Deadly problem still eating away at our society Anorexia nervosa. It's a horrible disease. I remember first becoming aware of it when Lena Zavaroni died tragically at the age of 35 having struggled, very privately, with anorexia
for what seems to have been most of her adult life. I remember not being able to understand how people could refuse to eat and how that was somehow a medical condition. I suppose, given my frequent childhood trips to India, for me the relationship between people and food was an altogether different one: need rather than denial; lack rather than abundance.
Anorexia seems to be a modern ailment of society. Is it too easy to blame the fashion industry for perpetuating the endless cavalcade of emaciated flouncy-fabric freaks? No, it is not.
Are these rake-thin, ill-looking women a good thing to promote as models, in more than one sense of the word? No, they aren't.
Is there such a pressure on young women to conform to an unreasonably unrealistic physical shape that they would deny themselves the most basic of nutrition? Yes, there is. Has our obsession with celebrity culture careered so out of control that our girls examine every photo of every movie star for signs of flab, cellulite and surgery? Yes, it has.
I'm depressed even thinking about this, depressed because I am a father of a daughter, a daughter trying to navigate her way through the complexity of this image-conscious world.
On one hand we have anorexia to worry about, and on the other we hear that type-2 diabetes is on the increase, a direct and dramatic consequence of obesity. We live in a topsy-turvy world defined by excess at either end. Our classrooms are full of increasingly overweight, junk food-fuelled kids; and yet doctors tell us that there is a sharp increase in the number of cases of anorexia.
Whatever way you hold this dilemma up to the light there is one clear message. We are a society that has managed to take our abuse of food to a new level; we punish ourselves by denial in pursuit of a dysfunctional dream or overindulge until we make ourselves ill. It might just be time to take a stand before things spiral completely out of control.
I've got an axe to grind – but the coffee beans will just have to waitA year back I was converted to the craft of coffee bean grinding. And what a revolution that was. Freshly milled beans provided a fuller, fresher flavour. And while there were certain downsides (the extra moments of grinding, the need to purchase a grinder), the upsides were far more rewarding.
That was until six weeks ago, when my not inexpensive coffee grinder decided to stop working. I love my coffee but I can hardly be accused of brutal overuse. No, I just went to grind and the normal cacophony of whirring was nowhere to be heard. The stillness of morning remained intact. And my coffee beans remained unground.
I ventured out to purchase another grinder, reminding myself to remember to keep the receipt this time: electrical goods ought to last longer than a few months.
I decided to buy a cheaper and simpler grinder. The department store I purchased from has always served me well through the years. The sales lady spoke with some expertise about the range they had on offer and I felt well appraised of all things coffee. I left with a lovely new grinder.
Then yesterday, guess what? The new grinder broke.
I know that everything was better in the old days but surely we should expect a little bit more life out of our purchases? I remember that as kids we had a Sony Triton TV that lasted us two decades. In fact it can still be found in a spare room in my mum's house. Plasmas have come and gone but that Triton has never so much as flickered erroneously. And now I have no coffee grinder. And no coffee.
Height of security? You can whistle for itThere are many upsides to living in a big city. There are unique occurrences that we are privy to that don't happen in Kilsyth, Linlithgow or Annan, much as I love all those places.
The other day as I was driving through the city the traffic was arrested by a cavalcade of cars, all black, all shiny, all travelling a little too fast for the road. A tinted-windowed Range Rover led the way, followed by a limousine and a beefy German vehicle. They were flanked, led and followed by some police outriders. The blues and twos were flashing and resonating.
Clearly there was someone very important inside that big black limousine. One can only imagine the security measures present to protect the traveller. Toughened metal panels built into the car door; bulletproof glass; drivers who have been trained to the very highest level, able to manoeuvre a vehicle of that size with precision and flair in any hostile environment; and the vehicle itself loaded no doubt with numerous GPS systems linking it to the police, MI5 and anyone else who needs to track that individual's every movement.
And as the police outriders approached a set of red traffic lights they were clearly not for stopping, and decided to smooth the convoy's way through the junction.
And with all the technology and security at their disposal how did the motorbike riders attract the fellow drivers' attention? They blew a whistle. And right enough, we all stopped. All it took was a whistle.
I won't be suede on this viewI think we can all testify at the wide and far-reaching impact of politics on daily life. Never before have the actions of so few impacted on the lives of so many. There are myriad examples of this. But for me one recent political development stands out more than any other. Ken Clarke's return to the front bench has – and will – radically alter the appeal of the Tories.
Much more importantly it heralds the return to fashion of the suede shoe. Clarke and the suede shoe (or in his case the brothel-creeper) were synonymous.
I, too, love a suede shoe. I have recently acquired a second pair and love their dull, tactile finish. They feel hedonistic upon my feet. They have tactility, a fragility about them. Unlike a regular pair of leather shoes, the suede requires greater nurturing. They need to be brushed and sprayed.
Before making an appointment with the suede loafer I head window-ward: the weather has to be consulted. Rain is the kiss of death for the suede shoe. You see, suede makes you think, makes you plan. But more than that, suede-swaddled feet make me feel decadent.
