The Barnum Effect

Like a turtle retracting arms and legs, people retreat into themselves when stressed. I was surprised that my mother took shelter in the mundane routines of home life while she was in remission. I didn't expect her to draw up a '100 things to do before you die' list, but I was taken aback by just how little interest she had in getting out and about. With a few more years of life experience under my belt I've come to appreciate my mother's perspective. One doesn't need to fill every moment with things to DO, it is enough to simply BE. It is true we enjoy new experiences for their novelty value, but when we need comfort we seek the familiar patterns of our day to day life. My mother was a staunch atheist. She did not believe in god, nor an afterlife. When she knew she was dying she lost interest in the future that beyond her own lifespan. In her case I suspect a little existential nihilism was at work. When life has no intrinsic meaning or value the experien

I can't relate to the idea of that a creator made us in his own image, that he watches us, and at the moment of our death judges our lives by the rules he communicated with his chosen prophets, sending us on to the realm of heaven or hell depending on how our soul weighed on his celestial scales of good and evil. I can see how the variants of the creator meme that humanity has followed over the millennia would be a civilizing force, providing structures, boundaries and consequences for communities to abide by. Many of our great works of art and architecture have been inspired by the desire to glorify or pacify a creator. On the flip side many people have been subjugated by the tenets of a creed, persecuted for their contradictory religious views, and wars have been prosecuted in the name of faith. When I look at the natural world, its physics, chemistry and biology, I am struck by how life defies both Occam's razor and the second law of thermodynamics . If the simplest

My right foot has been giving me some trouble over the past month or so - with each step I take it feels as though there is a pebble underfoot. It feels quite bruised, and at first I assumed that was all it was - a bruise. When it lasted longer than any bruise should I began to suspect my work shoes, which I wear longer than any other shoes, since I go barefoot whenever I'm indoors at home. During my vacation I avoided wearing those shoes, but at the end of my two week holiday my foot was no better. Whenever there are unexplained symptoms I start to get concerned, and I'm under instructions from the oncologist to have any inexplicable pain which does not resolve itself checked out lest it be a symptom of secondary cancer. On Monday I went to see a GP who referred me to an Orthopaedic consultant whom I saw yesterday. After x-rays were taken he was able to exclude lesions as a cause, and explained the problem is biomechanical. Basically I walk funny. My calves are too tight

Two years ago cancer claimed my health, work, independence, home, and threatened my future. I grieved for all those things, a process which has turned out to be much more lengthy than the treatment for the cancer. Apparently there are five components to our reaction to catastrophic news: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It is not a linear process, a person may not experience all five, they may feel several at once, and even flip back and forth between them. The major components for me have been anger and depression. Depression focuses the mind inwards, to dwell on past events and the unfairness of life. Anger squeezes out in unanticipated ways. With all the crappy aspects of my life I feel I deserve a break in other areas, to balance the scales: the flexible work arrangement that allows me to live in Leeds; sitting in a priority seat on the bus so I don't have to shoulder my rucksack longer than absolutely necessary; the holiday I was entitled to accrue whil

Our lives are a succession of repeating elements, from autonomic blinking and breathing to our willed activities. Novel undertakings stress us, but with repetition they become familiar, routine and comforting. The first time I walked from London Bridge to Paternoster Square it seemed to take an age. There were lots of sights to take in, and some uncertainty over the route. Each time I repeat the route my perception of how long it takes shortens, though in objective terms the elapsed time is unchanged. I put this down to the way our brains work. They're basically learning engines. Laying down a new set of memories keeps the conscious mind engaged in the activity. With each repetition fewer new observations need to be committed to memory, and the conscious mind is increasingly freed to drift off to other topics. When I was a teenager I did a morning paper round. At 6am I would arrive at the newsagents and be given my bag with its complement of papers. Within a month I'd m

I'd grown up considering myself half-Geordie, as my dad's family came from County Durham, but while researching the family tree I discovered that two branches of the 'Geordie' family originally came from East Anglia. My ggg grandfather William Rufus Lincoln , born in Saxlingham in 1837, left Norfolk with his wife and two children to go to County Durham in the 1870s, where he worked in the collieries. My ggg grandfather Samuel Littlewood , born in Great Plumstead in 1824, migrated from Norfolk with his wife and their 7 children to County Durham in the 1870s, where he became a miner. The two hundred miles these families moved typifies the upheaval of the Industrial Revolution, when hundreds of thousands of people left impoverished agricultural areas to find work in mines, factories and mills. Many families emigrated to Canada, North America, South America and Australia. In the early part of the 1800's there had been an influx of people into Norfolk, as trade a

During my family history research I came across what must have been a very great tragedy for my family, as World War I claimed the lives of three of its young men on Tuesday 10th September 1918. My great great grandfather Ezekiel Harper lost two sons ( John & Joseph ), and his brother William lost one of his sons ( Henry ). It was one of the great calamities of WWI that recruits from small villages would be formed into "Pal's Battalions" only to be wiped out together, leaving their home towns stunned and empty. The lads from my family were all in the 1st Battalion, East Yorkshire Regiment, and curious as to what big battle had claimed their lives, I downloaded the Battalion's War Diary from the National Archives. It seems that the 10th September 1918 was a typically ghastly day. What follows is an extract (as best as I can decipher) from the diary of that day: 10 September 1918 Objective LOWLAND & CAVALRY TRENCHES from W18b34 to W12a00. Barrage to com

William Boynton Butler was my grandfather's oldest brother, fondly known as Uncle Willie by my branch of the family, and as Uncle Billie by his wife Clara's family. Sadly I never got the chance to meet him as he died before I was born. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for an extremely brave action during the First World War, shielding a passing troop of infantry from a mis-fired mortar round with his own body until they were safely past, risking being blown to pieces. I gather from family chatter that he was an unassuming man, somewhat embarrassed at the subsequent fuss, perhaps because his actions were an instinctive reaction to the situation, or perhaps because all the men who fought in that war risked their lives daily in the trenches, and many didn't survive. I've published a number of newspaper clippings and photographs collated by my aunt, along with his citation, army records, and a brief biography to our Family Tree . William Boynton Butler - Biography

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And this is my own take : INTERNET'S PRAYER Our favourites, who art on Internet, hallowed by thy Wikipedia, thy Google search, thy will be done, in real life as it is in Second Life. Give us this day our daily YouTube, and forgive us our Twitters, as we forgive those who Facebook and Blog. And lead us not unto trojan websites but deliver to us from ParcelForce, for thine is the PayPal, and the eBay, and the Amazon, for ever and ever. Refresh.

Courtesy of my iPod, from the genius of Ian Dury & the Blockheads : BUS DRIVER'S PRAYER Our Father, who art in Hendon Harrow Road be thy name, Thy Kingston come, Thy Wimbledon, In Erith as it is in Hendon. Give us this day our Berkhamsted And forgive us our Westminsters, As we forgive those who Westminster against us. Lead us not into Temple Station But deliver us from Ealing, For thine is the Kingston and the Purley and the Crawley, For Iver and Iver, Crouch End.

My original impetus for family history research was to trace the origin of a genetic flaw that affects the women in my family, making them prone to breast & ovarian cancers. I have traced the source back as far as Ada Smith  b1877, but neither her mother ( Mary Ann Storey ) or her grandmother ( Sarah Robinson ) apparently died from the disease. Perhaps it was inherited from her father ( Charles Smith .) If you have ancestors in common with Ada Smith I'd be interested in hearing from you, particularly if you aware of any pattern of either disease affecting the young women of her lineage. My interest in genealogy has since broadened considerably. I'm tracing all forebears both maternal and paternal in an ever expanding research front that doubles with each preceding generation. Needless to say, I enjoy hearing from cousins from any part of the family tree however distantly removed. Simply drop me an email .

In my student days I would bellow 'Captain Duvet' in much the same way as Captain Caveman . I enjoyed a bit of a snooze in the afternoon back then. I look back and recognise the effects of a high carbohydrate diet which routinely sent me hyperglycaemic and off to the land of nod. 'I could sleep for Britain,' I would declare 'and bring home the Olympic Gold Medal.' A few years later I would start to see the flip side - feeling grouchy, indecisive and faint: effects of hypoglycaemia as my blood sugar levels dropped through the floor if a meal was skipped. It took me a long time to cotton on to the pattern behind these two extremes, and to link it to my diet. I'm sure a lot of people who end up with Type 2 Diabetes do so because they're ignorant of these signposts. My diet is no longer as carb heavy, and Captain Duvet is a relegated to the dusty corridors of fond memories.

Autumnal morning. Contrails form the Scottish flag, and breath condenses.