Lies, damn lies ...

Phil's home-made Market Harborough pie

... and statistics.

The latest scare being the shock news that eating the odd bacon sarnie will render you 19% more likely to die of pancreatic cancer.

Bollocks. 19% of what? Well an increase of 19% over and above what it would be if you never ate bacon. This provokes two questions:

1) How did the "researchers" ensure that their control group had never touched a bacon roll or pork pie?

2) The base risk of contracting pancreatic cancer is infinitesimal until you are into your seventh decade, when it rises to (wait for it) around 0.75% - tops.

19% of 0.75 is 0.14%. So eating red meat, pork pies and enjoying a bacon buttie is increasing your risk overall, not by 19%, but by 0.14%. One might argue that such a small difference falls within the margins of error that any survey has. Not so dramatic now, is it?

A typical health scare

Doesn't make for an arresting headline either.

Burrowing a little deeper we begin to find the truth - the "study" was nothing of the sort. It was in fact an analysis of other people's research which may well have been looking at other factors and with differing controls and standards. From the Independent:

They analysed 11 studies involving over 6,000 people with pancreatic cancer. The results showed red meat consumption also increased the risk of the cancer for men by 29 per cent for each daily serving of 120 grams. But there was no significant increase in risk for women, raising doubts about the robustness of the finding.

I suspect that the researchers are more concerned about the robustness of their funding than their finding - note that they analysed 11 studies by others, not their own. No doubt they will now obtain the funds to embark on a long and fruitful study of their very own.

Cynic - moi?

Not really. As what the press would term a "cancer survivor" myself I am all for good solid research - but I am also all for honest presentation of the facts. It is regrettable that researchers feel compelled to present their findings in such sensationalist terms to get the backing that they need. This sort of misrepresentation of the real facts can sometimes get out of hand and destroy people's livelihoods. I bet our local butchers, pig and beef farmers loved it - not.

And if you think I'm over-egging this point, cast your mind back to another case of over-egging by Edwina Currie. That destroyed many egg producers almost overnight, both feathered and human.

Crash Bang Wallop

Is this in your rucksack?

The importance of carrying a first aid kit was brought home to Miss W with a wallop last week. Ever since Alan Sloman's unfortunate brush with a barbed wire fence, I have made a point of carrying a first aid kit on even the most unchallenging outing. And what could be more unchallenging than a walk along the beach for a picnic on a sunny day?

We never made it to the beach.

Crossing the A149 at Snettisham for a pleasant stroll through the woods to the seaside, Miss W's foot got stuck in a catseye - or rather the deep hole where a catseye had once been - and pivoting on the jammed foot she hurtled face first onto the tarmac without time to put up a shielding arm.

Fortunately the oncoming traffic was far enough away to slow down and enable me to escort the shocked and bleeding patient to the side of the road. We sat down in the woods to assess the damage.

Right knee with two deep gashes. Elbows gashed and grazed. Chin cut and bleeding as was her nose (fortunately not broken) and a piece of gravel had perforated the skin above her top lip, meeting her teeth coming the other way.

Blood pouring everywhere.

Amazingly the little Lifesystems Trek first aid kit had everything that I needed to patch up the patient (I had added some swabs, low contact dressings and plastic tape) and she insisted that we continue on a much curtailed walk to "stop things seizing up". Before long though I guided a very stiff and slightly wobbly Miss W back to the car, where she was horrified to see the full extent of the damage.

So, the first lesson learned - or rather confirmed. Accidents usually happen in the most mundane circumstances, so keep a first aid kit in the pack and in the car. You never know when it will be needed.

 The second lesson is that bruising and swelling gets worse before it gets better, and if you're out with a girl who looks as though she has just had a severe beating, be prepared for some dark looks cast in your direction.

I'm thinking of getting a T shirt printed, "It Wasn't Me!"

Stone Free

I've not written much recently, mainly because I've not been out and about as much as usual. The reason has been a few months constant nagging pain under the ribs interspersed with a few eye watering nights of absolute agony. Having recently got over surgery, radiotherapy and drug treatment for prostate cancer, the onset of these symptoms was slightly worrying. Was there something unwanted in there?

I didn't really want to know.

However, a visit to the Doc produced a cheery diagnosis.
"Gallstones", he said. "Pop along to the hospital and have a blood test and scan to make sure, but gallstones are what they'll find, I'm sure".

And so they did, and before you could say "knife" (ha ha) I was having a chat with a surgeon.

"Oh, we'll have that out in no time - very straightforward"
"Er, have what out exactly?"
"Your gall bladder. No need for it. You won't miss it"
"Um ... surely it's there for a reason ... ?"
"Concentrates the bile"
"That accounts for a lot", snorted Miss W.
"It only takes 40 minutes - you can come in the morning and be back home in time for tea if all goes well".
"Will I be able to eat pork pies again?"
"Not what a dietician would recommend, but yes. Anything you like really".

He was as good as his word. I arrived at the Day Surgery unit at 8.00, and by 1.30 Miss W was whisking me home and complaining that my early discharge had interrupted her lunch. She never finished it anyway, being rather put off when I produced the jar of stones that the surgeon had given me as a souvenir.

The rest of the treatment has simply been a week or two taking it easy. I'm not that good at taking it easy, so Miss W directed me to take my cue from the Doodlecat, for whom relaxation is an art. "Join him on the settee", she said. One of the leaflets "Natural pain relief" recommended distraction therapy, and one of the distractions was 'stroking a pet'. I don't know what idiot wrote that leaflet, but 15lb of solid cat leaping onto a perforated tum and giving it a good kneading does NOT take your mind off it!

Let's face it, the Doodlecat is quite a large cat - in fact the settee in my office scarcely accommodates him. However, his example of how to relax cannot be faulted, so I have spent a few days in a similar pose (on my own settee as I got attacked trying to share his).

I have now been out for a few short walks, and I'm pleased to report that all the internal bits and pieces have settled down nicely, despite the Doodlecat's best efforts at rearranging them. Plus, during my enforced 'no fat' diet whilst waiting for the op, I've lost 10lbs! Now weighing in at a sylph-like 11st 10lb, though I fear that the yummy pies and cheese butties are swiftly undoing the good work there. I need to get out for a bit of exercise.

Firstly a few local expeditions with the dogs (we do volunteer dog walking for a charity) and then I'll be ready for a proper day out. I rather liked Llangollen, so it looks like I'll be headed there again before long, especially now there's a bit more daylight to play with.

But the best part of the whole thing is being back to pain free consumption of pies and pastries - washed down with the odd healthy fat-free ale of course.

Yum yum ... burp.

Status Anxiety and how to avoid it.

"What do you get out of it?". I suppose we've all been asked that question by people who cannot understand the appeal of nights alone in the hills, and whatever answer you might give, the chances are that they will remain unenlightened. For some of us it's to find that small part of ourselves that is easily smothered in the hurly burly of what passes for life. Call it what you will - soul if you must - but without it we are surely diminished.

I guess it must have been ten or twelve years ago, when things were really on the up and up and buying a new car or whatever was a matter of writing a cheque, that I realised that life had somehow become pretty miserable. I was putting in overlong hours and dealing with difficult people for much of the time. Still I carried on. Money and ambition are curious things and cause us to behave in curious ways – good and bad. Yes, they can drive us on to achieve great things and improve our lives. But the compulsion to succeed can also drive us slightly mad.

I went slightly mad.

The only periods of sanity were when I went up to Scotland on the sleeper to go backpacking for a few glorious, liberating days. Taking part in the TGO Challenge was just fantastic – two weeks of freedom from the fax, email and phone (I told the office that none of these worked in the Highlands. I didn’t tell them that they didn’t work because all the devices were switched off and in a drawer at home).

I loved backpacking, especially the enforced egalitarianism of having nothing but what you can carry. No matter how much money you might have, you can only carry so much stuff. In fact, carrying too much is likely to provoke ridicule – quite the reverse of ‘normal life’ where the main point of toil, beyond survival, is the accumulation and display of as much stuff as possible.

Gradually, gradually, walking changed my life. Five years ago I disposed of my company and you could say I retired. The truth is that I just stepped off the treadmill for a while and (so far) have never felt the urge to get on it again, although I do the odd job to keep ticking along.  I soon discovered that living simply isn’t terribly expensive and is vastly more pleasurable.

Now, at this point it might appear that I’m about to say that I’ve become a monk, wear a hair shirt and eat berries and roots gathered from the woods. Not so. In my work I still like to excel, and, as anyone who knows me is well aware, I love my luxuries and take great pleasure from them. The difference lies in being able to distinguish between personal luxuries and status symbols.

The breakthrough for me was the realisation that the pleasure gained from acquiring some expensive gewgaw tended not to add greatly to my stock of satisfaction and happiness – at least not after the first rush of delight. So I just stopped pursuing them. Miss W is of a similar mind. In fact she got there before me. And many people that I meet when I amble across Scotland on the TGOC are seemingly made this way.

Comfortable in their own skin.

Beyond the basics (food, shelter, security, sex) many people are driven not by personal goals but by the craving for high social status, whether merited or not. If one can’t acquire genuine status and respect, then the next best thing is to acquire the badges of status. This, no doubt, is why so many run up huge debts just to parade around in designer labels, drive expensive cars and mortgage their grannies to buy unaffordable houses filled with plasma televisions and the like. Lives dominated by the fleeting triumph of having the latest must have, and the misery of envy as a friend or colleague trumps them.

“It may be tempting to laugh at those afflicted by urgent cravings for the symbols of status: the name droppers, the gold tap owners. … Rather than a tale of greed, the history of luxury could be more accurately read as a record of emotional trauma. It is the legacy of those who have felt pressured by the disdain of others to add an extraordinary amount to their bare selves in order to signal that they too may lay a claim to love”

Alain de Botton.

That's Status Anxiety. We've all suffered from it from time to time and Alain de Botton analyses the angst that this condition provokes. I read his book shortly after my own period of readjustment and thoroughly enjoyed it. For a book by a philosopher it is remarkably readable, and neatly points up the diminishing returns of increasing wealth. It won’t change your life, but it may make you think about it ...

... and maybe understand why the people you see inside the most expensive cars always seem to look so damn miserable!

Walking The Robotic

Since my operation on Friday I haven't got out much (not surprising after being hung upside down and disembowelled for six hours). Thanks to everyone for the good wishes, emails, cards and phone calls. They gave me a real boost. I'm pleased to report that recovery continues well.

I was out of hospital on Saturday afternoon, less than 24 hours after being delivered back to the ward. Having been monitored through the night, the drips were removed on Saturday morning. By 9.00am I was sitting in a chair and at 10.00am a nurse came to assist me to walk the length of the main ward.

"I'm just walking the robotic" she said to a colleague

"That's a bit impersonal" said I.

"You guys are in for such a short time that we never remember names", she smiled. "So we always call our DaVinci patient 'the robotic', and everyone knows who we're talking about"

She then told me that once I managed ten lengths of the ward on my own, the doctors would discharge me. So after a bit of a rest and a light lunch, off I toddled, and by 3.30 pm I was out. My old mate Alan Sloman rolled up in his limousine to whisk me home, feeling bruised and battered but very relieved!

Phil at the old chicken hut

The first couple of days were a bit uncomfortable, and I get tired very quickly. Although 'minimally invasive' this is quite a major op after all, so that's not surprising. However, Miss Whiplash got me out for a slow stagger to the post box the day after my return, and the next day a bit further. Gradually the soreness is easing off, and yesterday she drove me to our local country park and we did almost a mile to the old chicken hut and back.

Miss W intends to have me 'hill fit' for Christmas, and ready for her TGO Challenge training regime (brace yourself, Sloman) by the end of January, so plenty of outings in the pipeline. Me? I can't wait.

It's good to be back!