(That’s not the kind of waffles that you put syrup on… although you probably could, it’d just be messy.)

Hopefully this picture will buy me a little credit when you come to judge me at the end of this entry.

So, now, listen to the waffle:

 
(If you can’t see the player, you’ll have to visit my blog)

Now… if I do actually have some kind of issue with my chest, that is indeed a cause for concern. But I have a nagging feeling that I caused it by doing a whole… 20 sit-ups. You see, I haven’t exercised properly since I was about 12 — I had the choice of doing sports, or going to the computer room (gotta love private schools). Of course, I chose the only real option available to a geek such as myself — I dived in and planted myself in a leather computer chair. I’ve never really left, either. Sure, I travel, and I walked a lot at university, and I have been known to play a little tennis or badminton from time to time. But when it gets right down to it, I’m woefully under-(s)exercised.

I haven’t really experienced any detrimental side-effects to my complete avoidance of aerobic exercise. I could still spend 8 hours a day trekking around Rome without breaking (much) of a sweat. I can still perform in the sack (when the rare opportunity arises). But, alas, it seems I can’t sit in a computer chair now, without feeling a bit… squished. It just feels like all of my internal organs are kind of… squashed, sitting here, idle, sloth-like and unmoving. I decided to do a few sit-ups, on the premise that perhaps my stomach muscles weren’t really doing much, and they’re kind of important, to keep all your organs in the right place!

And that was when I pulled a muscle. So now I’m chair-bound, because it hurts to stand up. I can hobble around looking like a hunch-back though, which looks kind of funny. I guess I deserved it for exercising so hard and so quickly. Back to the immobile geekery.

I mean, 20 sit-ups… what was I thinking.

I shouldn’t be left late at night with a microphone and a harrowing tale to tell:  
(If you can’t see the player, you’ll have to visit my blog. It should also be at the bottom, if you’re using Google Reader!)

Tonight I tell the tale of, in the form of an audio blog, ‘healthy alternative transport’ gone wrong. The tale of how I almost log my legs trying to traverse the pretty (but seemingly deadly) city of Amsterdam.

It was the last day of my stay in Amsterdam. Rogier, my gracious host, had booked an internet cafe for us to play World of Warcraft from (I try to play WoW from every country that I visit as it’s a lot of fun playing next to someone that you’ve talked to over the Internet for 3 years). The problem was… the cafe was on the other side of town. ‘Ah, Amsterdam is a small city, it’ll be a breeze!’

‘There’s a problem, Seb: I only have one bike’ says Rogier.

‘Sure, sure… no problem at all, de nada, I’ll ride on the back!’ I quickly shoot back, eager to try what millions of Dutch do every day — cycle around Amsterdam.

Little did I know… I would soon be riding into… the gaping maw of HELL.

(I hope this gets turned into a movie one day!)

Anyway, in an attempt to be somewhat educational and informative: for those of you that don’t know, Amsterdam is like… the cycling capital of the world. It’s so dense, and the waterways make driving so cumbersome that everyone prefers to cycle everywhere. There are so many bicycles that there are even multistorey bicycle parks!

The other massive advantage of riding bicycles everywhere is that half of these cyclists are… female. Girls with some of the finest asses you’ve ever seen. Toned, and peachy and… often wearing short skirts too…

Sitting at those canal-side cafes, just watching the world go by; watching those legs go by. If only I had my own pair of legs, and hadn’t lost them riding a bike across Amsterdam.

Last week I requested that you ask me anything. Looking at my mail, I’d say we have a good range of topics for today. Please, if there’s something on your mind, a question, a problem, don’t hesitate to ask. Some questions have had their grammar altered a little, but otherwise they are untouched. If I use politically incorrect phrases it’s either a) trying to be funny or b) I don’t know I’m being politically incorrect (in which case, do correct me).

Dear Mr. Seb, I am 49 but have not started the menopause. Can I still get pregnant at my age?

A good, easy question to get started with! You are sorely lacking on detail — do you want to get pregnant, or are you asking if you can go on one last flight of reckless fancy, sleeping with all and sundry, knowing you’re safe from pregnancy if not from STDs? Your hormones are running rife, spurring your middle-age horn into overdrive one day, and complete disinterest of sex the next.

From a purely mechanical standpoint you can get pregnant until you’ve been a full 12 months without a period (and thus without ovulating). If your periods are simply irregular that’s not the same as menopause — that’s just the build-up, the peri/pre menopause — and you can certainly still get pregnant during that time (but it’s still very difficult).

For more information talk to your doctor, or visit one of many sites or newspaper stories on the topic.

I am a self-injurer. When life gets tough or I get stressed out, or even when I’m bored, I find sharp things to dig into my skin. This is generally viewed as a problem. But that is not the problem or situation for which I am seeking your advice. Generally speaking, when other people find out about this side of my life they begin to take precautions: watching what they say, qualifying statements so as not to upset me, and so on. One of my friends has asked me TWICE now if I am into S&M; I have never experienced it, so I couldn’t really say one way or the other.

Anyway, I was bored today and decided to do a bit of research. The Sadomasochism article on Wikipedia was rather helpful actually, and I got a fairly clear picture of what S&M really encompasses. I think I could totally get into that. It would definitely be the pain side of it all as well, not so much the humiliation. But pain, definitely. So being that I have a… condition, an illness that most people are terrified of, how would you suggest that I bring up this subject to a lover? Bear in mind that said lover would be rather concerned about my injurious tendencies already and may be averse to inflicting pain upon me. Please help, Dr. Seb.

Sincerely,
Confused in the Padded Room

Now this one’s trickier. My first reaction was: find a lover that’s also a self-harmer. That’s probably the simplest if not the most healthy solution — you’d probably end up cutting each other in more and more creative and intricate ways until you end up looking like Amy Acker from Dollhouse or one of Hannibal Lecter’s victims, but at least it’d be a consensual and you wouldn’t be hurting any ‘innocents’.

I think it depends on whether you like self-harming or whether you’ve identified it as a problem and want to stop. A loved one — a partner, a friend, a family member — can certainly help you regain a sense of self. They can acknowledge and empathise with your physical and mental pains, both of which can go a long way to rebuilding your sense of self-worth. Remember, pain tends to disassociate you from ‘yourself’, and continued self-harm will probably result in you ‘drifting away’ from reality — self-mutilation might seem like a temporary fix, a fleeting detachment, but it’s certainly not a permanent solution to problems you might be experiencing.

To be honest, I don’t know if you are trying to stop — it sounds like you’re not — or if you are just trying to tell your lover: This is who I am. Deal with it. In which case, I doubt a caring partner is going to be understanding of continued self-harming. If what you really crave is pain (most self-harmers aren’t in it just for the pain, though), S&M is indeed available. Bear in mind that any relationship that revolves around dispensing pain and being humiliated is going to be unlike any other relationships you’ve had.

There’s a world of difference between pain and humiliation though — they’re not inexorably linked — and if spanking and pinching and hair-pulling is enough for you, I’m sure you can find a boyfriend or girlfriend with a domineering streak to keep you satisfied!

For more information there’s a good article on understanding self-harm by the British mental health charity Mind. AskMen has a great article about spanking, which might help you satisfy your need for pain and arouse you at the same time! And if you’re really interested in BDSM and want to get started right now, ALT is the main ‘alternative’ online adult personals site.

The goldfish I have at work is a slob. I purchased him on a whim because I thought he would be entertaining, which he is. He loves David Bowie, and whenever Bowie comes on the radio the fish dances to him. However, the goldfish who shall remain anonymous (we’ll call him Rick [Astley? -S]) is a total slob! He swims around with a fire-hose turd hanging out of his ass most of the day, and now his shit is starting to stick to his fins. I wish the little bastard would just clean it off. I clean his bowl weekly, he has plants to rub it off with, but I think he just does it to irritate me. What should I do?

Sincerely,
Pissed in the Pacific Northwest [Come on, I said anonymous... -S]

In my experience, dealing with animals effectively always comes down to physical and visual stimuli. Some animals can be trained by sound, but I don’t think you can train a goldfish by whistling. Maybe one day we’ll understand fish as well as we understand dogs and you’ll be able to buy ultra-high frequency fish whistles; one day. Until then, I suggest one or two options:

• Hook up two wires from a nearby power socket, run them through some kind of switch (available from your local hardware store) and simply dangle the two ends into the tank. Next, print out a photo of a goldfish.Now, whenever your fish has neglected to ’shake his fin’, hold the picture up to the side of the tank and flip the switch. This is equivalent to Pavlov’s famed doggy/ringing bell experiment. It also has the added bonus that if you fail to condition the fish into looking after its hygiene, your cat (or your friend’s) has something to look forward to at dinner time.

• The other option is far more sinister; a whole lot more Godfather. For this one you need at least two goldfish, so go and buy another one before you start. Got it? Great. You need to force-feed the second fish a solid diet with lots of fibre, one that will encourage lots and lots of poo production. Then, when the shit starts squeezin’ out, turn the pump off — the water must be totally still for this to work. You’re aiming for a long turd: a turd long enough to tie into a noose. Optionally, to speed up the process, you might opt for holding the fish with one hand and squeezing it firmly with your fingers. When you’ve cultured a suitably stringy shite gently tie it into a loop, placing it carefully around its neck.

  
  This will act just like a goldfish voodoo doll. Chilling. If that doesn’t scare your disgusting beast  into wiping its ass on nearby plants, I don’t know what will.

If you have a question for next week’s edition of Ask Me Anything, go ahead and ask me. Remember, it’s completely anonymous! This is your chance to get something off your chest or find out the answer to something that’s always niggled at you! Or maybe you just want to tax me… meanies (you know who you are).

Healthcare (or health care if you’re a colonial) means different things to different people. Depending on where you live, your background and your income, it might be synonymous with either insurance or the treatment of illness — and in some cases, it can even mean the public health of a nation or zone.

It’s important to think about these three things as separate entities: despite prevailing culture, you can’t mix up health insurance with the actual treatment of illness — they can both exist, but must be independent of each other. Health insurance, in countries without publicly-funded systems, is simply the way health care is paid for. In countries with ‘universal coverage’ like the UK, health insurance is used to pay for private care, or ‘complementary medicine’ (i.e. new/weird science). Public health is the overarching effort to improve health through improved knowledge and awareness, such as eating five portions of vegetables a day, ‘got milk?’, and so on.

Now, with that out of the way, let’s tuck in.

Healthcare is vital in the most true sense of the word. Without it we would die, immediately in a blaze of flame, or in a laboriously drawn-out fashion — it doesn’t matter: health care stops us from dying. Healthcare is so vital (there’s that word again) that about 10% of a Western nation’s GDP — 10% of its entire income — is spent on it. Some would argue that’s a small price to pay, for longevity of life. By comparison, most nations spend between 2 and 4% of their GDP on military/defence, and education comes in at about 5-7% of a nation’s GDP. So, as you can see, and have no doubt heard from Obama, health care is the biggest human issue.

But it’s all a damn mess; a horrible void of misunderstanding and overspending. And it all derives from a ‘knowledge gap’, between the doctor and the patient. The same can be said for most professions, but with healthcare the distance is most significant. Even if you don’t know the basic fundamentals of household plumbing, or how data traverses the Internet, you can still sleep soundly at night. But what if you’ve just been told you have cancer? Or that you’re being treated with Interferon beta-1a? You get a little jumpy, a little nervous — because you might die.

If we’ve learnt anything about the human body in the last 100 years, it’s that we should fear the inevitable onrush of death. Somewhere along the line we made the switch from ‘the most rugged and tenacious mammal on the planet’ to ‘wuss’. We used to live — and die. Now there are many more steps on the meter: alive, stressed, ill, broken, comatose, dead — and thousands more slotted in between.

Something doesn’t make sense. Why are we more afraid of our health now than 100 years ago? I’m not saying no one cared about death back then — people certainly put a lot of effort into making sure things were left tidy, and that the relevant gods would receive them into the afterlife — but it was just part of living. I think it has something to do with knowledge, and thus certainty and confidence. If you’re brought up with the knowledge that you will die by the age of 60 and you will die if you mistreat your body, that’s some stable knowledge that you can operate with. You can go out and live life.

What do we know about life and death today? Do you know how long you will live for, or if the quality of your life is assured? If I eat this burger, will it shorten my life — does that even matter? Should I be worried about senility, or will biotechnology/biopharmacy save me from that feckless fate?

It’s pretty weird to be confused about your own mortality, eh? A long, healthy life is the single most desirable wish — yet it is the one thing we are most uncertain about! I want to tie this in to the downfall of faith/belief and the rescinded promise of eternal (after)life, but I’m not sure I can yet — but it would make sense that, up until the last century, death was just been a temporary setback… but now it’s personal. (I kid, I kid, but you get the idea.)

To fix this problem, we need to close the gap between bleeding-edge research, the doctors, and us. We have to know more about our bodies and what they’re capable of; education obviously ties in at this point. I think we’re regularly reminded, and amazed, by what humans are capable of and how resilient we are — but at the same time, we have never been more aware of just how defenceless we ultimately are. Back then, we just died. No one knew why, we just died.

Now we die of cancer, heart disease, sclerosis, embolism — all invisible, all able to pounce at any time with little or no warning. But they’ve always been there, just like gravity or hydrogen. If we want to live long and healthy lives, we must teach about healthcare in schools. We must learn more about the body than the knee bone’s connection to the thigh bone, more than veins and arteries — like ancient Rome and Athens, education must be contemporary and hot on the heels of research.

Are you ready?

Things are going to change around here. I’m not quite sure how yet, but I thought I’d get it out in the open – that’s what blogs are good for, after all.

Things are… different. In my head. Thoughts aren’t lining themselves up in the same way they used to. It’s unnerving. It’s hard to explain, to you, when the right words won’t come — it’s a bit Catch-22 like that (the book, incidentally, still lays unfinished by my bed).

I don’t feel bad exactly, but off-balance. Where ideas and concepts would once slot themselves neatly together into cogent thoughts, there is now an incoalescent ether. It’s a lot darker than it used to be. There’s less hope, less points of starlight in the fabric — not for me, but…

It’s hard to explain, as I said.

It’s not like I’m sad. It might even be physical — God knows I need to work on my cardiac fitness. Maybe it’s because my diet in Norway was bad. I was fine in Norway… but the moment I got home things shifted! And I don’t know why! That’s scary.

So, as to the blog, it’s not going anywhere. I’m going to change it up a bit. I’m going to get outside more, away from my vast array of computer screens. I’m thinking of writing short stories. Fables… cautionary tales; meaty, dark warnings of what’s to come.

I’m worried, basically — but not for myself. About the world, I think; its future. Perhaps it’s the travelling. Maybe I’ve finally seen and experienced enough to fill and tip the trough — is it the ripples I’m feeling now? I need to try and shape this malaise into something useful, that’s all I know.

* * *

In other, less dour news, I’ve been doing some more filming with my new camera! I’m starting to get the hang of this ‘videographer‘ thing. It’s a lot more complicated than photography (but given how easy photography is, that’s not saying much). I’ve ordered a broadcast-quality stereo microphone that I can attach to the camera — you’ll finally hear my true voice! — and I’m also building a new computer to do video/audio editing on… exciting!

Here’s some recent video links: a smoky, hazy, windy fire, and some daffodils rustling in the wind (both are experiments at wide-open apertures in bright light — cool huh?!)

* * *

Finally, there will be more stories and reflection from Norway! I still haven’t shared all of my photos either — and if you fancy a piece of Sebby-captured Norway, I’ve listed one photo for sale on my online gallery. I’ll be listing a few more in the days to come. Until then…

I went for a jog earlier!

I don’t own any trainers, nor training pants… or vests… or a portable music player. In fact, it’s safe to say I don’t own any kind of exercise-related tedium-reducing paraphernalia. But I do own shoes, and shorts, and t-shirts — I did the laces up tightly in the hope of increasing ankle support. I think it worked.

Ankle support was the least of my worries, anyway. My main concern, actually, was passing out. Or haemorrhaging. Collapsed in a bush somewhere, discovered at some later date by a farmer, or my stupid fat pet cat. And I’m not overreacting, that’s the sad thing: the last time I had a run-in with this fabled ‘exercise’ beastie, about six years ago, I blacked out. I used to cycle a lot, when I was younger. It was the only way to see my friends, because we live in the middle of nowhere. Then my friends left; I have very few friends now, outside of the digital realm. No friends, no fitness. That’s how, six years ago, I ended up blacking out — I tried to cycle into town. Bit off more than I could chew. Ended up falling off my bike about half way.

But, as it turned out, losing consciousness was also the least of my concerns.

Man boobs. Man boobs were the main stumbling block to jogging. Well, not actual stumbling blocks — they don’t hang that low — but… they jiggle. Seriously. Enough to pull me off balance and slightly out of step. Tick, tock-tock, tick, tock-tock… Maybe I have my technique all wrong — I mean, I haven’t run since I was 15 or something, when I was forced to play football; forced and bullied. But how hard is it? One foot in front of the other, heavy but firm THUD! footfalls, arms swinging, synchronized… but my boobs! Swinging! Bouncing! Unrestricted and fancy free! I tried tensing my chest muscles — pecs? — to tighten the region… but… I don’t have any.

Eventually, after pondering if this would be the closest I ever get to a young teenage girl (they’re surprisingly heavy!), I got on with it. My pulse quickened to a pace that my muscles and arterial walls haven’t experienced in months… years. I tried slowing down for a bit, walking the same distance I’d jogged. Up and down our road. I jogged some more — about 10 minutes, all told! — but eventually my leg muscles gave up. Lack of oxygen, I guess.

I didn’t pass out! I felt nauseous, though. Limited by my weak heart and weighty boobs I didn’t even exercise long enough to break a sweat. But there’s always tomorrow! I will get stronger! I will perspire!

* * *

I’m writing this at about 1am and I can hardly keep my eyes open. I blame the jogging thing for tiring me out! Lots of fragmented sentences, I know. Will write some more when I’m less tired! Oh, that’s not me in the picture, by the way…

So… I jogged again.

It wasn’t any easier than yesterday, but I guess it takes time — and to be honest, I mixed up the routine a little, so it’s hard to measure if I did any better or not. I also warmed up beforehand — twists, stretches, arm-circle-thingees but perhaps I was a little too rigorous, leaving my heart not quite ready for two hundred METERS of jogging.

There’s always tomorrow… and the next day!

And no, though I sound like a convert, I’m NOT. I don’t ENJOY it — not by a long way. But it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.

Anyway, I set up my camera so that I could record a little bit of video after my jog. I don’t know if I’ll make a habit of this… but… here you go:

* * *
Also, though TMI Thursday has sadly come to an end — blame Lilu, that cow! — I did manage to record another video that elucidates just why exactly men scratch their nuts:

I don’t really enjoy listening to myself talk… but that first line! I have to admit, I’ve listened to the first line a few times.

* * *
Unrelated, but did any of you (Brits) watch The First Election Debate last night, on ITV? It wasn’t great. Less of a debate, more of a bickerfest. I don’t know how anyone is meant to pick a leader from a debate like that. At least Nick Clegg didn’t spend the majority of his time splitting hairs or repeating choice phrases from stump speeches. Gordon Brown, poor sod; seems to actually know his stuff but lacks the necessary charisma or force of will to see it through — he’s been given a bad hand of cards, put it that way. And good ol’ David Cameron… he’s the least offensive of the lot, I guess. Nice enough — but is that enough?

I don’t think Brown or Cameron should be put on a stage together again, that’s for sure. It doesn’t bring out the best side of either! The Conservative and Labour partiesmust know that this election may come down to voting on who is the least worst candidate…