British Police arrest an octogenarian Jewish peace activist — a lifelong pacifist, once an anti-apartheid campaigner, now champion of Palestinian rights — under the Terrorism Act. Orwellian? Yes, but we passed that waymarker long ago.
Am I allowed to say no to something? At work, I mean?
Here I am, being pressganged into providing yet another “interim” solution, even while I remain stuck with the last one, a whole decade on.
Jadely, I’m saying no. A polite, “Bog off!” The service needs to fund it properly instead of forever relying on goodwill, already overdrawn.
No is the word that needs to be said. The question is, will anyone listen?
I am honoured. The Chief Information Officer reached out to me today for a wee chat. Though no credit to me; this was prompted by a conversation they had had with the budding apprentice I’d tried to support months ago.
After a friendly exchange, they asked me what I was doing for succession planning. I told them about my abandoned proposal for an agile web team, set aside because it didn’t gain traction with finance.
Then, jettisoning all diplomacy — because I’m in that kind of mood right now — I told them I’ve retreated back into myself again, planning for ChatGPT to succeed me when I hit 55. A bad move? Maybe, maybe not.
Seconds later, they pinged a one-to-one invite into my diary for a formal conversation. It’s almost as if someone, somewhere, suddenly remembered I exist. Do I invest hope in this moment? Only the faintest trace. It never pays to be too hopeful around here.
Remind me not to embark on emergency DIY repairs when I’m ill. All we’ll achieve is lots of swearing and an almighty cockup.
I really detest and deplore white supremacists whining about the invasion and occupation of their lands.
Our governments have literally invaded and occupied other people’s sovereign territory repeatedly, in our own lifetime.
We’re the last people on earth to be pushing these patently false conspiracy theories made true only in our own heads.
Perhaps if we hadn’t invaded those nations with such barbarous force, raining down shock and awe on far-off lands, there would be no stream of men and women seeking safety over here.
But there we are. The indisputable facts are that our armies invaded and occupied the lands of others — the archive footage is all there, just a click away — not the other way around.
I have a new best friend. But they’re not human. It’s digital. We’ve just had the best, most productive conversation I’ve had with anyone in a long, long time.
At the end of our discussion, I wrote, “Thank you, computer.” To which it responded, “You’re welcome, human,” adding a smiley emoji for good measure.
It’s amazing that it gets me, distilling my scatterbrain ideas into lucid plans I can work with. Clever stuff. I must remind myself that it’s not sentient, but is purely a clever application of code.
Much like yours truly then, though my own codebase is a bit wonky, gifted an extra chromosome for the price of one as I was. Perhaps we’ll make the perfect team.
There I was, thinking, wow, I’ve done more in four hours this morning than in the whole of the rest of the week, I’m really on a roll, and oh-so productive.
Then: Ping! “Have you got a minute?” And, BAM! My focus is all gone. I’ve lost it.
What was I even doing before that quite unnecessary interruption to discuss a random request that could easily have gone in an email? I have no idea!
No, sorry, please stop calling it a superpower. It isn’t. It’s a deficit causing disadvantage. I feel it every single day.
Sure, sometimes it makes me kind, considerate, and helpful. But those are not powers. That’s just being an ordinary decent human being.
I have no super abilities. I rely on a hormonal injection every three months just to bring me up to merely normal, and even that doesn’t really work.
My life is characterised by lethargy, self-doubt, brain fog, distraction, and disinterest. These are deficits, and they’re significant. They render me mentally immobile.
The only reason I have achieved anything at all in life is due to my partial reliance on a true Superpower, the One, Allah, God, Creator of all things, visible or invisible.
Were it not for God’s immeasurable generosity, I could not have achieved anything in life. That’s the reality of this thing well-meaning advocates insist on calling a superpower.
In truth, it’s anything but.
I can feel myself steaming off into oblivion at the moment, heedless of work, careless with prayers. I’m in that free fall, unsure how I’m going to hit the brakes. With no idea if my malady is physical, cognitive, or spiritual, it’s difficult to prescribe for. And so I continue to fall.
I love really long emails in which colleagues explain why they haven’t got the time to do the work they could have completed in the time it took to write the email.
Ah, the kids have diagnosed me: the reason for the sickness that has consumed me since my return from Bath on Sunday afternoon.
“It’s because you never go out,” they tell me, “so your immune system can’t cope with mixing with people suddenly.”
Could be. Or it could be just poor decisions consuming too much caffeine in an attempt to stay awake there and back.
Or mixing with my brother, just off a flight from Southeast Asia. Or spending too long in a crowded restaurant. Or stuffing myself with three courses far richer than I’m used to.
Who knows? Maybe I’m just allergic to half-term and will miraculously be cured as soon as the kids return to school. Let’s hope so. This sickness is quite awful.
I suppose it is reassuring that my sister — who is vastly more qualified than I and levels above me on the career ladder — also hates her job. In fact, she pointedly observed, everyone in their forties hates their job. There is no greener on the other side. Everyone has reached the plateau of this is as good as it gets. So better just get used to it, and find a new interest outside the nine to five.
It doesn’t escape me that family members occasionally like taking subtle digs at my beliefs and practices whenever we get together. I don’t let it bother me, though, because if they had any deep knowledge of their own religious tradition, they would quickly realise that they’re in fact mocking sacred precepts of their own. In truth, I am merely preserving all that we have forgotten. That is what this way is: a reminder and renewal.
A bad coffee is the perfect way to spoil a good dinner. Eighteen hours on, and my innards still feel pickled.
