try and book tickets early. So, as we headed for the train, I slightly sheepishly confessed this and stopped at the First Class carriage. We said goodbye and she went on. I boarded the train and settled down.

Now, I have to confess that I had consumed some alcohol at the party. Further, meeting R distracted me somewhat. I was slightly surprised that nobody else boarded the train, but I didn’t get really concerned until the departure time came and went and the train did not move. Suddenly, lots of people were boarding the train. I asked one of them.

I am sure I do not need to spell it out. I had missed the little letter b after the platform number. I was on the wrong train. My train had departed, on time and, presumably, with my ex-friend on it. She must have known I had boarded the wrong train. Why didn’t she tell me? Or maybe she missed it too? I shall find out next time we meet.

In the mean time, I am on a later train. My dinner party is ruined – I shall have to cook something very simple – and I cannot be bothered to do any more work.

Remind me never to travel on Sunday and, particularly, not to travel after a good party! On the other hand – the party was truly worth it.

I AM APPROVED!!!!

Today, I had my home visit and, happily, the nice lady from the rescue place decided that I was a fit and proper person to look after a cat. So, in about a week’s time, said cat will take up residence. I am so excited. I have spent an absolute fortune on one of the cat websites, and I have printed off a picture of the cat and stuck it to my bedroom door.

Those of us who live alone are generally content. But sometimes, we have to admit that the lack of another breathing being is a problem. For me, it became quite a major problem. So, Cat and I will take up residence together. I look forward to it. And I intend to ensure that she is content with it. As a consequence of which, I have just spent a small fortune on the website.

My accountant would not approve. But I think my GP might.

I am getting a cat

I have decided to get a cat. To be honest, this was not my first choice. I have always been more of a dog person. But you can’t have a dog with my lifestyle, and I have come to realise that I really want another living being in the house; and that, somehow, a fish doesn’t cut it.  I also ought to admit that mammals smaller than cats I find difficult, and that I am not in to rodents of any sort.

So, after much soul-searching, I have decided to get a cat. The next question was: which sort of cat. I always knew that I wasn’t going for a fancy pedigree – I just want a moggie. Also, I need a house cat and not a kitten. I poured over the websites, and finally found what I thought was the perfect cat. Yesterday I went to meet her and we got on famously.

Now, I find I am most impatient. I need to have a ‘house visit’: well, surely that could have been arranged for this weekend? I am thinking of Molly (for such is her name) as ‘my cat’ and I resent the fact that she is not here. No doubt, if she becomes part of the household, you will hear more of her. In the meantime, please keep fingers crossed. I would be really sad if she went to another home.

She might also help to bring my blood pressure down!

Why a War Analogy?

Because it is right. Because we have been forced into it.

Public Health is important. We are instrumental in ensuring that a sound analysis of the needs (not wants) of our populations are carried out, that this leads to a sound analysis of what we need to commission and, crucially, that we negotiate with clinical colleagues to make sure this happens. It is clear that those in charge of the procurement of health services do not believe this.

I choose my words with care. We are faced with an enormous funding crisis, yet the only clinical group that can help to ameliorate this has been sidelined and all but annihilated. Why has this happened?

I am not sure. Clearly, we have failed to sell our wares. Possibly, the Faculty of Public Health has not focussed sufficiently on the the aspects of Health Services Public Health. Or, maybe, the Government does not want to listen? I have lost count of the hours I have spent trying to explain the realities of health services public health to ministers. It appears that I am useless at what I am trying to do. I can only apologise to public health colleagues. I did my best.

Oh dear, I realise my mistake!

For weeks I have been wondering why the references to my posts are coming up as rather strange hieroglyphics (well, OK, collections of letters and numbers, but no more comprehensible). Today, I have realised. I have failed to fill in the 'heading' box. Apologies, dear readers. I am a bear of very little brain. Also, I feel as if I am being stretched way beyond my capacity to deliver anything useful. Thus the NHS in the Brave New World, particularly for Public Health. It is never easy to try to deliver both the old and the new systems at the same time. We do our little best. Forgive us if we are less than we should be.

Do You Remember This Poem? I make no apology for quoting it in full. It has always resonated with me. Today, we had a training session. I felt, so strongly, that we were 'naming the parts'. that we were all trying to pretend that it mattered, but that we knew that we lacked vital parts. Please read this and then see my comment at the end: Reed, Henry. "Naming of Parts." New Statesman and Nation 24, no. 598 (8 August 1942): 92 LESSONS OF THE WAR To Alan Michell Vixi duellis nuper idoneus Et militavi non sine gloria I. NAMING OF PARTS To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,           And to-day we have naming of parts. This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,           Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see           Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:           They call it easing the Spring. They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,           For to-day we have naming of parts. As I said, today we named the parts. But we knew we could not use them, because vital bits were missing. Why do we not learn the lessons of history?

A Breakfast Meeting at the House of Lords

This morning, I set my alarm for 0615, an unusual occurrence. I cannot pretend that I leapt from my bed, but it was less difficult than usual to persuade myself to leave its warm comfort and brave the rather chilly charms of a hotel bathroom, because today I had been invited to a Breakfast Meeting at the House of Lords and I have to confess that I was rather excited.

I presented myself at Black Rod’s Garden Entrance (yes, there really is such a thing) at precisely 0800, and joined the chattering queue slowly snaking through security. It was all very good-natured, and slightly underwhelming. Eventually, we were ushered through a courtyard to the Peers’ Terrace. It was impossible not to be impressed by the sheer grandeur of the building. I tried very hard not to gawp like a tourist.

It transpired that most of my fellow guests had been to a considerable number of these events and were very blasé about it all. I was reliably informed that at least the breakfast was good. It was certainly prompt, with orange juice on the tables and coffee being served as soon as I sat down. They gave us the full English, and there were even little pastries.

I was in august company, but sadly I cannot tell you any more about it, because Chatham House rules applied. Not two hours later, I was sitting on a train when a series of tweets apparently reported the entire speech of one of the main speakers. I was a little surprised, until I realised that this was a separate event: have talk, will travel!

The only other thing to say, is that I cannot imagine why they bothered to say that Chatham House Rules applied, since there was nothing said that we did not already know, or at least suspect, and that it did nothing to reassure me about the future of the NHS or the place of commissioning within it. I wish I could say otherwise.