St John Ambulance - The Difference

For an important video, which may save the life of a family member or friend, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/stjohnambulance

You need to know...a life could depend on it.

A Century and Not Out

'Who wants to live forever?'

Those words are, if my quinguaginarian brain remembers correctly, lyrics from a song by Queen. For readers who have the pleasure of being under thirty, it probably seems that you are going to live forever. However, for those of us who are middle-aged or beyond, reality sooner or later sinks in; the truth is we have used half of our innings.

Or have we?

Consider your reaction to being told, at the age of fifty, that you have seventy years to go. You would probably greet such news with scepticism. After all, doesn't the Bible speak of 'three score years and ten' being man's allotted time? Well, the Office for National Statistics (ONS) would beg to differ. In a recent report, the ONS says Britain will have some 90,000 people over the age of 100 by the year 2034. Already, we know that there are several people living at the age of 115, and the oldest life on record is that of a French woman who died at the age of 122 in 1997.

Now, let me put that into perspective. The year 2034 is only 23 years away, and 90,000 people is approximately 60% of the population of North Lincolnshire. At least some of us fifty year olds may therefore not have reached middle age yet.

There is, of course, much in the way of current national discussion regarding what the retirement age should be (or whether we should have one at all), and whether the country can afford everyone's pensions. However, I would like to offer another thought for you to consider. If you were told today that you have a pretty good chance of becoming a supercentenarian, what would you want to do with all that extra time? How would you wish to enrich your added years with activity rather than be restricted by illness or infirmity?

I cannot answer the first question for you. However, in respect to the second, now is the time to start preparing by getting those lifestyle excesses sorted out (you know the ones; you don't need me to spell them out for you). For my part, I have so many interests to pursue that I am setting my sights on reaching at least 120. You are therefore cordially invited to my birthday party in 2080 (but do bring a cutting from this newspaper to prove eligibility).

(This article was first published in the Scunthorpe Telegraph, 20^th October 2010)

To Wake or Sleep?

'To sleep – perchance to dream!'

At least that is how Shakespeare's Hamlet voiced his feelings on this important aspect of health. I have no doubt that his view would continue to find many modern-day supporters. However, how does such leisurely sentiment fit along side the Chancellor, George Osborne's recently expressed wish that we might all work an extra hour for the good of England?

Assuming that, for some of us, the proposed extra hour of work reduces time asleep, how might that impact on our health? It has long been known that sleep deprivation causes an increased risk of high blood pressure, diabetes and depression. Recent statistics also indicate a greater risk of heart disease and of dying younger. Furthermore, we might be heavier in the process, as reduced sleep reduces the ability to burn off fat. Sleep deprivation is also a safety risk; causing 'microsleeps', where people spontaneously 'nod off' for brief periods and thereby run the risk of causing accidents whilst operating machinery or driving vehicles.

Meanwhile there is no doubt that sleep is a necessity in order to allow the body to regenerate cells and heal damaged tissues, revitalise the immune system, organise our memories, and improve our energy levels, apart from just making us feel happier.

However, for those of us who find difficulty staying in bed, all is not lost. Whilst the usual recommendation for an adult is seven to eight hours sleep per night, a report in Sleep Medicine recorded that, in a survey of 450 women over a period of fourteen years, those women who sleep between five and six-and-a-half hours were more likely to be alive than those who had been managing the recommended seven or eight hours per night.

This brings me to another Tory statesman (Disraeli), who is reported to have said: 'there are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics'. What, then, is a person to believe? Personally, I subscribe to the poet Felix Dennis's concept that our task is to find the most agreeable way to fill the gap between being born and dying. If you wake naturally after only five or six hours sleep, do not fret; instead rejoice that you have that extra hour to make use of for the betterment of England. For, as A.E. Housman wrote in the 'Shropshire Lad': 'Up, lad: when the journey's over there'll be time enough to sleep'.

(This article was first published in the Scunthorpe Telegraph, Wednesday 13^th October 2010)

Whither the Local NHS?

We live in exciting times.

At least we do if the government's announcements in respect to the National Health Service are to be believed. Primary Care Trusts are going to be abolished; supposedly meaning less money spent on bureaucracy and managers, and more money for front line health services. Best of all, GPs are going to be given control of a large part of the budget. Surely that has all got to be good? Well, many people thought so at first. However, the reality is now beginning to sink in, and the initial promises do not look so sparkling.

The NHS is an institution that many of us have known and taken for granted during our entire lives. We are accustomed to the freedom of visiting our GPs without worrying about the cost. Neither have we had to give thought to the price of the investigations, prescriptions, or operations which might be necessary. In short, we have benefitted from a health service that many other countries have looked upon with envy.

Times, however, are changing, and the changes will affect us all. Along with many other public services, the NHS has to take a long hard look at its finances. Many GPs have understandably taken the view that our job is to look after people's health; how it is all paid for is someone else's problem. No longer can that be the case. Local GPs are already working together in anticipation of the change 2013 will bring, and the message is daunting. We simply cannot afford everything we do.

Which begs the question as to what the NHS is really for? How prepared are we to discontinue specific services, reduce the level of prescribing for some drugs, or see waiting times become longer for certain operations? It is a debate which successive governments have shied away from, preferring the delusion that the NHS can afford to do everything. The truth is it cannot, and the general public needs to know that. The public equally needs to be involved now in shaping the local services for the future. Bringing the money nearer to those who spend it means greater responsibility. However, the responsibility belongs to everyone, not just the local doctors.

After all, whilst we are often thought to work miracles, when it comes to a lack of cash, I am afraid we are not magicians.

(This article was first published in the Scunthorpe Telegraph, Wednesday 6th October 2010)

A Schizophrenic Pen

Thumbing through the latest copy of The Author (the house journal for the Society of Authors), I discovered a website called 'I write Like' (www.iwl.me). In order to discover whose style one is unknowingly emulating, you enter a few paragraphs of your own prose into the site and, hey presto, it caters to your writer's weary ego by coming up with some literary giant.

I entered the first two paragraphs of my novel and found that my style is decidedly akin to Dan Brown. A pretty promising start, I thought.

That was until I tried the second chapter, and found that I had inexplicably become Agatha Christie. However, by the middle of the novel, the great Dame had left the stage and H. P. Lovecraft had taken over.

Confused (or rather 'bemused'), I decided to enter a few paragraphs of an award winning short story from a few years ago, and discovered that I had once been a James Joyce write-a-like.

At least, rather akin to Tony Blair, I should in due course be able to get my work onto several different shelves in Waterstones.

So that is all right then...I think...

Reflections of a Tourident

The following article first appeared in Pissouri Contact 46, 10 October 2009 (http://www.about-pissouri.com)

It is possible (albeit unlikely) that the Oxford English Dictionary will one day include the following entry:

tourident
–
noun. 1 a person who is new to, and still learning about, a community, but who owns and occasionally resides in a property within that community. 2 a cross between a tourist and a resident.

My wife (Linda) and I are touridents in respect to Pissouri, having taken possession of our new apartment in the village in the spring of this year, and only managing three short visits thus far. However, there are advantages in being in such a position.

One benefit is that Pissouri is still an open book to us. We know what the picture on the cover looks like, and have read the blurb on the fly-leaf. However, we have thus far only progressed through the first few chapters of the contents, and most of the story is yet to reveal itself to us. Some characters appear on a regular basis, there are constant introductions to new ones, and many more exist, of whom we have only heard snippets and have yet to physically meet. Meanwhile, we are gradually treated to two unravelling storylines, where the historical meets the contemporary; tradition meets modernity; Cypriot meets newcomer; different cultures interact. The result is a plot worthy of that classic English novelist, Thomas Hardy, and just as enjoyable.

One aspect which is very evident to us is that Pissouri is a community. It is not just a collection of disparate individuals, who happen to live near to each other (as is often found in cities). Furthermore, Pissouri is a friendly community, consisting of individuals who know each other, who live and work together, who share interests and visions, who depend upon each other, and who strive to achieve collective goals for the better of the society in which they reside. That is the outward face of Pissouri. For the new-comer, whether it is the casual day-tripper, or the tourident, Pissouri has the appearance of a congenial family.

However, like all extended families, there are naturally disagreements, arguments, irritations, clashes of personalities and, inevitably, a few 'black sheep' whose actions are unpleasant and disturbing. Linda and I have now 'read sufficient pages' of the narrative, to understand some of these issues. However, far from spoiling the 'picture postcard' image of Pissouri, these issues make Pissouri even more genuine; even more of a community; even more of a family. Perhaps surprisingly to some, therein lies the village's strength. Families must learn to live with each other and make allowances for the likes and dislikes of individual members. Where there are differing points of view, compromises have to be reached and harmony restored. That is the richness of family life. Without such interaction, relationships are bland and nothing is achieved. Diversity of thought should bring people closer together in order to find and develop the common ground. That is, I believe, what is happening in Pissouri, and has probably been happening for many years past. The rich tapestry which is the modern Pissouri is the summation of all that has gone before. The beauty is that every now and again, someone will twist the kaleidoscope and the picture will shift slightly again, bringing new dimensions to what is already priceless.

My thoughts will probably say nothing new to those members of the collective community of Pissouri who were either born in the village, or who have been resident for many years. However, as a tourident, we are looking at the community with a fresh set of eyes, and what we see is, overall, a power for the good. Linda and I feel that we have recently married into a new extended family. We are slowly getting to know how the family 'ticks', but what we have learned thus far is that Pissouri is a friendly and welcoming community, and one to be valued. It is a community we are glad to have joined.

And remember, when the word 'tourident' does enter the Oxford English Dictionary, it was here that you first read it!

Cerebral Tai Chi.

'Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.'

So wrote Lawrence Durrell in his 1957 book, Bitter Lemons of Cyprus. He later described the necessary travelling companions in order to achieve this utopia; namely, loneliness and time, declaring them as 'those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything'.

He was, of course, writing about his time in that wonderfully complex, Mediterranean retreat otherwise known as the Birth Place of Aphrodite. Indeed, it is where I am now writing, accompanied by a welcoming, though yet still cool, morning sun; its rays reflected by the expanse of yellow wild flowers and intensely luxuriant grasslands which rise behind my home here. The only sound is that of sparrows in a nearby carob tree, interspersed by the distant call of a wood-pigeon, and the soft mewing of a ginger cat, which has seated itself expectantly on the terrace outside my kitchen door, and which now stares back at me in the hope that I have something more exciting on offer than the occasional man-made 'meow' I return to it in the spirit of trans-cultural friendship.

Durrell is a writer I immediately warmed to. His work speaks of a man who understands the enormity of the mundane, the intrinsic value of indolence, the desirability of solitude, and the wealth of material residing just out of reach within the grey cells of one's mind, just waiting to be freed by the onset of some melancholically-induced cerebral exercise.

Cyprus is an island which allows for all of that. It is impossible to ignore the whispers from centuries past that filter through the rocks, like vapours through the pores of a living, yet antiquated, historical tome. 'Listen to me,' the land murmurs; 'listen and feel; listen and learn; listen and understand.'

So I listen, alone and unrushed. I allow the sounds of nature to filter through the labyrinth of neurones which somehow act as the repository of my thoughts; I let the rocky terraces speak to me of the island's origins and the tales of centuries past, laid down within it like seams of history, layer upon eventful layer, and I feel my mind tuning in to that same wavelength which endeared itself to Durrell, as it has to so many writers over the centuries. Yet, as I do so, my thoughts stretch, not just back down the monumental ages belonging to this island, but laterally across to the other side of the world, to the Caribbean Sea, where I sailed less than two months ago, and where, alone and with all the time in the world to muse, I cerebrally travelled back not just centuries, but through millennia, to the time of the world's earliest existence. It was a cathartic moment, and one which I tried to capture in a haiku:

Wave laps against wave:

wind's primeval voice echoes

from the start of time.

That, I believe is precisely what Durrell understood could be achieved from travelling introspectively, with time and solitude as one's companions. It is achieved through bouts of unmoving contemplation; that splendid quality the Moslems know as kayf. It requires no more than the gentle stretching of the grey cells. However, the reward is immeasurable.

Reggie Tyrwhitt Illustrations

The North Lincolnshire market town of Barton upon Humber has seen many illustrious names over its long and distinguished history. Names such as Isaac Pitman (inventor of Pitman's shorthand), Samuel Wilderspin (pioneer of infant education), Ken Harrison (cartoonist of Desperate Dan fame), and Chad Varah (founder of the Samaritans) are just a few of such illuminaries in the town's annals.

Now, we have another star continuing to keep Barton on Humber firmly on the map as home to men of distinction. Without further ado, allow me to introduce Reggie Tyrwhitt, a man to whom the pencil is but a sixth digit of his right hand; a man who will faithfully portray your family castle (whether it be Georgian townhouse, country retreat, or resplendent folly) in splendid reproductions of lead, ink and watercolour; a man who will capture the idiosyncrasy of your dinner party, the foibles of your shooting party, or the disgrace of your golfing match in less than the time it takes for you to reach for a pencil-sharpener...

Reggie Tyrwhitt, who has the distinction of having exhibited at the Hungerford Gallery, is now available to illustrate (at a very reasonable price) your greetings cards, postcards, book-plates, invitations, menus and letterheads, etc. in a unique style of your choosing.

Take a peak today at his website and start planning your new stationery for 2010!

Reggie Tyrwhitt Illustrations
http://www.reggietyrwhitt-illustrations.co.uk

Now, who do I know who could illustrate my next poetry collection....

Misprint of the Week

The cruise company, P&O, take pride in the presentation of all aspects of their service. However, I thought that the following announcement, printed in the ship's daily newspaper (Horizons) during my recent cruise on Artemis, was taking their concern for the welfare of their passengers just a little too far:

'Lifts
We are pleased to advise that the spare parts for the aft lift has arrived onboard and repairs will commence forthwith. Between now and Barbados all ship's lifts will also undergo survey and safety inspections, which means that all ship's lifts will be subject to interruptions in service from time to time. Every effort will be made to minimise disruption. We apologise for any incontinence caused.'

My imagination keeps conjuring up a picture of passengers attempting to climb the stairs with their legs crossed...

All Things are Relative

Mr Bargewick is not a man known for his sense of humour; at least not by me within the timeframe of the twenty years during which he has been a patient of mine.

I am uncertain as to whether his origins are truly of Lincolnshire descent, or whether, some seventy something years ago, he was hewn out of North Yorkshire limestone and then transported to the territories south of the Humber River. What is very evident is that he doesn't like communicating. Once called from the waiting room, his face assumes the appearance of a foreboding, craggy outcrop of fissured rock. Couple that with his verbal ability to articulate each word as though it was meant to be the first syllable of the next, with the resulting sound drawn out into rambling sentences devoid of punctuation or, indeed, any discernable structure, and all delivered at a volume that makes an earth worm sound positively noisy, and you will start to have some idea of the character of the man I am alluding to.

One thing is for certain: I have never before seen him smile. It took a recent, prolonged cold snap, with snow falling over several days, for me to see that a sense of humour, albeit dour, lay beneath the rugged exterior. However, first I must tell you about the weather.

Like much of the United Kingdom, Lincolnshire has just seen its heaviest snow falls for some thirty years. Over a couple of weeks, each day had seen new layers added to those of previous days, causing considerable inconvenience to everyone, and not least to those living in rural areas. Mr Bargewick is one such person, living in a village six miles from the market town. The fact that he had been able to get to the surgery on time for his appointment was commendable, and I made a suitably appreciative comment.

"Aye," he mumbled. "It's been a long time since we've had such a sharp frost."

Momentarily speechless, I turned to the window, beyond which the wall was surmounted by a layer of snow some six inches thick. Returning my gaze to my patient, I shook my amused head, and replied:

"When I was in Ireland last year and happened to be soaked by a deluge which the locals dismissed as nothing more than a 'slight mist', I thought then that I had heard the best of understatements. However, yours beats that hands down. That, Mr Bargewick," I continued, gesticulating to the view beyond the window, "is six inches of snow...it is not a 'sharp frost'!"

I grinned with incredulity, and an amazing thing happened. Mr Bargewick's face burst into a broad smile and for the first time in twenty years, I heard him give a deep chortle of laughter, as though even he was amused at the dryness of his own wit.

In life, some nuts are harder to crack than others. People are much the same. Some wear their emotions on their sleeves, whilst others have solid defences. It has taken twenty years to find a crack in Mr Bargewick's hard exterior. However, it was definitely worth the wait, as it is unique moments like that which add to the delight of general medical practice.

Epicurea - Our Holiday Apartment in Cyprus

Newly furnished, our apartment in Cyprus is now available for short vacations or for that longer period to escape the English winter!

Idyllically situated in the traditional village of Pissouri, Epicurea is only five minutes drive from Pissouri Bay, and fifteen minutes from two first class golf courses (Aphrodite Hills and The Secret Valley). Photographs of Epicurea and Pissouri can be found at:

www.holidaylettings.co.uk/rentals/pissouri/100324