A couple of days ago I was out walking the dog. We were on a main road, heading towards the meadows where I usually let her off-lead to chase sticks. And we found a slightly hysterical woman with two small dogs and a toddler. The reason for her hysteria was that her toddler had just tried to pick something up off the ground, and then she’d seen what it was: someone’s shooting-up kit – a couple of used syringes, one with a needle that looked like the end of it had been seared with a cigarette lighter or something.
Yes, of course there are places where heroin users leave their old needles and such, but it doesn’t happen round here – or at least that’s the first one I’ve come across in a couple of years of living here. And the neon green of the plunger inside the syringe did make it the kind of thing a toddler could be attracted by.
Long story short: since I have a dog, I carry plastic bags with me. So I carefully picked up the kit without touching it, took it home and found a tin to put it in so I could safely carry it for disposal. But yesterday, disposal was surprisingly difficult. The local pharmacy said, disingeuously I thought, that they don’t have sharps disposal. I can’t imagine why any pharmacy shouldn’t have sharps disposal since they issue and accept needles for people who have a range of medical conditions. My doctor’s surgery did take it, but only after I explained the whole situation to them and they finally accepted that removing a used needle from a public place where a toddler had been at imminent risk and other people and dogs could hurt themselves on it wasn’t an unreasonable thing to do.
Then I asked what I should have done. Their reply was that I should phone the local council street cleaning department, identify the location to them and they’d send out someone with a sharps box and armoured gloves. But it might take a day or two. My thought was that in that time, either someone else (or a dog) could injure themselves on it, or it could just get kicked around by careless passers-by and be lost.
It wasn’t so long ago that advice on finding used needles was to do pretty much what I did; pick it up safely and dispose of it at any pharmacy, surgery, or any other place that had a sharps disposal facility. True, I initially picked it up and carried it in a plastic bag – in an ideal world I would have had something more secure, like a plastic or metal container, though it was in one of those within a couple of hundred metres.
I’ve just checked online and the current official advice is, actually, what the surgery said: not touch it and inform the local council’s street cleaning or waste management team. I can see the logic of this in terms of health and safety for the person finding the needle; and I guess any council that says ‘Just pick it up safely’ could open themselves up to legal action. But this seems to be a situation where doing the ‘right’ thing also seems to create risk for other people in the meantime. It seems to be a small example of the way everyone is increasingly treated as incautious infants rather than responsible adults who can recognise and deal adequately with risks at their own discretion.
We recently bought a new campervan – well, not exactly new, it’s almost 20 years old. So we decided to sell our old one, which is smaller and now 10 years old.
This has resulted in a string of people turning up to look at it.
This has become rather tedious, because according to the visitors it has severe rust (yes, it has some but it’s cosmetic). It also has severely corroded brakes, a master brake valve that’s leaking (the ‘evidence’ is there’s some oldish insulation on it), a broken suspension, illegal tyres (they’ve all been replaced recently), and numerous other major faults including the plastic end caps on the side body trim – which cost about 70p or $1 each – being too old. Oh, and someone told us in all seriousness that the wheels are ‘too round’.
About two-thirds of the people who’ve turned up only want to use it to do ‘fishing trips’. What they want to use it for doesn’t really matter to us; and it doesn’t explain why when a pair of them turn up they discuss how much profit they can make when they resell it. Nor does it jive well with them having trade plates in the back of their car, which are only used by motor traders.
Some have tried to bargain on the basis that it will cost them money to take it to a garage to get X, Y and Z fixed. But then they let slip that actually they are mechanics.
Several have claimed to only be passing through, and live 50 or more miles away. They make a one-time offer based on the fact they won’t be passing by our door again. So why are they driving a company van that usually has a local business name and phone number on it?
One went as far as claiming the inside of the van was damp and would take major repair. He ‘proved’ this by bringing a ‘damp meter’ out of his car and showing us the needle flicking into the red when he touched probes to some interior metalwork. It spoiled the illusion that the gauge on the meter went to 12 volts – in other words it was just an electrical multimeter that demonstrates metal can conduct electricity, and he wouldn’t take his hand off the front of the meter to show it to us.
So my conclusion is there are a lot of people out there prepared to lie and some who will play tricks to try to get things cheap. Which is not, I suppose, a very earth-shattering insight. I’m not any more cynical now than I was before (I always was cynical) but the experience of having to deal with this stuff on a daily basis for the last couple of weeks has proven just a little wearing. I’m just glad I don’t buy and sell old vehicles for a living, and I don’t have to get used to it as a long-term issue. Even though we still need to sell the van.
I’ve had a number of conversations recently that have revolved around the following kind of scenario and problem.
You’re a writer – or musician, or artist, or any other sort of creative person. You do your thing and you want to make money from it. Ideally, quite a lot of money. But you don’t have a clue how you’re going to achieve it. How do you get people to take notice? How do you get people to buy what you’re selling?
Well, don’t ask me – I’m hardly a model of commercial success. But here are some random thoughts.
When you first look at your situation, what probably strikes you is that it’s chaotic. I don’t have a formal definition of chaos to offer, beyond the usual one of events appearing so unpredictable as to appear random with no obvious structure or organising principle. The second thing that probably strikes you is that to get from where you are to where you want to be, there are few obvious ways forward – and they’re all impossible and blocked. Whatever you do is likely to have unknown, but probably minimal, effects. It’s difficult to read the situation in any constructive way that gives you a sensible plan.
It’s likely you’ll feel the normal advice you’ll get about how to get people to pay attention and part with money – marketing, SEO, social media – just doesn’t stack up. You haven’t got the kind of money, time or expertise that sort of marketing requires. You haven’t got the ‘social mass’ of a million Facebook friends (or even a dozen followers on Twitter) to get more people to gravitate towards you. And you don’t believe the promises of people who say they can get you high up in Google rankings, either.
[There is, incidentally, a whole literature on marketing with social media. One thing that stands out for me are is that much of it is about creating effects at the margins, so it's only useful to large companies - a 5% increase in clickthroughs on web advertising is worth something if you have a zillion ads being viewed a day, but not if you're looking for people to click a link from a blog that gets three viewers a day. And anyway, the major social networks are mostly rejigging their search algorithms to favour their big business advertisers.]
What’s next? Well, society isn’t ‘chaotic’ in any formal sense of the term. But functionally it is, from your point of view. In terms of cause and effect, you don’t even know if you have any levers available to pull or buttons to push, let alone what effects they could create. And you don’t know how the world is going to look in a week’s time, let alone a year’s time.
Business planning often revolves around identifying a goal, scanning the environment to assess your strengths and weakness, and for opportunities and threats. Then you identify ‘unknowns’ and seek to find out more about them, so you can set up contingency plans and mitigation plans.
But often this process falls at the first hurdle, because you can’t positively identify how or when something you think of as a strength might become a weakness, or vice versa; you may not be able to determine whether something is an opportunity or a threat (or both), and you can be pretty sure that whatever contingency plans you have, the contingency that actually arises will be one that won’t be covered.
For example, how many businesses have planned for the impact of contact with an alien species? And yet if you look at the World Economic Forum 2013 report on global risks, which summarises the views of over 1,000 risk analysis experts, it identifies several ‘X factors’ – important risks with unknown consequences. They include runaway climate change, significant cognitive enhancement, rogue deployment of geoengineering, the costs of living longer and the discovery of alien life forms. None of these things can be ‘risk managed’ or mitigated by any organisation operating alone, and I wonder how many religious leaders have seriously considered what their stance would be on first contact with an alien race, and how they would advise their followers and how their followers would react – and what the global consequences of the religious issues alone would be.
Under these circumstances, how is it possible to make chaos work for you? The short answer is that you can’t, in any direct way. But you can learn how to enjoy the ride.
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I was watching TV last night, a crime thriller, and there was some dialogue that reminded me of something that happened probably 25 years ago.
The plot involved someone visiting a prison and coming out saying ‘I’ve met my first murderer’. But 25 years ago I was occasionally involved in taking groups of students on prison visits. I can’t remember which prison we’d been to, but it held some lifers and we had a group discussion with some of them.
When we left after the session one of the students said exactly that to me: ‘So now I’ve met my first murderer.’
And my response was ‘How would you know that?’.
Because logically speaking, all she could say was that she’d met her first convicted and incarcerated murderer.
At some point I may use that as a detail in a story, when I get enough of my ‘day job’ writing done that I can get back into writing fiction.
I’ve just been reading some news articles about ‘useless’ degrees. They include a two-year foundation degree in heavy metal (the music, that is) at New College Nottingham, a BA in Comedy Studies (though technically it appears to be listed as a BA in ‘Performance’), Enigmatology (i.e. puzzle setting and solving – however only one person ever graduated from the one course offered, by Indiana University in the 1970s), and assorted qualifications in areas such as puppetry, parapsychology and Viking re-enactment.
The thing I’ve been asking myself is this: in the 1980s, Thatcherite policies demanded that degrees should be ‘relevant’ to career choices and employers’ demands for skills. Various degree courses disappeared, for example language degrees in Farsi and some African languages – ironically enough leading to later problems within the intelligence community when groups speaking some of these languages came to be considered as security threats.
However, the current spread of ‘weird’ degrees isn’t all that strange. We live in a knowledge-based economy and in the UK at least, much of our economic output comprises cultural rather than physical goods. So having a supply of graduates with specific expertise in science fiction, horror, comedy, different genres of music and all the rest is very likely a good and useful thing for the economy as a whole, in addition to the ‘generic’ skills they offer in terms of academic research and practice, and the interests they offer for students. Of course these things don’t need to be learned through degree type studies, there are many other forms of learning. But there’s also no reason why they shouldn’t be degree studies if enough people want to learn in that format.
And if that isn’t a good enough argument, bear in mind that the University of Derby’s MA in Horror and Transgression, which covers diverse forms of film and literature alongside the works of writers such as Nietzsche, Bataille, Foucault, Kristeva, and Deleuze, and transgressive writers such as Burroughs, Ballard and Burgess, lists a number of possible post degree careers. Among these is public service administration. Which is as clear a sign as I can think of about what the experience of public service administration will actually be like in the future.
[Edited to add: of course there will always be a need for degrees in traditional subjects - medicine, engineering, maths, history, biology, languages, computing and the rest. But consider the needs of, say, a computer gaming company or a movie production company that needs to find a new and credible way to develop a fantasy, scifi or horror conceptual world. Consider the needs of, in fact, almost any company looking for its 'next big thing'. The people with the design and production skills, etc., are clearly necessary to that process. Some of them may even need to make puppets, re-enact Viking dramas, tell good jokes or write and perform music to get to the point at which a product is made and marketed. But no product does well unless it links with human fantasies. Successful products also need their dreamers. Postmodernity (are we still in a 'postmodern society'?) has sometimes been described as the society in which the old modernist order of narratives has been corrupted, and that's a reasonable if overly general assessment. But that makes the ability to weave old narratives and create new ones all the more significant in contemporary society. Hence the need for studies that appear niche, marginal, or just plain odd.]