Vultures

I'm back walking three weeks after breaking my hand. The base of the metacarpal was successfully pinned and plated two weeks ago and the bandages came off yesterday. So I went out for a short walk today and got sweaty for the first time since the surgery. Not a long walk, just two local loops, with my wife and our dog.

Despite the splinted hand, it's been a hectic three weeks, and while there's been a lot to think about at work, there've been a lot of family issues too. Parental transitions; dementia, strokes, Byzantine bureaucracy and some amazing selfless carers as nursing home care became reality. A family wedding involving many from home and around the globe. A new engagement, perhaps a wedding next year, and a visit to a potential wedding venue. The end of a school year for another transition. The Dalkey Book Festival. And there was The Take Five gallery opening in Kinsale. Discussions with other family members considering job/career changes. All of these layered into a continuous blizzard of intense work commitments for my wife. In the middle of which I had a five day hangover from a general anaesthetic (anyone, how does propofol actually work?).

Talking of such things, I learned that Diclofenac is a killer; it's the active ingredient in the Voltarol I recommended in an earlier post and it almost wiped out the birds that dispose of bodies in India. I've written before about my respect for American Turkey Vultures who were (and sometimes still are) used by natural gas companies to pinpoint pipeline leaks. Natural gas is by itself odorless, so gas companies add the chemical ethyl mercaptan to it so that people can smell gas leaks. As it happens, ethyl mercaptan is one of the chemicals emitted by putrefying animal carcasses, and so, strangely, leaks in natural gas pipelines attract congregations of Turkey Vultures. But don't be confused by my conflation of vulture stories; the diclofenac and mercaptan stories are only linked by the association with vultures. (Which reminds me of Bird Sense, an excellent book on senses in birds by Tim Birkhead in 2012.)

Overheard while yielding way on a path: woman to two late teenage sons: "And there it is, the stone bird ..."

Overheard on passing a park bench: two women, one to the other: "I tried another one on in BT and it fits, so maybe I should ..."

Overheard passing a coffee shop; father to teenage son: "They left the place in a terrible mess. You've got to understand your friends did this to you, to us."

For a different view of your world, you might want to read this thought provoking piece in the Los Angeles Review of books: "What Are We Still Doing in Guantanamo?".

And if you need to know the difference between cryogenics and cryonics, read Wait but Why here.

And so, back to fundraising. Recall that I was watching pipits and larks the day I broke my hand. I was retching and resting and retching on the way up the mountain and now I have found a famous haiku that even in English captures the scene (of the birds).

all the long day
singing, singing, yet not enough:
a skylark
Bashō

I'm not going to make the 500 km in training walks before the event, which is just six days away. We walk next Saturday. I tried. I will still do the event unless it rains; I'll cry off if raining in case I'd slip and undo the repairs to my hand. Otherwise, I'm going for it.

Meanwhile, I am very proud of our sponsorship and fundraising endeavours. The funds raised to date are fantastic, thank you and you can read more here.