Pointless research (and random pic of me and pals in Amazon)

The BBC website today is informing me that scientists have discovered the world's smallest fish. Apparently they're particularly pleased as stocks seem to be dwindling (due to all the horrible things humans are busy doing to the planet) and maybe we'll be able to save this creature from extinction. A few questions are posed by the study: a, who the hell funded it, b, how do we know its the world's smallest fish if we haven't found 'em all yet?, c, why on earth would I care if a fish I never knew about until today becomes extinct? Dammit, I wont be able to show my grandchildren the fascinating sight of a 7.9mm long fish. Somehow, I think they'll cope.
Which led me to thinking about all the totally pointless research currently going on out there. Surely in many areas of study we have reached Information Capacity - for example (choosing examples from my field to limit the potential number of arguments from readers), Jane Austen, poor lady, has been Done To Death. There is no more to be said about her or her books. And frankly, why would we want to? Yet I can guarantee that somewhere out there, some poor sod of a Phd student is desperately seeking originality within the arena of Jane A's criticism. Surely this is merely research for the sake of research? Why can't we focus on a few biggies, get all these doctoral students doing something useful - y'know, cures for cancer, that kind of thing. And simultaneously, we can have a bunch of them working out what the heck to do with the resultant increased population.
Trying to come up with Original Thinking in my field is becoming increasingly difficult. The trick is basically to take a theoretical viewpoint and a novelist that haven't been combined before and, well, mash them up in the form of an extended essay. Ignore that approximately three other people in the world will read it (the poor sod delegated with job of marking it, the second marker and, of course, your mother), and getting through the four years shouldn't be so bad.
Ultimately, it really is all a total waste of time though. Saying that, I'll probably end up doing a Phd one day. If only because I want the free upgrades on flights that come with having 'doctor' before my name.

Dating Hints and Tips

A friend has suggested I head forth to Birmingham in a few weeks to attend a 'Singles Event'. I would like to point out that I have never graced such a place with my presence, and to do so would be merely out of speculative interest rather than because I am - yes, I'm saying it - That Desperate. Honestly, if I'm ever reduced to actually going to these events with the serious intent of finding a guy, you have my permission to hunt me down and shoot me.
Some will regard that as an overly unsympathetic attitude towards the poor sods who genuinely need assistance in the ol' Dating Department (and frankly enough have commented of late that I do to make me begin to think about worrying. Four years to go and I'll be a Speed-Dating Addict, I'm sure, retracting all my negative barbs in favour of remarks along the lines of, 'it is refreshing and scintillating, an opportunity to meet a diverse range of characters.' Hah).
Anyway, I'm diverting from the main point of this post. Which was to analyse - and mock, of course - half of the 'dating tips' provided by these, well, dating companies. I can't believe there are groups actually making money out of the misery of singletons, but there we have it. Dog eat dog world in which we live. 'You are single - must be something wrong with you. Come get a date! And here is how...'
1. 'To be very approachable women should stand with their feet no farther than 6 inches apart with toes pointed slightly inward'. Dammit, that is where I've been going wrong. Think I allowed my clodhoppers to stray more than seven inches apart on occasion (banish those dodgy thoughts all of you), and pointed inward? With no intention of offence here but doubtless causing it somewhere, I wasn't aware that looking like a retard was attractive.
2. 'Studies show that men associate the scents of cinnamon and vanilla with love. To make the scents work for you, try baking some ready-made cinnamon rolls about an hour before your date arrives'. I am genuinely curious to know how many women read this and then rushed out to their local Asda to purchase the necessary comestibles.
3. This is from a guide men can purchase that assures them 'any man can get any girl'. The whole thing is compiled implying a relationship is the goalpost but: 'How to get into one-night stands with ease, and get out of them even easier, should you need to - without anyone getting hurt.' A woman has created this masterpiece, apparently. I am unable to comment due to being in state of shock.
4. 'Have a good think about what your dating goals are and timescales. Do you see yourself married within 2 years? If you do then approach dating accordingly. ' How on earth can you 'see yourself married within 2 years' when, by the sound of things, you aren't presently dating anybody?? Essentially, this tip ascribes to the view that people are merely commodities and only have to fulfill a few essential roles (typically: attractive, intelligent, GSOH) (Good Sense Of Humour to those of you untrained in the mystifying language of singles ads). Wow.

I could go on but it is thoroughly disheartening looking through all the websites. I know people who have rejected others because 'she is pretty but she didn't go to university' (obviously, only intelligent people go to university. Come on, who thought otherwise?). People who gave up the whole thing because 'she doesn't have the same taste in music'. Couples who broke up because the guy 'looked at other girls the wrong way'. Which begs the question, is there a right way? If the guy looked in total disgust at all other females, surely that would be rude, embarrassing, and grounds on which to register a complaint leading to breaking up.

I've been accused myself of being overly fussy. Personally, I see nothing wrong in rejecting someone because either a, they have no interest in me other than as a sex object, b, they think that getting battered in a nightclub equates to a Good Night Out or c, they make endless sweet remarks like 'I'm so proud to be seen out with you' while forgetting the fact that I would rather slit my own wrists than head forth into the night with them again.

Anyhow. Next time you see a six footer standing in the middle of the room (demonstrates confidence), wearing an approachable smile (not fixed grin, of course), clad in dusky pink (to bring out my skin tone) and scented with vanilla (to attract all men within a ten mile radius), nodding her head in a feminine but firm way (indicates she might be remotely interested in what you are saying) and of course, constantly reassessing the distance between shoes - that could well be me. On the other hand, it could be a rather sad individual with the personality of a tube of toothpaste. Your call.

I rule. And it is official.

I would like to direct all of you towards a particular website:

www.coffeeaddictkat.blogspot.com

And check out the posting from 10th January 2006. Me? Humble? Good God, where did you get that idea from.

The Meaning of Life

In one of those tempers today which means my mood has been oscillating between 'wow, isn't the world fantastic, let us all dance forever through fields of suitably waving daffodils' and then crashing towards, 'dammit, I want to sit on a grave surrounded by ravens with the wind making the trees creak above me.' I think this is partly due to my actually sitting down and doing some serious work today - principally because it finally reached the point of being non optional. I simultaneously had the great realisation that weh hey, I had the will power to do it and (honestly, from God knows where) the interest to continue, along with the thought that I really should have done considerably more work than I already have and how far behind I am. Think I haven't left it so late I can't catch up... Hope.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).

D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'

I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.

I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.

Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.

The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.

Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.

And I must say, I am often worsted.

On Planes and Post

I think it is fairly safe to say that I have a wide range of experience with flights. I've ranted about a few on here before, but decided after recent events that I'd sum up a few generalised complaints. I am fed up with variable carry-on baggage rules - given that the vast majority of planes are a Boeing 737 or whatever that other thing is - AirBus or something - I think the overhead lockers are going to be remarkably similar, thus able to support similar weights. Why is it I can take 10kg of carry-on with Ryanair, yet for 'safety measures' only 5kg with Virgin Atlantic? Where is the logic? And why is it I constantly see people with legs about half the length of mine nestled comfortably into exit row seats, while I need to apply the vaseline to my knees and ease my way into the two inch gap between the standard seats? To add to my usual list of grievances, yesterday I had to wait in an unnecessarily slow moving queue to have my passport checked upon arrival. What is all this rubbish about not having to fly with passport but using 'alternative forms of ID' - it just means that queues build up as the poor sod trying to establish you are who you say you are is running his finger up and down the long list of 'acceptable ID alternatives.' Final complaint (for now): good God, but they make you walk miles in airports. The worst I think was Dallas, where - I jest not - it took me close on an hour to walk to my gate. At a brisk pace. Carrying all my luggage. Do you realise this is approximately, at a guess, THREE MILES? And during that three miles, there was not a single cash point or banking office where I could withdraw American dollars and thus purchase some of the ghastly food options available to me. Much as I find it endlessly amusing to watch lardy people 'sprinting' towards their gate, I feel for them. We have to walk too far, and it is frankly bloody ridiculous.
A brief addition to all this: why can't the Royal Mail just deliver my post? Why? I have missed multiple parcels and letters that just never arrive anywhere, or are returned to sender with a sticker informing them that I am 'no longer at this address.' I think I worked out half the problem the other day: we received a parcel for somebody ten doors up. The postal workers are clearly illiterate. Dammit, but this makes me so mad. My gran always said that 'if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well'. Precisely. Surely there should be a law incorporating this idea somewhere...