Check please

Last weekend I acquiesced to the medical profession’s demand that I acknowledge my age and attend a non-mandatory health check.

Non-mandatory in that I risked being removed from the surgery’s register by dint of not attending it for over 5 years. Not at all to do with money, budgets, etc. No.


I attended and had my lifestyle (sniggers, wishing I could afford one) dissected, my height and weight and blood pressure checked, and a sample of blood taken. As I left I was informed that if the blood sample yielded nothing untoward I could look forward to a reminder to visit again in five years.

Today I received a letter asking me to ring the surgery as there’s a ‘routine message on their screen’. That’s it. Now I’m guessing my cholesterol is a bit high, as it was the last time it was checked, and high in common with most with my activity levels and dietary intake. But why not tell me in the letter, instead of wasting my time again?

Sure I’m being ungrateful for the chance to improve my quality of life, or maybe increase the life expectancy itself. It just seems such a waste having me ring and speak to someone, i.e. not a doctor, but someone who I don’t really want to know anything about my health. It’s private matter between me and a doctor, right?

And anyone who reads this.

Anyway, one good thing to come out of this, the bathroom scales are indeed accurate, damnit; and I’ve lost a little weight in the months prior to #Movember 2016 - in which I’m not participating, at least not in the, blokish, laddish, growing face fuzz manner.

No, I’m starting in earnest the process of looking after myself.

Just like last year. Last year I lost a few pounds, from a weight at which I felt a little uncomfortable. A weight from which I’m only a few pounds down again now.

Ah well, onwards and upw, er… downwards!


A recent study concluded you’re more likely to meet your premature end run over by a driver of an expensive car than despatched by someone driving a shed.*

The driver of a posh car will have reached a station in life at which they’ve forgotten simple things like not roaring through red lights, not blocking pavements, not emerging from behind parked vehicles and forcing others to take evasive measures.

In short the average Audi driver is a selfish arse, believing themselves entitled by their financial outlay or company lease arrangement to impose their presence on other road and pavement/sidewalk users.

This of course applies to owners of other posh marques, but it’s Audi’s turn in the actinic glare from the spotlight of my disapproval right now.

I’m not going to catalogue every incident, let’s just say that I’m confirming Audi have taken over from BMW in my little black Book of Bastards.

This morning the very best incident though was a car in queuing, inching, traffic; its driver obviously not paying attention as the car weaved over the line I was attempting to avoid crossing. I thought ‘phone’ but I was wrong. By the time I drew level with the blonde airhead I could see her rummaging in her make-up bag, presumably looking for just the right grade of brush. The temptation to wind my window down, to ask that she get up 20 minutes earlier to complete her task as she obviously needed the extra time… well, the urge subsided quickly.

Driving a black Vauxhall executive thing though. Ah, perhaps I need to start another book?

*A British term for a motor vehicle which has seen better days.


After breakfast today the girls and I went to the cinema; we watched ‘Storks’ and I cried at the end.

I got involved with the characters, had my sense of disbelief well-and-truly suspended, so yes, of course I cried. I cry at every children’s movie we go to see. Whilst I can’t remember crying at ‘Cars’ there’s every possibility I did.

Thus, the movie ‘Storks’ easily gains Baz’s Seal of Approval.


My oldest daughter skipped into Brownies this evening. Most encouraging, if you know her.

Chatting briefly with one of the mothers I came to the realisation something is missing from my life. Now, I can ride a bike; I can, I’d presume, fall off a log (and sleep like one.)

Skipping. I tried to, briefly, but it wasn’t pretty… I have completely forgotten how to skip.

I need to practise. At work during lunchtime, perhaps? Along the road I live on? No.

Taking the girls into school, across the playground? At my age?

Mass debate

The Internet is aghast at the news that during the US Presidential debates the moderator will not be allowed to fact-check the candidates in real time.

Given the power, scope, breadth, whatever, of the resources available to today’s media, surely its not beyond the programme makers to create some flashy graphics to indicate the truthfulness of each speaker’s assertions? In real time.

Facing facts, if they know it’s going to happen, it’ll keep the speakers honest, that’s honest in a very real sense.

But would it be POPULAR television; will viewers tune in expecting a gladiatorial contest of epic proportions - or a showman muzzled by a need to stick to just the facts?

What would YOU rather watch?

There’s a more important issue at stake here than flashy, exciting TV: if the debates are to be held at all, allowing the participants to say whatever they like, without any form of independent scrutiny, I have to ask what’s the point?

Yes I do believe Donald Trump is an arse, a serial repeater of things so ridiculous that would ordinarily be laughed down, but which in this instance will be allowed to stand.

History will judge these things, but it’s a shame they’ll be allowed to shape it.