The Barnum Effect

I used the last of my vacation allowance to take this week off, but it hasn't been what you might call a successful holiday. There have been too many weekends where I've been required to work, which has left me tired and run down. I had a cold nine weeks ago, but the cough is still with me. At times my chest is so tight I can't speak, while at other times I feel I'm drowning. I've been told its time to get that checked out - find out if I'm becoming asthmatic, have allergies, a chest or sinus infection, or something altogether worse. A sore has developed between my buttocks, which makes standing up, sitting down and walking all ghastly painful. I'm on antibiotics for that, but to be truthful it seems it is the painkillers that are having the biggest effect. To cap it all, I'm due to see my consultant on Monday for the results of all the cancer follow-up tests I had last week. All of this has left me a bit fed up. Meanwhile the big bad world out

It has been a very trying afternoon, being prodded, poked, and scanned by the medical community. My appointments were scattered at various addresses around Harley Street. I lived in Marylebone for several years, so visits there are always tinged with a slew of memories - some good, some not so bright. I'm released from diagnostic purgatory at 5pm, and a little wound up I decide to walk and wend my way back to Cannon Street. I head down Marylebone Lane, taking a wander around Daunts the Bookshop. Here the books the store chooses to stock are picked entirely by their covers - and truthfully each is an artfully crafted design statement. Books for the fashion conscious, although who knows if they’re necessarily a good read? On to St. Christopher’s Place, a little alley full of boutiques. Overhead the Christmas lights create an illuminated ceiling. Every shop front is awash with garish Christmas decorations temptingly arranged around whatever goods the store is selling. Look, say th

A heavy frost makes every surface glitter under the sodium street lights. As the sun's warm tangerine glow invades the inky sky, silhouetted trees are revealed in winter nakedness. Their three dimensional fractal structure becomes apparent as we move and they seem to turn. An apple tree stripped of all its leaves still bears its fruit, dangling golden globes, a natural rendition of our Christmas trees artifice. The early birds take wing, flocks of crows rising from their rookeries. Below lights appear as households rise from slumber, shower, and break their night fast. The sky is now baby blue, tinged pink at the horizon. The sun's appearance immanent. Frost lays thickly white on roofs and fields. Every scene begs a photographer to brace the icy dawn and capture the image in sepia tones. The clouds at the horizon herald the rising of the sun, illuminated by its glow. Soon now it will bathe us in its rays, casting shadows where its light does not reach. The cloud colour

I was woken at 4am by the radiator, whistling like a kettle. Despite being on the frost setting the radiator was red hot. No amount of twiddling the dial would get it to shut up or shut off. The heat was stifling so I opened the blind and window to let in some cool air. Starlight flooded in along with the draft of cold air. The sky was incredibly clear, a myriad of stars were visible, uncommon in light polluted London. Staring down at me was the constellation of Orion. I learnt to read at a young age due to my mum’s efforts with flash cards. She was an avid reader, and when relaxing could often be found deep a book. She would take me to the library with her, but despite this I didn't read much. At home I'd read comics, and in the library I'd look at the Asterix books. Basically reading was an effort, and I was far too lazy. Perhaps it was the influence of Dr Who and Blake’s 7, but I was about 11 years old when I talked to mum about maybe reading some science fiction.

I stumbled upon the following text the other day whilst reading a BBC "Have Your Say" discussion on the topic "What is the best way to teach child literacy?" : Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. The idea was interesting enough that I was curious to track down the alleged research. Trawling the internet, I realised this text has been doing the rounds for years. Eventually my Googling paid dividends (unlike Google shares) and I discovered the concept was derived from a PhD thesis by Graham Rawlinson. I found several examples of scrabbled text which I was able to read without trouble. Curiously it became easier to read the more I accelerated

During the summer months gazing out of train window often inspired me to write. With the winter darkness upon us there is nothing to be seen but passing street lights and the reflections of fellow passengers. Denied my muse, instead I turn my attention to the plethora of free newspapers to fill my travelling hours. It soon becomes apparent that, in the same way the paper is recycled for the following day's newsprint, so are the actual pieces of news. One morning's article in the Metro will appear practically word for word in the Evening Standard, and both articles will bear an uncanny resemblance to what is written in the online BBC News piece. In all likelihood the same piece of news will be served cold for breakfast the following morning. I guess this highlights the death of traditional investigative journalism which, with more background and exclusive detail, would once have differentiated articles from one another. Like many of my generation I'm used to getting free

Heads bowed, quiet we stand, Remembering the fallen. White swans fly over.

All good things seem to come flying at you at once. All Hallow's Eve is barely done and dusted and here comes Guy Fawkes Night. As it fortuitously fell on a Friday I was able to go to the Roundhay Park bonfire and firework display. I'd usually aim to get there after the bonfire is lit and in time to get a good spot for watching the fireworks, but as it was a clement evening I got there earlier and watched the whole caboodle. The bonfire was beautifully constructed in a beehive shape from shipping pallets. It took a while to get properly lit, but once it did - wow! A great column of roiling black cloud climbed into the air, lit from within by flame, twisting and curling into the sky. As the heat from the flames grew more intense the black cloud dissipated, and steam started rising from the ground all around. A steam twister developed off to one side, spinning and dancing. The flames rose in great fluid curtains, climbing far higher than the pallets, in an inverted parody o