Knit Your Own Expert

                  I spend a lot of time railing against the proliferation of so-called "expert advice". Why, in a centre of excellence not a million miles from where I work there stands a building which houses the Mary Poppins Institute of the Blindingly Obvious.In this evidence based hall of wonders countless (?taxpayer funded ) nursing academics toil with such fundamental problems of existence as "which intravenous cannula is safest to use?) (note they don't ask "which intravenous cannula is easiest or most efficient or less painful" and their ceaseless sifting of evidence does not actually include asking the grunts) but lo! they speak and now it is that I am given blunt thingummies that retract on insertion to place in the non-existent veins of needle-phobic CRPS sufferers.

              (I must ask Daughter -of-Mine for an appropriate icon to follow the words "Evidence -Based"..it should look both portentous and profound...it should call to mind the faint echo of a gregorian chant mixed with a whiff of incense ...whilst breathing a gently cold chill down one's back . I'm sure she will know how.)

             In fact I don't need the Institute any more. I have something so much better. I have a 17 year old daughter. A conversation with her is like watching a sex education film circa 1970-- the ones where the frame is frozen and an authoritative  figure in a white coat  and horn-rimmed glasses indicates the unpleasant bits with a pointer whilst turning intermittently and hectoring the audience.

           We were having a Sunday roast lunch the other day and my efforts to engage the Urban Terrorist in a conversation on Global Warming (O.K. 2/3 rds of the way to a bad outcome already and possibly more after he revealed his plan to save mankind by constructing a giant fart collector and shooting the accumulated methane into outer space) were somewhat hampered by D.O.M.'s running commentary on how one should hold a conversation with a 9 year old.

           I finally said in exasperation "Look, it's difficult enough trying to mother this child without you sitting on my shoulder like some malevolent Jimminy Cricket." "You're the second person who's called me that this week." she answered. I repeated "I'm the second person who's called you a malevolent Jimminy Cricket in a week?""Yes"she replied,apparently unperturbed"At least Samuel-at-school said it was like being followed around by Jimminy Cricket's bitch of a sister so I suppose that's the same thing".

           It is amazing that she combines insight of her actions ( or at least acknowledgment of their effect on others) with such a total lack of caring about either.

          I had a haircut this week. I loathe having my neck touched so as usual I asked that it be cut extra short to prolong the interval between cuts. (I used to go to my sister-in law's house and down a half bottle of merlot preparatory to the ordeal but I eventually noticed that she was downing the other half which made me even more nervous- now I go to her salon.) After the haircut I tend to use more make-up (or rather I DO use make-up) in an semi-conscious effort to look less butch. "Mmmmm"said D.O.M. "Only now of course you look like a bloke in drag."

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