I’m thinking of getting a new job. I fancy becoming a smoking cessation officer. My pitch at the interview would demonstrate my belief in direct action.
Basically, I would march up to anyone smoking, yank their fag out of their hand or mouth, and shout very loudly at them: “STOP IT. IT IS KILLING YOU.’’
Peterborough I’m not surprised to learn is the county’s smoking, er, hotspot. Almost one in three of city folk still smoke.Now that did surprise me. I’d have guessed at no more than one in five.
As well as reducing your chances of seeing Posh in the Premiership, the time you spend with your grandkids and your ability to run for the bus, it is also a filthy and expensive habit.
Celebrities like Kate Moss might be smokin’ hot but having a crafty puff or two these days is about as cool as, er, the word cool.
And yes I do believe that smoking while pregnant should be a criminal offence.
Round about now is when I admit to being an ex-smoker.
I am an ex-smoker.
I only smoked for a few years in my early 20s and it’s one of my few regrets in life.
I am not, despite the opening words here a virulent anti-smoker. As long as you don’t blow it in my face I take a live and let you die early attitude.
My dad killed himself by smoking and probably didn’t do much for my lungs and life expectancy either.
I don’t blame him in the slightest. He started smoking in his teens, when lighting up was portrayed as compatible with a healthy and aspirational lifestyle.
By the time the dangers were made apparent he was hooked too deep and even though he had a few goes he never could give it up.
He paid a heavy price. He never met my children for starters.
Yesterday, was no smoking day, if I was you, I’d make tomorrow no smoking day too.
Organisations these days are obsessed with feedback. They say it is a tool to improve service, but “would you recommend us to your friends & family?’’ is a pretty bizarre question for an ambulance service to ask people it has helped in an emergency.
But that is exactly what the troubled East of England Ambulance Service Trust is doing. On its website it asks: “How likely are you to recommend the ambulance service to friends and family if they needed similar care or treatment?’’
I don’t know about you but if Coco the clown helped me in an emergency I’d recommend him.
I’m full of admiration for young Paston resident Ashley Hall who has carved out a lucrative career for himself by playing computer games on YouTube. I don’t pretend to understand what the 24-year-0ld does or how it earns him a living but good luck to him. It seems weird to me but then I suppose seeing teams of 11 blokes chasing round after an inflated pig’s bladder is a bit strange too.
If anyone wants to watch a YouTube video of me mowing the lawns/putting the bins out let me know...
A poll has asked people which TV character do they most associate with some of our leading politicians. Bafflingly UKIP leader Nigel Farage was likened to actor Ray Winstone while Ed Miliband was associated with Mr Bean.
I’m not sure how the Prime Minister feels about being described as Dick Dastardly (presumably that makes George Osborne Muttley) but he shouldn’t worry anyway.
Anybody who has a toddler knows that David Cameron is in fact Iggle Piggle.
Diary Of A Bad Dad
To sleep, perchance to dream. I think it’s nice every now and again to start with a quote from the Bard.
And thinking about sleep, or rather the lack of it, fillsmany of my waking hours.
This is not down to Baby T2 who, unlike his big sister, is a pretty good sleeper.
To be fair to Toddler T for the past 18 months or so she’s slept like a log. And she still does, except for one small but vital difference. She has now decided that any point from 5am on is wake up time which means 6am constitutes a lie-in for me.
Mrs T and I used to hate it when Toddler T was Baby T and people asked ‘ is she good?’ meaning, of course, did she sleep well. In private we’d harrumph together. “So what does that make her?Bad? She’s beautiful, bright and amazing.’’
Funnily enough those were not the adjectives we’d use to describe her at two, three, four and five in the morning. Ah, my old friend, five in the morning, it’s so nice to see you again.
I’ve tried everything to get Toddler T to stay in bed a bit longer... threats, promises, all the usual tools in a dad’s armoury.
I even tried “playing dead’’ one morning. Never again. Little fingers prising your eyelids open before the birds have started chirping is not a pleasant feeling!