Life by a thousand cuts

 Life’s too short for bad photos, true. Still, it’s not always possible to avoid mediocrity.  Take mobile phone cameras, for instance.            Zooming does bad things to pixels and the end result is more of a failed attempt, bravely exhibited. The owl above is such a good example. There it was perching on a cold metal bar, minding its own business. I approached it, mobile at the ready. Took a pic and turned round, in search of other subjects. All of its glorious owlish looks survived on my retina and somewhere between two brain folds. Sorry. 

What an opportunity these days to cure ourselves of the confirmation bias! Sharing the same views with someone else can be a source of comfort.  Too much of it leads to mummification. Naturally, it feels good to be part of a group, it's in our genes. No one would deny that. Apart from families, there is some strong solidarity manifesting itself among people belonging to the same generation or football club.  Does it matter they can have more men than women, or the other way round?  Same as families,  any socially formed  groups are not less of a club or association if one type of chromosome combination is represented in greater numbers.  Or not? On the internet, new types of communities spring up all the time. Gamers, baby boomers, entrepreneurs, real and fake gurus, you name it. Choice is enormous. Do men and women gravitate towards one genre or another? Podcast, video, blog? Lecture or dialogue?  It's hard to say, still early days, but there is one distinct advantage in the n

A latecomer to the Apple fan club, I was quite pleased when they introduced the Face ID feature. I admit enjoyment must have been born out laziness and some other kind of human flaw. Let’s say it is very convenient. Or rather it used to be. All good until the Virus decided  to come and stay. I was just getting used to instant access into my mobile’s world of wonders when face masks became the new norm(al) outside our homes. Fair enough, how about raising the device to my face and realising it now wants a passcode? Embarrassing as it may be, there’s always a chance of not remembering that magic formula straightaway. Disaster always lies in ambush behind a forgotten password. Fortunately, wiser people thought of possible solutions. I have not tried any of them, you can check them yourselves if you carry out a search on Google. I, for myself, have come to the conclusion that I can survive being out and about without a mobile soldered to my hand.  As no one is sure how long the Virus lives

 It's only mid-October, why are diaries and wall calendars already up for grabs?  There must be some inexhaustible demand for these memory aids and planning tools. Old style, of course, printed format. Sure, the present moment can be quite unbearable or just boring. The unknown titillates imagination. Despite later disappointments, a jump into the future fascinates, subjugates and throws open the gates of possibility. Possible is not equal to probable though. People who know the finer details of risk theories can explain the difference in marvellous ways. They also warn against mistaking one for the other. For quite a long time, I have been blind to the fact that what is possible in general can be quite improbable in particular. Day-dreamers will understand. Naive ladies and gentlemen will do too. We have been the ones buying a new diary each year and taking deep pleasure in filling in the first pages. Some of us, the adventurous-type ones, are going further. We write down reminder

  If you read this and you think it's an exercise in self-victimisation, you are so right and you should stop...  at the full stop. You came to this blog to find out something new, insightful and useful when talking to people you need to impress. Did you?  It's very unlikely that anyone would spend any amount of time reading about another inner crisis and how to overcome it in 10 steps. Where is the self-victimisation, you may ask. Hang on a minute, it's round the corner, just needs to be summoned. Let us get Cinderella first, the one and only rags-to-princess story that makes grown-ups, irrespective of gender, fantasise about miracles and chance. Has anyone felt bit Cinderelly while toiling in a very normal existence? Was there any remote possibility of a fairy godmother?  If the answer is no, you have a second opportunity to stop reading, yet again, at the upcoming full stop. What comes next is for Cinderella types, those who dance away the night, but just one night only,

  Picking up litter, piece of cake. Before The Arm's insurrection, of course, and implicit dereliction of duty. A heavy blow to carrying out trivial tasks, like collecting various objects strewn all over the place (personal bad habit) or other people's leftovers (their bad eating habits, irrespective of age). The Arm and its Hand used to be able to pick even tiny bits of paper or specks of dust fluff (but that's another story, the OCD one). Much faster than the vacuum cleaner and instant disposal, true? Now The Arm is just hanging there, apparently recovering, although no traitor should be ever given the benefit of doubt. It has been replaced by a tool mostly seen outdoors, where brave people do their best to keep streets and parks clean by cleaning after lazy people's rubbish. Besides an increased sense of appreciation for cleaners' work, The Grabber comes with an unexpected benefit. It's a focus aid, it trains the eye and the working hand to turn picking up in

Out in the wild, an injured leg or just paw bring about a quick exit from life. Hunting or foraging becomes difficult and soon after the predator turns into prey. Mankind has many flaws but limb injuries don't automatically mean an early death. They just transform living into a quasi-continuous experience of pain combined with sharp bursts of despair. This is even before dropping everything, realizing that lifting a paper towel is pretty hard and stains are the very sign of regression to baby-style eating. No one is totally in love with their body, but there must have always been an amicable relationship with the right arm, if born right-handed. After all, it's there for so many small and big actions. To have that right arm become  a disobedient and quarrelous servant, a traitor in one's own camp, that is so unfair. Double unfair, actually. Firstly, to its twin limb, now forced to do a crash course in tasks previously unknown (yes, wiping is among them). Then it's unfai