Tuesday, 19 December 2006

Her Tornado Hell

For anyone who hasn't seen this:  My Tornado Hell 

I think this may be the whole story of the way of the world.  No more need be said.

19 Dec 2006 11:24:38 | Stuff

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Dead Dictators, Turning A Profit and A Dwindling Sense of Humour Pinochet is dead. Good. An absurd response, though we all deserve a little cheering up. The problem was with Pinochet alive. All the people who are no longer around as a result of him, are still not around and won't be coming back. And we were informed this morning by clipped and matronly Patricia Hewitt that the NHS must not only clear its debts but must achieve a surplus. As I understand it, a surplus is a profit. What is the National Health Service supposed to make a profit on? Its purpose is to make people better. Is Hewitt expecting tips from grateful patients? An organisation that does not produce anything can only make a surplus by cutting costs: getting rid of staff, buying outside cheap labour and supplies, cutting corners, making patient turnaround faster. Get them in and out of the operating room and hospital and back home before the bleeding stops. Not so many sheets to wash, fewer nurses to employ. Why must there be a profit? Of course, it's nonsense, because the money is state money, or should be. And if they do make a surplus, the NHS will be told it doesn't need so much funding....
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Christmas Confidential Christmas is coming along nicely. I've got swollen glands, a sore throat, headache and dizziness. Cancel the parties, throw on the 'I'm-at-home-feeling-ill-all-enveloping-robe-thing, hunker down into the sofa and complain to The Poet from time to time about my aches and pains. Please note, this requires sympathy only from him, since everyone else seems to be getting the same bug, and anyway, compared with...hill of beans...and so forth (is Casablanca on the telly this year?). Moreover, my feeling poorly strategies are very similar to how I spend every day - cancel parties, robe-thing, hunker down and complain. The plan is to work on Christmas. The Poet is writing the index to his Guernica book and I'm writing a piece on virtual life for the LRB. We'll stop and eat some roast pork from time to time and then watch movies (or better still the CSI or Monk Christmas Special). And all around there will be that amazing peopleless silence of everyone having gone home to somewhere else. Perfect. There was a suggestion from The Poet in the Autumn of not giving presents to each other because we already had everything and we're far too old to need symbolic gifts, and I...

Jenny Diski

Novelist, essayist, non-fiction writer

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