FOWC with Fandango

I just read a post and it led me to this article, which I’m reposting.

I’ve never looked at Christine’s work before, but this is a very heartfelt post written in response to yet another school shooting in the USA. I’m kinda done with heartfelt – people keep expressing heartfelt condolences, but there aren’t even attempts by senior politicians to improve the situation, and the shootings just continue to happen on a regular basis. I’d like to hone in, though, on just one sentence in Christine’s post. Can we find a way to keep guns out of the hands of the wrong people?

I’d like to take a step back and ask, How do we know who are the right people, and who are the wrong people?

Sure, we can get an idea. Probably. We can do background checks. But the trouble is, these are checks on a person’s past, not their future. Put simply, I don’t think we can know right and wrong people. Not 100%. Who knows? I could be a wrong person, it’s just that nothing ever happened yet to tip me over the edge. So, I’d argue that you can’t tell the difference between right people and wrong people.

And this is where I differ from many of my American friends – you need to remove the guns from all people, period.

Okay, doing that will not be easy. If you ask me, it has to start with steps to reform your politics – probably legal steps, not just political willpower, but nothing at all to do with guns. But if your end-game is to get rid of guns altogether, you need to think back four or five moves.

One problem I never managed to think through was how you get existing guns away from people. I’m not convinced a buyback would work. People who own guns often have them for ideological reasons – because they have the god-given right to own a gun – so I’m not sure a few dollars would make any difference. On that one, I’m afraid, the USA is on its own, but should probably prepare for more bloodshed.

Stine Writing

can

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Can you believe that there was another shooting? Can you believe there have been 44 school shootings just this year? Can you even try to find a reason as to why this continues to happen? Can you imagine what these people are going through? Can you feel the pain they feel? Can you feel how scared they are? Can you think of a way to stop this? Can you make any sense of this? Can you find a way to keep others safe? Can our kids go to school and be safe? Can we go to work and be safe? Can we find a way to keep guns out of the hands of the wrong people? Can we work together to find a solution? Can we try to help the people who are so sick? Can we just stop this violence? Can I do something? Can you do…

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Fandango’s Friday Flashback (15 November 2019)

Yay, it is Friday, which can only mean one thing, Fandango’s Friday Flashback.

It took a bit of searching to pick a post today, for the simple reason that I had several to choose from! That’s where this prompt is so useful to me – I can look back at previous posts, and see the things I was blogging about back then. There are definite trends. Last year, it was very job-oriented, as I’d been looking for about a month and I discussed my initial impressions of the job market quite a bit. Two years ago, I was more into my voluntary work, I wasn’t thinking about getting back to work just yet. Yesterday…well, probably the less said about socks, the better!

This post is about a training session at the local hospital, which I posted about two years ago today. The training course was internal, arranged for hospital staff. They had some spare places, and because I volunteer on the ward, they invited me.

Fine in theory, but when I got there, I met with jobsworth bureaucracy and was messed around, as I describe in the post. The feelings of that day still linger – I know the staff much better now but because of this encounter, if anybody mentions training, something which involves me having to put myself out by just having to get somewhere at a certain time, it is a polite no, thank you. Once bitten, twice shy.

Incidentally, I still visit the hospital, because I think it is important that patients, and particularly relatives, see that it is possible to get some semblance of your old life back.

Stroke Survivor

The Stroke Association had organised for me to attend a trainig session yesterday, one of those mostly-internal things organised by the local hospital, mainly for ward staff. On the subject of aphasia, the difficulty experienced by some stroek survivors in terms of speech (and, I learned, in terms of muddling up what is heard).

I was aware that I was primarily a guest on the course, and it was a subject I’d like to know more about, so I was happy to be quite flexible to get onto the course, to the point of paying for myself to get up to the hospital (too early to use my pass). It’s the kind of thing that I can embrace as a one-off, but not really something that I want to make a habit of.

Anyway I got to the designated location a good fifteen or twenty minutes early, only to be…

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Odd

I’ve been out these last few days, so took the opportunity today to catch up on some laundry. I’m quite lucky these days in that I get through sufficiently few clothes, I can get by with a launder every couple of weeks.

My bedsheet was a bit smelly, so I decided to wash that today too. So to do that I had to strip the bed. Ironically, I use the bed as a dumping-ground for freshly-laundered clothes. Sometimes the clothes are put away but I generally gave up on anything fancy-ass after the stroke. For the same reason, I don’t iron. Have you ever tried ironing one-handed? If someone looks at me and thinks dishevelled, well, that’s their problem, not mine. The people who know me, they understand.

Anyway, in order to strip the bed, I first have to divest if of its pile of clean washing. In amongst which, there are three odd socks. WTF?

When a pair of socks is dirty, it goes into the laundry basket. As a pair. Come wash day, everything gets lifted from the laundry basket into the washing machine. I check, the basket is empty. Then on into the tumble dryer (even if I could hang stuff out, not in November!). Then, several hours later, onto the bed. Each time, I check the trail, Nothing. And yet there are three bloody odd socks on the bed!

Now I could put this down to stroke. Quite plausibly, my eyes aren’t so good any more. But my wife says the same thing happens to her, and her eyesight is good.

The only thing is that I can never remember this happening before the stroke. I laundered for years, and don’t remember losing a thing!

So I’m sitting here in one grey and one blue sock. Well, I’m not going to throw the bloody things away, am I? I’m just dreading tomorrow – one of my feet will be freezing! And, I’ve concluded that some sadistic sod has started stealing our socks! Come on, own up, it isn’t YOU, is it?