The precautionary principle, that proposed changes should not be implemented unless it has been demonstrated that they will lead to improvement, has become a mantra of modern decision making, ranging from scientific and environmental developments to organisational management. In the context of climate change, Softest Pawn argues that it wrongly applied and flawed in any case. I don't agree in detail, but it has become such a commonplace that it is worth exploring some more conceptual aspects of the way it is used.
It assumes that the situation is stable
If the choice is change or no change, it is reasonable that the case for change should be robust. But in many contexts, this is not the choice being faced - rather it is change A or change B, or change a little or change a lot. The PP is no help here - the competing arguments must be considered on their merits.
It assumes that the current situation is acceptable
If the current solution is not resulting in the desired outcomes, then there is no reason to prefer it to changes which may offer better outcomes.
It assumes that timing is not critical
The PP is basically a holding position - the case for change requires more evidence or study, after which the question can be revisited. If the change is time-critical, the opportunity may have gone.
It assumes that the effects of both choices can be predicted
Sometimes they can't, or not accurately, in which case deciding which is 'safest' becomes problematic.
It places the burden of proof on change
A higher level of evidence may be demanded for change than for stability, illogically.
It arbitrarily favours the current situation
Because greater effort is required to initiate change A, judgement is balanced in favour of the status quo (B) - but if the situations were reversed, then option A would be preferred on the same evidence.
So the next time someone says 'better not do anything, to be on the safe side' you may well be able to argue that this is not the safe side at all.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sinners, all: short story
Kaz untied her apron and handed the till keys over to Tim.
‘It’s been quiet this afternoon,’ she said, nodding at the loners and couples scattered around the bar.
‘Maybe it’ll pick up,’ replied Tim in Antipodean optimism.
‘Maybe,’ said Kaz, doubtfully, ‘See ya!’
Tim wiped down the counter, glancing up at the TV screen showing a music video channel.
At a corner table, two men were drinking coffee. The tabletop’s accumulation of used crockery showed that they’d been there for a while. The two were of similar age: well-preserved late middle age, but were otherwise contrasted in appearance. One had a rosy face framed by bushy white hair and beard; the other was tanned, with a neat goatee beard, short black hair, and inquisitive eyes, the last effect heightened by a habitually-arched eyebrow.
‘What about sin, then, the Cardinal Sins?’ asked the man with the black beard, in the easy tone of a friendly argument long continued.
‘People get mixed up,’ replied the man with the white beard. ‘Cardinal Sin’s quite a precise and obscure theological concept. I don’t think anyone said they were supposed to be of universal application.’
‘But you’re cheating again – you always say things like that when you’re cornered.’
White Beard shook his head and wordlelly held up his empty cup.
‘More coffee?’ asked Black Beard. ‘Or is it time to move onto stringer stuff?’
‘Perhaps a malt whisky, thanks.’
Black Beard walked up to the bar. Tim was scowling up at the screen.
‘Shoulda been me!’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyway, what can I get you?’
Black Beard navigated the laden tray back to the table.
‘Envy’s still going strong,’ he said.
‘That’s not the point,’ said White Beard. ‘Sure, people commit sins, but they’re not defined by them. They can always choose to be better people.’
Black Beard surveyed the room. ‘What about this lot? I bet they’re all stuck by habit into selfishness.’
White Beard leaned forward. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
Black Beard offered his hand. ‘Shake on it, then.’
‘The usual stake?’ asked White Beard, solemnly.
‘It’s a deal.’
They sat sipping their drinks, waiting for something to happen.
The door was pushed open abruptly. A man in shirtsleeves rushed in breathlessly. ‘Can you help me?’ he asked the room generally, ‘there’s someone collapsed outside.’
A couple of the drinkers stood up and accompanied him out, returning a little later burdened by the body of a tramp, his clothes stained with mud and reeking of the street. They laid him on the floor, while onlookers cleared a space around him. Coats were offered as pillows or blankets.
‘I’m a taxi driver,’ the first man explained, ‘I saw him collapse on the pavement. Is anyone here a doctor?’
Heads were shaken firmly. After a pause, someone spoke up. ‘I’m a first aider,’ he said, coming forward and kneeling down to check the tramp’s pulse.
‘Hi. I’m Michael. Can you hear me? What’s your name?’
His eyes opened briefly. ‘Harry,’ he coughed.
Michael looked up. ‘Call an ambulance – he’s in a bad way.’ Mobile phones were brandished at once.
Harry’s eyes flickered and closed, and his breathing grew more laboured. ‘He’s arresting, I think,’ said Peter. ‘We’re going to need to do CPR.’
By now, most of the patrons had gathered round, offering help, advice, or just commentary. Peter recruited a couple of them to assist in the rotations of breathing and chest compressions.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedic took over, efficiently collecting the victim.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked someone.
‘No thanks, we’ve got him now,’ the paramedic replied, closing the door and heading off, siren screaming.
Now that the drama was over, people seemed embarrassed, and soon most had gone.
‘All right, there’s quite a few helpful people here’, said Black Beard, ‘but what about the barman?’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said White Beard.
“What did you mean earlier,’ Black Bear asked Tim, ‘when you said it should have been you?’
Tim took some time to think back before the tramp’s intrusion.
‘Oh, that. That lucky bugger on the video was at school with me – now he’s a big star, rolling in money and girls, and I’m here, behind a bar. But back in the day, it was going to me who made it.’
He paused, tilting his head judiciously, then shrugged.
‘Still, he was the one who went for it, I guess. He put in the hours, practicing, extra classes, special courses, learning the instrument; I never had the patience. So good luck to him.’
White Beard smiled at Black Beard. ‘I win, I believe.’ Black Beard asked Tim for a packet of peanuts, then wordlessly handed them to White Beard.
‘It’s good to see that the Devil’s a man of his word,’ said God.
‘You know me of old,’ said the Devil, and they walked out into the night.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
‘It’s been quiet this afternoon,’ she said, nodding at the loners and couples scattered around the bar.
‘Maybe it’ll pick up,’ replied Tim in Antipodean optimism.
‘Maybe,’ said Kaz, doubtfully, ‘See ya!’
Tim wiped down the counter, glancing up at the TV screen showing a music video channel.
At a corner table, two men were drinking coffee. The tabletop’s accumulation of used crockery showed that they’d been there for a while. The two were of similar age: well-preserved late middle age, but were otherwise contrasted in appearance. One had a rosy face framed by bushy white hair and beard; the other was tanned, with a neat goatee beard, short black hair, and inquisitive eyes, the last effect heightened by a habitually-arched eyebrow.
‘What about sin, then, the Cardinal Sins?’ asked the man with the black beard, in the easy tone of a friendly argument long continued.
‘People get mixed up,’ replied the man with the white beard. ‘Cardinal Sin’s quite a precise and obscure theological concept. I don’t think anyone said they were supposed to be of universal application.’
‘But you’re cheating again – you always say things like that when you’re cornered.’
White Beard shook his head and wordlelly held up his empty cup.
‘More coffee?’ asked Black Beard. ‘Or is it time to move onto stringer stuff?’
‘Perhaps a malt whisky, thanks.’
Black Beard walked up to the bar. Tim was scowling up at the screen.
‘Shoulda been me!’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyway, what can I get you?’
Black Beard navigated the laden tray back to the table.
‘Envy’s still going strong,’ he said.
‘That’s not the point,’ said White Beard. ‘Sure, people commit sins, but they’re not defined by them. They can always choose to be better people.’
Black Beard surveyed the room. ‘What about this lot? I bet they’re all stuck by habit into selfishness.’
White Beard leaned forward. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
Black Beard offered his hand. ‘Shake on it, then.’
‘The usual stake?’ asked White Beard, solemnly.
‘It’s a deal.’
They sat sipping their drinks, waiting for something to happen.
The door was pushed open abruptly. A man in shirtsleeves rushed in breathlessly. ‘Can you help me?’ he asked the room generally, ‘there’s someone collapsed outside.’
A couple of the drinkers stood up and accompanied him out, returning a little later burdened by the body of a tramp, his clothes stained with mud and reeking of the street. They laid him on the floor, while onlookers cleared a space around him. Coats were offered as pillows or blankets.
‘I’m a taxi driver,’ the first man explained, ‘I saw him collapse on the pavement. Is anyone here a doctor?’
Heads were shaken firmly. After a pause, someone spoke up. ‘I’m a first aider,’ he said, coming forward and kneeling down to check the tramp’s pulse.
‘Hi. I’m Michael. Can you hear me? What’s your name?’
His eyes opened briefly. ‘Harry,’ he coughed.
Michael looked up. ‘Call an ambulance – he’s in a bad way.’ Mobile phones were brandished at once.
Harry’s eyes flickered and closed, and his breathing grew more laboured. ‘He’s arresting, I think,’ said Peter. ‘We’re going to need to do CPR.’
By now, most of the patrons had gathered round, offering help, advice, or just commentary. Peter recruited a couple of them to assist in the rotations of breathing and chest compressions.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedic took over, efficiently collecting the victim.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked someone.
‘No thanks, we’ve got him now,’ the paramedic replied, closing the door and heading off, siren screaming.
Now that the drama was over, people seemed embarrassed, and soon most had gone.
‘All right, there’s quite a few helpful people here’, said Black Beard, ‘but what about the barman?’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said White Beard.
“What did you mean earlier,’ Black Bear asked Tim, ‘when you said it should have been you?’
Tim took some time to think back before the tramp’s intrusion.
‘Oh, that. That lucky bugger on the video was at school with me – now he’s a big star, rolling in money and girls, and I’m here, behind a bar. But back in the day, it was going to me who made it.’
He paused, tilting his head judiciously, then shrugged.
‘Still, he was the one who went for it, I guess. He put in the hours, practicing, extra classes, special courses, learning the instrument; I never had the patience. So good luck to him.’
White Beard smiled at Black Beard. ‘I win, I believe.’ Black Beard asked Tim for a packet of peanuts, then wordlessly handed them to White Beard.
‘It’s good to see that the Devil’s a man of his word,’ said God.
‘You know me of old,’ said the Devil, and they walked out into the night.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
Street science: short story
I met Carl in the city hospital's casualty department. He hobbled into the waiting area shortly after I had been abandoned by my wife to the mercies of the health professionals, such as they were.
I had broken my leg falling from a ladder while re-routing the satellite dish cable across the front wall of the house. Somehow this was my fault, she implied, forgetting that she had been the one who argued that me paying hard-earned cash to a spiv tradesman was a waste. She had her reasons, of course - if anyone was going to be spending my executive bonus on pointless fripperies it should be her. The house is one of the big ones on the hill, set back from the road with broad gravel drives. Apart from the cleaner and the gardener, we didn't mix with the lower orders on the sloping streets around us.
Carl was unexceptional in appearance at first glance, but something about him caught my eye - he was aware, watchful; his quick gaze around the room absorbed both geography and population; he headed over on his crutches and sat down next to me, groaning and tutting. He pointed at my leg.
'Snap! Or should I say snapped?'
I nodded silently.
'No worries,' he said, 'at least we'll jump the queue. Triage, you see.'
I was surprised by his elaborately French pronunciation of the word, and must have shown it, for he went on.
'I've knocked around Europe, all over. I can order a beer in ten languages, swear in more. Life skills.'
He sat back, grinning in pleasure. I realised he was cleverer, and more thoughtful, than he looked. I glanced at his injury. He shrugged.
'War wound. War of the bloody sexes, that is. Fell down the stairs while retreating under heavy fire - verbal mostly, a few shoes. Caught me off-guard. A shame to my profession.'
'Which is?'
'Bouncer, or bodyguard, depending. I'm useful.'
He emphasized the final word to imply some unstated code, somehow managing to convey his judgement that I was, in those terms, useless.
'You must make a bit,' he added.
'I do quite well, yes,' I replied coldly.
'I can tell, you see,' he continued, steadfastly ignoring my tone. 'It's my radar. A scientist of the street, that's me.' He looked me up and down. 'So: winter ski tan, expensive watch, casual clothes with ironed creases, deck shoes. Simple.'
'And my accent, of course.'
'You'd be surprised - accent's a difficult one. These days, especially. It's not so much deliberate gentrification, it's how we absorb what we hear - from kids, TV, music, mates. And in any case, accent is about class, where you came from; it's nothing to do with profession, or trade, or current status. Although,' he paused, considering, 'if your parents were poor, you'd have designer-label casuals, some gold rings or chains, maybe some tattoos.'
There followed a pause as we both looked around the room and silently classified its occupants.
The sign was still showing a three hour waiting time, but it wasn't long before I had been checked, X-rayed and partially encased in plaster. Carl followed me out, and when he herd me order a taxi, he asked to tag along. He only lived a couple of streets away, on the far side of the great social divide. It would have been rude to refuse, so we travelled home together, and I left him outside his house, tottering up the steps on his crutches.
The days that followed were a bit like Rear Window, as I was trapped upstairs with little to do. But it was more like watching Rear Window on continuous repeat. It is surprising how little there is on TV when it's your only option.
The practice nurse at the surgery pronounced herself happy with my progress, and a few days later an appointment card arrived from the physiotherapy department at the hospital.
When I arrived there, I saw Carl in the waiting room. A moment's reflection established that this was no more than logical - similar injuries, on the same date, would have treatment programmes that run in parallel.
He greeted me enthusiastically.
'I'm an old hand here,' he said with a hint of ownership. 'A regular, you might say. My body gets a bit of punishment, even when I'm dishing it out.' He cracked his knuckles. I asked how he as managing.
'I'm not working - I can't. You have to have at least the threat of force. I do some security work - watching the CCTV. Bores me rigid, though: I read a lot.'
We were called through to the clinic together, greeted by an impossibly young and petite nurse. We soon found that she was stronger and more forceful than she looked, as she took us through a long routine of exercises and performance measurements. Carl seemed to lose a little of his self-assurance, and retaliated by a stream of innuendo and banter that she steadfastly ignored. After half an hour we were exhausted, muscles aching.
'Now this is important,' she said. 'If you just sit around for the bones to heal, you'll be facing months before you rebuild your muscle tone. You need to keep active, even while the plaster's on - that way, you should be fully recovered in a matter of weeks.' She handed us a card. 'Here's an exercise schedule.'
As we hobbled out, Carl suggested we meet up to walk around the neighbourhood, and I agreed it sounded like a good plan.
We made an odd couple, as we circled the streets, clanking on our crutches. It was an eye-opener for me to explore the intimate geography of the housing estate, its passageways, lock-ups, desolate parks, and glass-strewn playgrounds.
'Look,' he said, in a back alley, pointing up at a row of high garden walls. 'You can tell when they were robbed by the age of the protection.'
I looked along the variegated barriers - barbed wire, anti-vandal paint, cameras, lights, locks and chains.
'It's defending your patch, see. Round here, the public spaces are no-man's-land - even villains have right of way. So all you can do is look after your own territory. It's something of an arms race, too - thieves are lazy bastards. You don't have to make your property completely secure - just harder work to break into than your neighbours.'
Over time, our walking speed increased, and Carl's commentary shifted to the people we saw. We developed a contest - he would spot a pedestrian, and I would try to work out how tough they were. He relished these opportunities to demonstrate his superior knowledge.
'Nah, not him. He's not ripped, just fat. No stamina, see. Keep him arguing for a couple of minutes and he'll be puffing for air.'
'What about him?'
'See how he's walking - rocking from foot to foot, with his upper body straight. Boxer. Yeah, I wouldn't fancy taking him on.'
I learned a lot about tattoos, too - prison, gang, sailor, biker, fashion.
'That's gone to pot. I tell you, there was a time when they were like a badge for hard men. These days any sulky teenager can get some Chinese gibberish on her arm. Ditto for piercings. That's without mentioning the gays.'
He spat the word out as if he'd never heard of diversity training, let alone had any. He wouldn't have lasted long in an office, as I realised when I returned to work on light duties. It was strange to contrast the dull complacency of my staff of middle-class graduates with his eager curiosity and energy. As I sat watching the rain spatter the window, the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Carl.
'Michael, mate, I need a favour,' he panted. 'I'm back at Casualty. Can you bring my bird in? She's stuck at home.'
I picked her up from outside their flat. Stella sat silent and prim in the passenger seat as I negotiated the streets and threaded through the traffic. I parked and she dashed ahead of me into the hospital. I followed after locking the car, and was directed through to the cubicles.
He looked terrible. He now had an arm in plaster, and his chest was dappled with purple and black bruises. His face was criss-crossed with black ridges of dried blood where cuts had been stitched. Carl nodded weakly to me, his movements restricted by a neck brace. Stella patted his healthy arm.
'Christ, love. What happened?'
'I'm alright,' he whispered, 'never you mind.'
After they had chatted for a while he sent her off to get a cup of tea.
'Cheers, mate,' he said.
'No problem. Someone caught you out?'
'Squaddies.' He winced. 'Three of 'em. You got to be careful with them - they know how to fight, and they don't hesitate.'
'What was the problem.'
'They didn't like my attitude,' he replied dismissively.
'Are you going to report them?'
'Nah, keep the filth out of it.'
'How bad is it?
'A few weeks off work again, I reckon. They keep saying that they're worried about my brain, but people have been telling me that for years!'
He chuckled softly. I heard the door open behind me. 'Nothing to her, mind,' he said, putting a finger to his lips.
Stella said she could get home under her own steam, and I left to return to work.
So I wasn't there to witness Carl's dramatic deterioration, the rush of the nurses, the clatter of equipment, the flimsy privacy of the screens, the bleeps and shocks, the 'bad news' and 'we did our best.'
I attended the funeral, feeling out of place in the swirling crowd of thick necks, shaved heads, and pumped-up limbs. There was some bitter amusement to be gleaned from the minister's awkward search for euphemism as he tried to summarise Carl's character. I hope I've done a better job here.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
I had broken my leg falling from a ladder while re-routing the satellite dish cable across the front wall of the house. Somehow this was my fault, she implied, forgetting that she had been the one who argued that me paying hard-earned cash to a spiv tradesman was a waste. She had her reasons, of course - if anyone was going to be spending my executive bonus on pointless fripperies it should be her. The house is one of the big ones on the hill, set back from the road with broad gravel drives. Apart from the cleaner and the gardener, we didn't mix with the lower orders on the sloping streets around us.
Carl was unexceptional in appearance at first glance, but something about him caught my eye - he was aware, watchful; his quick gaze around the room absorbed both geography and population; he headed over on his crutches and sat down next to me, groaning and tutting. He pointed at my leg.
'Snap! Or should I say snapped?'
I nodded silently.
'No worries,' he said, 'at least we'll jump the queue. Triage, you see.'
I was surprised by his elaborately French pronunciation of the word, and must have shown it, for he went on.
'I've knocked around Europe, all over. I can order a beer in ten languages, swear in more. Life skills.'
He sat back, grinning in pleasure. I realised he was cleverer, and more thoughtful, than he looked. I glanced at his injury. He shrugged.
'War wound. War of the bloody sexes, that is. Fell down the stairs while retreating under heavy fire - verbal mostly, a few shoes. Caught me off-guard. A shame to my profession.'
'Which is?'
'Bouncer, or bodyguard, depending. I'm useful.'
He emphasized the final word to imply some unstated code, somehow managing to convey his judgement that I was, in those terms, useless.
'You must make a bit,' he added.
'I do quite well, yes,' I replied coldly.
'I can tell, you see,' he continued, steadfastly ignoring my tone. 'It's my radar. A scientist of the street, that's me.' He looked me up and down. 'So: winter ski tan, expensive watch, casual clothes with ironed creases, deck shoes. Simple.'
'And my accent, of course.'
'You'd be surprised - accent's a difficult one. These days, especially. It's not so much deliberate gentrification, it's how we absorb what we hear - from kids, TV, music, mates. And in any case, accent is about class, where you came from; it's nothing to do with profession, or trade, or current status. Although,' he paused, considering, 'if your parents were poor, you'd have designer-label casuals, some gold rings or chains, maybe some tattoos.'
There followed a pause as we both looked around the room and silently classified its occupants.
The sign was still showing a three hour waiting time, but it wasn't long before I had been checked, X-rayed and partially encased in plaster. Carl followed me out, and when he herd me order a taxi, he asked to tag along. He only lived a couple of streets away, on the far side of the great social divide. It would have been rude to refuse, so we travelled home together, and I left him outside his house, tottering up the steps on his crutches.
The days that followed were a bit like Rear Window, as I was trapped upstairs with little to do. But it was more like watching Rear Window on continuous repeat. It is surprising how little there is on TV when it's your only option.
The practice nurse at the surgery pronounced herself happy with my progress, and a few days later an appointment card arrived from the physiotherapy department at the hospital.
When I arrived there, I saw Carl in the waiting room. A moment's reflection established that this was no more than logical - similar injuries, on the same date, would have treatment programmes that run in parallel.
He greeted me enthusiastically.
'I'm an old hand here,' he said with a hint of ownership. 'A regular, you might say. My body gets a bit of punishment, even when I'm dishing it out.' He cracked his knuckles. I asked how he as managing.
'I'm not working - I can't. You have to have at least the threat of force. I do some security work - watching the CCTV. Bores me rigid, though: I read a lot.'
We were called through to the clinic together, greeted by an impossibly young and petite nurse. We soon found that she was stronger and more forceful than she looked, as she took us through a long routine of exercises and performance measurements. Carl seemed to lose a little of his self-assurance, and retaliated by a stream of innuendo and banter that she steadfastly ignored. After half an hour we were exhausted, muscles aching.
'Now this is important,' she said. 'If you just sit around for the bones to heal, you'll be facing months before you rebuild your muscle tone. You need to keep active, even while the plaster's on - that way, you should be fully recovered in a matter of weeks.' She handed us a card. 'Here's an exercise schedule.'
As we hobbled out, Carl suggested we meet up to walk around the neighbourhood, and I agreed it sounded like a good plan.
We made an odd couple, as we circled the streets, clanking on our crutches. It was an eye-opener for me to explore the intimate geography of the housing estate, its passageways, lock-ups, desolate parks, and glass-strewn playgrounds.
'Look,' he said, in a back alley, pointing up at a row of high garden walls. 'You can tell when they were robbed by the age of the protection.'
I looked along the variegated barriers - barbed wire, anti-vandal paint, cameras, lights, locks and chains.
'It's defending your patch, see. Round here, the public spaces are no-man's-land - even villains have right of way. So all you can do is look after your own territory. It's something of an arms race, too - thieves are lazy bastards. You don't have to make your property completely secure - just harder work to break into than your neighbours.'
Over time, our walking speed increased, and Carl's commentary shifted to the people we saw. We developed a contest - he would spot a pedestrian, and I would try to work out how tough they were. He relished these opportunities to demonstrate his superior knowledge.
'Nah, not him. He's not ripped, just fat. No stamina, see. Keep him arguing for a couple of minutes and he'll be puffing for air.'
'What about him?'
'See how he's walking - rocking from foot to foot, with his upper body straight. Boxer. Yeah, I wouldn't fancy taking him on.'
I learned a lot about tattoos, too - prison, gang, sailor, biker, fashion.
'That's gone to pot. I tell you, there was a time when they were like a badge for hard men. These days any sulky teenager can get some Chinese gibberish on her arm. Ditto for piercings. That's without mentioning the gays.'
He spat the word out as if he'd never heard of diversity training, let alone had any. He wouldn't have lasted long in an office, as I realised when I returned to work on light duties. It was strange to contrast the dull complacency of my staff of middle-class graduates with his eager curiosity and energy. As I sat watching the rain spatter the window, the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Carl.
'Michael, mate, I need a favour,' he panted. 'I'm back at Casualty. Can you bring my bird in? She's stuck at home.'
I picked her up from outside their flat. Stella sat silent and prim in the passenger seat as I negotiated the streets and threaded through the traffic. I parked and she dashed ahead of me into the hospital. I followed after locking the car, and was directed through to the cubicles.
He looked terrible. He now had an arm in plaster, and his chest was dappled with purple and black bruises. His face was criss-crossed with black ridges of dried blood where cuts had been stitched. Carl nodded weakly to me, his movements restricted by a neck brace. Stella patted his healthy arm.
'Christ, love. What happened?'
'I'm alright,' he whispered, 'never you mind.'
After they had chatted for a while he sent her off to get a cup of tea.
'Cheers, mate,' he said.
'No problem. Someone caught you out?'
'Squaddies.' He winced. 'Three of 'em. You got to be careful with them - they know how to fight, and they don't hesitate.'
'What was the problem.'
'They didn't like my attitude,' he replied dismissively.
'Are you going to report them?'
'Nah, keep the filth out of it.'
'How bad is it?
'A few weeks off work again, I reckon. They keep saying that they're worried about my brain, but people have been telling me that for years!'
He chuckled softly. I heard the door open behind me. 'Nothing to her, mind,' he said, putting a finger to his lips.
Stella said she could get home under her own steam, and I left to return to work.
So I wasn't there to witness Carl's dramatic deterioration, the rush of the nurses, the clatter of equipment, the flimsy privacy of the screens, the bleeps and shocks, the 'bad news' and 'we did our best.'
I attended the funeral, feeling out of place in the swirling crowd of thick necks, shaved heads, and pumped-up limbs. There was some bitter amusement to be gleaned from the minister's awkward search for euphemism as he tried to summarise Carl's character. I hope I've done a better job here.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
The price of everything: short story
I’ve got a favourite spot, between the Lloyd’s cash machine and the newsagent. There’s a closed-down office with marble steps up to the doorway, and a portico provides some cover from the rain. I sit on cardboard to keep out the worst of the cold coming up from the underlying stone. There’s a lot of competition for this pitch – location, you see, location, location, location, as I used to say when I was an estate agent, before buy-to-let turned into a passport to debt, taking home, car, job and wife with it. Maybe you knew me then – good old Flash Harry, king of the property jungle. Maybe you owe me one. More likely, maybe I owe you one. Hard luck, if so.
Anyway, about my spot. Begging is all about traffic, throughput. There’s a fraction of people who will drop you a coin as they pass – one per hundred, one per thousand, whatever it is. So the more go pass, the more you make. They say it’s dying out, begging, killed by the credit card. You get them, sometimes, walking past you patting their pockets, pretending they’ve only got plastic and so can’t give you the cash they otherwise would. Makes all the difference, I don’t think. And of course, the cash machine’s customers really haven’t got any coins.
You could argue these days that the traditional ‘price of a cuppa’ could easily be a note, but that’s not what it’s about. You used to get those stories about how you could get rich from begging, but they were lies, or at least, unrepresentative. If begging was hard, beggars couldn't do it. These are people who find remembering their name a challenge, washing a distant utopian ambition. Begging is what you do when you've run out of options. Every day there's the struggle, the desperate hope, putting the hours in until you've earned your target. If all you're feeding is your stomach, that's not so bad - a long morning will set you up. I wouldn’t want to be an addict - waiting for the cash to match the cost of a fix, penny by penny.
There are some people who can get £5 at a time - the posh lot, the buskers, slumming classical violinist or under-employed folk guitarists, who rake it in at Christmas by making the crowds feel good. I don't do that, spread the warm feelings. The best I can hope for is to be a lucky charm - sometimes passers-by reckon that if they give me money, they won't end up like me. So for me it's coins, one here, one there, Thank you, sir, Thank you love, Thanks, kid, adding up through the day.
They say that begging is like selling: it makes you cynical, eyeing up everybody as a possible mark. Not that I wasn't cynical before, but it's true, I guess. A lot of waiting in both jobs, of course. It's fun here, sometimes, watching everyone come and go. Best of all is the parking meter. For a start, you get to spot the liars who walk past you saying they've got no change, and then feed some into the meter. But there's the next bit, too - the traffic warden solemnly photographing the cars, checking his watch, reading the meter, then taking out his ticket pad.
It happened today, for example. A new BMW roars into the space, the driver, all suit and sunglasses, sprints into the shop, and comes back to find the red package on the windscreen. Oh dear, oh dear; my heart bleeds. Now the warden's come back, and the driver's arguing. The warden keeps calm.
'Surely, sir, if you can afford such a fine vehicle as this, you can find the parking fee?'
This doesn't go down well. The driver starts shouting about appeals and lawyers and complaints, and doesn't notice that the warden's speaking on his radio.
'You there!' the driver says, pointing at me, 'You saw it all - I was only there half a minute.'
I stand up and walk towards them, my legs stiff.
'What did I see?'
'You saw me arrive.'
'Did I? I don't remember you passing. Did you give me any money?'
'No, I . . .' He pauses as my meaning sinks in. He gets his wallet out. 'I was in a hurry then, but now - ' He fingers a £20 note. I turn to the traffic warden.
'He wasn't here long, you know.'
The warden nods grimly.
'Must just be your unlucky day, then, sir.'
The driver starts to put the note back in the wallet.
'Oi,' I say, 'I think that's mine.'
He shakes his head. But he doesn't notice what's happening behind him - the tow truck's now blocked his car in, and the crew is getting out of the cab. He looks around and starts shouting again. The traffic warden retreats and calls the police.
The driver sags in defeat, gets out his cash, pays the clampers, pays the warden. He looks at me in disgust. The feeling's mutual, mate. In minutes, the street clears.
I spot a pound coin in the gutter - that's my tea sorted for today, I think, so I head back to the hostel, feeling relatively positive for a change.
Tonight, no doubt, in some leafy suburb, in a stunning domestic residence enjoying extensive views, the driver's telling his uninterested wife about his day in the City, and how it cost him a hundred quid, bitterness curdling his stomach.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
Anyway, about my spot. Begging is all about traffic, throughput. There’s a fraction of people who will drop you a coin as they pass – one per hundred, one per thousand, whatever it is. So the more go pass, the more you make. They say it’s dying out, begging, killed by the credit card. You get them, sometimes, walking past you patting their pockets, pretending they’ve only got plastic and so can’t give you the cash they otherwise would. Makes all the difference, I don’t think. And of course, the cash machine’s customers really haven’t got any coins.
You could argue these days that the traditional ‘price of a cuppa’ could easily be a note, but that’s not what it’s about. You used to get those stories about how you could get rich from begging, but they were lies, or at least, unrepresentative. If begging was hard, beggars couldn't do it. These are people who find remembering their name a challenge, washing a distant utopian ambition. Begging is what you do when you've run out of options. Every day there's the struggle, the desperate hope, putting the hours in until you've earned your target. If all you're feeding is your stomach, that's not so bad - a long morning will set you up. I wouldn’t want to be an addict - waiting for the cash to match the cost of a fix, penny by penny.
There are some people who can get £5 at a time - the posh lot, the buskers, slumming classical violinist or under-employed folk guitarists, who rake it in at Christmas by making the crowds feel good. I don't do that, spread the warm feelings. The best I can hope for is to be a lucky charm - sometimes passers-by reckon that if they give me money, they won't end up like me. So for me it's coins, one here, one there, Thank you, sir, Thank you love, Thanks, kid, adding up through the day.
They say that begging is like selling: it makes you cynical, eyeing up everybody as a possible mark. Not that I wasn't cynical before, but it's true, I guess. A lot of waiting in both jobs, of course. It's fun here, sometimes, watching everyone come and go. Best of all is the parking meter. For a start, you get to spot the liars who walk past you saying they've got no change, and then feed some into the meter. But there's the next bit, too - the traffic warden solemnly photographing the cars, checking his watch, reading the meter, then taking out his ticket pad.
It happened today, for example. A new BMW roars into the space, the driver, all suit and sunglasses, sprints into the shop, and comes back to find the red package on the windscreen. Oh dear, oh dear; my heart bleeds. Now the warden's come back, and the driver's arguing. The warden keeps calm.
'Surely, sir, if you can afford such a fine vehicle as this, you can find the parking fee?'
This doesn't go down well. The driver starts shouting about appeals and lawyers and complaints, and doesn't notice that the warden's speaking on his radio.
'You there!' the driver says, pointing at me, 'You saw it all - I was only there half a minute.'
I stand up and walk towards them, my legs stiff.
'What did I see?'
'You saw me arrive.'
'Did I? I don't remember you passing. Did you give me any money?'
'No, I . . .' He pauses as my meaning sinks in. He gets his wallet out. 'I was in a hurry then, but now - ' He fingers a £20 note. I turn to the traffic warden.
'He wasn't here long, you know.'
The warden nods grimly.
'Must just be your unlucky day, then, sir.'
The driver starts to put the note back in the wallet.
'Oi,' I say, 'I think that's mine.'
He shakes his head. But he doesn't notice what's happening behind him - the tow truck's now blocked his car in, and the crew is getting out of the cab. He looks around and starts shouting again. The traffic warden retreats and calls the police.
The driver sags in defeat, gets out his cash, pays the clampers, pays the warden. He looks at me in disgust. The feeling's mutual, mate. In minutes, the street clears.
I spot a pound coin in the gutter - that's my tea sorted for today, I think, so I head back to the hostel, feeling relatively positive for a change.
Tonight, no doubt, in some leafy suburb, in a stunning domestic residence enjoying extensive views, the driver's telling his uninterested wife about his day in the City, and how it cost him a hundred quid, bitterness curdling his stomach.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
The seducer's tale: flash fiction
'Not bad, not bad,' Phil said out loud, looking at his reflection. Condensation from the shower framed his features. He worked his way through the tedious toolkit of body care - clippers, sprays, trimmers. He decided against shaving, the stubble serving to disguise the thickening of his chin. There was a touch of salt-and-pepper greyness coming through, he noted. Oh well, he'd have to face that soon.
Fresher's Balls had changed a lot over the years since Phil's first one. The days of wide-eyed ingénues overwhelmed by the heady mixture of freedom, alcohol, music, and social unease, ripe to be entranced and exploited, had gone. Nowadays the would-be squire needed a bit more on his side than age and wisdom - he had to differentiate himself from the young lads whose charmless innuendoes rolled off their tongues like football chants. Phil could usually count on finding some girl to inveigle into a quiet corner, where he provided mature advice and sympathy, a paternal voice . . . Phil shook himself. From his PhD research, he knew enough about Freud to want to avoid the whole question of why some men liked young women and women liked older men. It amazed him that the term 'Daddy's girl' was bandied around in polite society without raising any concerns. He thought for a second and shook his head. His motives were clear enough - it wasn't youth he wanted, just opportunity. For some reason, he found it difficult to sustain relationships with women of his own age - they seemed to find him safe and boring, and self-obsessed. 'Well, who else should I be interested in?' he had countered in one final row. 'Me!' she had answered.
He had hopes for tonight. He combed his hair, cleaned his teeth, and slid a condom packet into his pocket.
* * *
Kaz blinked at the brightness as the bathroom light flickered on. She swayed across the cool tiles, rested her hands on the sink, and stood, waiting for her head to clear. The E she'd taken before coming out was wearing off, leaving her feeling flat. She opened her clutch bag and took out a sachet. She expertly rolled a bank-note and sniffed up the coke. 'Just sprinkling some magic dust,' she thought to herself, 'I'll be a princess!'
Prince Charming left something to be desired, though. Paul or Pete or Phil or whatever his name was, was waiting in his bedroom. Oh well, she'd had worse, she thought, remembering wild antics in nightclub toilets, bus shelters, cars, parks, car parks, even beds, sometimes. Her new flatmate buddy had abandoned her earlier, gone off with some stud, leaving her alone until this chap had turned up. He seemed to think she was new to all this, and she hadn't corrected him. He'll be in for a shock when he discovers my metalwork down there, she thought. This struck her as funny, and set off a giggling fit. She subsided onto the floor.
As she moved, a cupboard door swung open, revealing a hot water bottle and a jar of liniment. She sobered up. What was she reminded of? That's right - her parents. He was old, too old.
Kaz considered her options, and decided to leave without explanation. That was best, she'd found - made her seem mysterious and willful. She smiled. Men are such dopes, she thought.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
Fresher's Balls had changed a lot over the years since Phil's first one. The days of wide-eyed ingénues overwhelmed by the heady mixture of freedom, alcohol, music, and social unease, ripe to be entranced and exploited, had gone. Nowadays the would-be squire needed a bit more on his side than age and wisdom - he had to differentiate himself from the young lads whose charmless innuendoes rolled off their tongues like football chants. Phil could usually count on finding some girl to inveigle into a quiet corner, where he provided mature advice and sympathy, a paternal voice . . . Phil shook himself. From his PhD research, he knew enough about Freud to want to avoid the whole question of why some men liked young women and women liked older men. It amazed him that the term 'Daddy's girl' was bandied around in polite society without raising any concerns. He thought for a second and shook his head. His motives were clear enough - it wasn't youth he wanted, just opportunity. For some reason, he found it difficult to sustain relationships with women of his own age - they seemed to find him safe and boring, and self-obsessed. 'Well, who else should I be interested in?' he had countered in one final row. 'Me!' she had answered.
He had hopes for tonight. He combed his hair, cleaned his teeth, and slid a condom packet into his pocket.
* * *
Kaz blinked at the brightness as the bathroom light flickered on. She swayed across the cool tiles, rested her hands on the sink, and stood, waiting for her head to clear. The E she'd taken before coming out was wearing off, leaving her feeling flat. She opened her clutch bag and took out a sachet. She expertly rolled a bank-note and sniffed up the coke. 'Just sprinkling some magic dust,' she thought to herself, 'I'll be a princess!'
Prince Charming left something to be desired, though. Paul or Pete or Phil or whatever his name was, was waiting in his bedroom. Oh well, she'd had worse, she thought, remembering wild antics in nightclub toilets, bus shelters, cars, parks, car parks, even beds, sometimes. Her new flatmate buddy had abandoned her earlier, gone off with some stud, leaving her alone until this chap had turned up. He seemed to think she was new to all this, and she hadn't corrected him. He'll be in for a shock when he discovers my metalwork down there, she thought. This struck her as funny, and set off a giggling fit. She subsided onto the floor.
As she moved, a cupboard door swung open, revealing a hot water bottle and a jar of liniment. She sobered up. What was she reminded of? That's right - her parents. He was old, too old.
Kaz considered her options, and decided to leave without explanation. That was best, she'd found - made her seem mysterious and willful. She smiled. Men are such dopes, she thought.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
New expanded and improved version of File Under Fiction
File Under Fiction is now completely re-formatted, expanded with six extra stories including A night like this, and parodies of Jane Austen and Thomas Boswell. See contents here.
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