Today Programme has been trying to "debate" obesity. I respond:
Dear John Humphrys.
First, the complaint of e-mailers that "we do not know what obesity is" is just a symptom of denial. Of all health indicators, obesity is the simplest - just measure weight and height, then match the results to the charts. Sure, abdominal girth is a useful added indicator, and muscle mass is important (which can be separately measured) but nothing is perfect, and "proof" does not exist in science (not a lot of people realise that). In the end, if it looks like a duck, and it waddles like a duck, it probably needs to lose weight. Good enough for the poor old NHS. Except that treating obesity in the surgery is time-consuming and unrewarding work. Many of us GPs just say "Go to weight watchers" which is effective, and if they have not enough motivation to do that, they do not have enough motivation for us to have any lasting effect.
Which leads on to the role of Government. The compulsion of Ministers to prattle about lifestyle choices is ludicrous. The role of Government should be to create an economic framework where the factors which make for obesity are discouraged, and healthy practices encouraged. This means a tax on fat and sugar, and tax on cars to be hypothecated to cycle lanes on roads, cycle tracks, walking areas, subsidies for (?renationalisation of?) public transport (since we have to walk to the bus and train).
However, calling for those measures is like howling for the moon. It will not happen, because the oil and car industries will lobby against it. But you should be asking questions designed to bring out the fact that government ought to be changing the economic framework that leads to obesity.
IMHO.
Regards
Richard Lawson
(Past Green Party Health Speaker)
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Of Scotland and Floridan Sheds
A huge long silence on this blog. Been to Scotland, which, as Billy Connolly has noted, is very purple in colour due to the heather. Viewed from inside the woods have a sort of unfocussed blurry greyish purple tinge that goes flesh coloured further up, and then goes green. The Mountains are very large in size. Cumbria is more knobbly than Scotland.
There is of course more that could be said, but life is short. The main thing is that 2 weeks ago I jotted down a poem for Rudy Lewis' shed, and today I finally chiselled its shape out of the jottings. Rudy Lewis edits Chickenbones, and has been working on a shed recently. My poem (which Rudy has kindly weblished on his well-visited site) goes like this:
The Shed
To Rudolph Lewis
I hope that you, old friend, toiling away
to fix the roof of your store shed
all day for days in overwhelming heat,
the sweat of natural Florida,
that makes this too-warm English summer
seem temperate again,
I hope you win. I hope your father’s store
Is gloried with the roof that it deserves
I hope that you don’t fall.
I want my friends in Africa
pinned down in Mogadishu
by flying lead, not nails,
to know about your shed.
I want as many people now
to know about your shed
as stand to learn from it,
because it’s more than shed
we talking here.
Fine as it no doubt is as shed,
this one is more than timber,
more than tar paper and sweat,
more than determination,
more than a health and safety risk,
more than some slabs of wood
arranged with more or less regard
to canons of structural integrity:
It is a thing of spirit,
creation of a living poet.
Architecture. Frozen blues, maybe.
Cathedrals come to mind.
Not that they should come
en masse to make a pilgrimage,
although in fact when you have gone
they might well come,
for few are famous while they breathe,
and of the ones that are,
it would be better for us all
that they were not,
maybe.
The point is that this shed
is getting built.
Trees are our brothers.
They live and die
just like John Barleycorn,
and willingly give up the sap
to win new life in service to their family.
This shed was once alive,
bi-placentate in form,
a joiner-up of earth and sky
the fusion point in its green sap
to all four elements.
Like Shiva’s locks that broke the flood
Its leaves gave shade from blazing sun.
Trees give us unconditional love,
like dogs and gods;
some gods,
sadly not all.
It died to find itself becoming shed.
Frozen blues? In Florida now
the only frozen things
are found in white machines
humming beneath their breath
just while the juice is on.
Not frozen: solid blues
from far away, blown out by Buddy Bolden,
crossing a river wider, deeper, cooler than
Pontchartrain to celebrate one poet’s work.
It’s up there with the wolf and owl
and in the end, I dare say
up there with
Eli, Eli Lama Sabacthani,
if all the Truth be known.
The point is this:
this is a shed that’s going up.
Rudy is in the business of building sheds,
not breaking them.
He does not use his strength to knock down sheds.
He does not bulldoze structures.
He brings no lethal force to bear on others’ work.
There are no bombs in Rudy’s bag.
That’s all. That’s good. That’s all we need.
(c) Richard Lawson
There is of course more that could be said, but life is short. The main thing is that 2 weeks ago I jotted down a poem for Rudy Lewis' shed, and today I finally chiselled its shape out of the jottings. Rudy Lewis edits Chickenbones, and has been working on a shed recently. My poem (which Rudy has kindly weblished on his well-visited site) goes like this:
The Shed
To Rudolph Lewis
I hope that you, old friend, toiling away
to fix the roof of your store shed
all day for days in overwhelming heat,
the sweat of natural Florida,
that makes this too-warm English summer
seem temperate again,
I hope you win. I hope your father’s store
Is gloried with the roof that it deserves
I hope that you don’t fall.
I want my friends in Africa
pinned down in Mogadishu
by flying lead, not nails,
to know about your shed.
I want as many people now
to know about your shed
as stand to learn from it,
because it’s more than shed
we talking here.
Fine as it no doubt is as shed,
this one is more than timber,
more than tar paper and sweat,
more than determination,
more than a health and safety risk,
more than some slabs of wood
arranged with more or less regard
to canons of structural integrity:
It is a thing of spirit,
creation of a living poet.
Architecture. Frozen blues, maybe.
Cathedrals come to mind.
Not that they should come
en masse to make a pilgrimage,
although in fact when you have gone
they might well come,
for few are famous while they breathe,
and of the ones that are,
it would be better for us all
that they were not,
maybe.
The point is that this shed
is getting built.
Trees are our brothers.
They live and die
just like John Barleycorn,
and willingly give up the sap
to win new life in service to their family.
This shed was once alive,
bi-placentate in form,
a joiner-up of earth and sky
the fusion point in its green sap
to all four elements.
Like Shiva’s locks that broke the flood
Its leaves gave shade from blazing sun.
Trees give us unconditional love,
like dogs and gods;
some gods,
sadly not all.
It died to find itself becoming shed.
Frozen blues? In Florida now
the only frozen things
are found in white machines
humming beneath their breath
just while the juice is on.
Not frozen: solid blues
from far away, blown out by Buddy Bolden,
crossing a river wider, deeper, cooler than
Pontchartrain to celebrate one poet’s work.
It’s up there with the wolf and owl
and in the end, I dare say
up there with
Eli, Eli Lama Sabacthani,
if all the Truth be known.
The point is this:
this is a shed that’s going up.
Rudy is in the business of building sheds,
not breaking them.
He does not use his strength to knock down sheds.
He does not bulldoze structures.
He brings no lethal force to bear on others’ work.
There are no bombs in Rudy’s bag.
That’s all. That’s good. That’s all we need.
(c) Richard Lawson
Of Scotland and Floridan Sheds
A huge long silence on this blog. Been to Scotland, which, as Billy Connolly has noted, is very purple in colour due to the heather. Viewed from inside the woods have a sort of unfocussed blurry greyish purple tinge that goes flesh coloured further up, and then goes green. The Mountains are very large in size. Cumbria is more knobbly than Scotland.
There is of course more that could be said, but life is short. The main thing is that 2 weeks ago I jotted down a poem for Rudy Lewis' shed, and today I finally chiselled its shape out of the jottings. Rudy Lewis edits Chickenbones, and has been working on a shed recently. My poem goes goes like this:
The Shed
To Rudolph Lewis
I hope that you, old friend, toiling away
to fix the roof of your store shed
all day for days in overwhelming heat,
the sweat of natural Florida,
that makes this too-warm English summer
seem temperate again,
I hope you win. I hope your father’s store
Is gloried with the roof that it deserves
I hope that you don’t fall.
I want my friends in Africa
pinned down in Mogadishu
by flying lead, not nails,
to know about your shed.
I want as many people now
to know about your shed
as stand to learn from it,
because it’s more than shed
we talking here.
Fine as it no doubt is as shed,
this one is more than timber,
more than tar paper and sweat,
more than determination,
more than a health and safety risk,
more than some slabs of wood
arranged with more or less regard
to canons of structural integrity:
It is a thing of spirit,
creation of a living poet.
Architecture. Frozen blues, maybe.
Cathedrals come to mind.
Not that they should come
en masse to make a pilgrimage,
although in fact when you have gone
they might well come,
for few are famous while they breathe,
and of the ones that are,
it would be better for us all
that they were not,
maybe.
The point is that this shed
is getting built.
Trees are our brothers.
They live and die
just like John Barleycorn,
and willingly give up the sap
to win new life in service to their family.
This shed was once alive,
bi-placentate in form,
a joiner-up of earth and sky
the fusion point in its green sap
to all four elements.
Like Shiva’s locks that broke the flood
Its leaves gave shade from blazing sun.
Trees give us unconditional love,
like dogs and gods;
some gods,
sadly not all.
It died to find itself becoming shed.
Frozen blues? In Florida now
the only frozen things
are found in white machines
humming beneath their breath
just while the juice is on.
Not frozen: solid blues
from far away, blown out by Buddy Bolden,
crossing a river wider, deeper, cooler than
Pontchartrain to celebrate one poet’s work.
It’s up there with the wolf and owl
and in the end, I dare say
up there with
Eli, Eli Lama Sabacthani,
if all the Truth be known.
The point is this:
this is a shed that’s going up.
Rudy is in the business of building sheds,
not breaking them.
He does not use his strength to knock down sheds.
He does not bulldoze structures.
He brings no lethal force to bear on others’ work.
There are no bombs in Rudy’s bag.
That’s all. That’s good. That’s all we need.
(c) Richard Lawson
There is of course more that could be said, but life is short. The main thing is that 2 weeks ago I jotted down a poem for Rudy Lewis' shed, and today I finally chiselled its shape out of the jottings. Rudy Lewis edits Chickenbones, and has been working on a shed recently. My poem goes goes like this:
The Shed
To Rudolph Lewis
I hope that you, old friend, toiling away
to fix the roof of your store shed
all day for days in overwhelming heat,
the sweat of natural Florida,
that makes this too-warm English summer
seem temperate again,
I hope you win. I hope your father’s store
Is gloried with the roof that it deserves
I hope that you don’t fall.
I want my friends in Africa
pinned down in Mogadishu
by flying lead, not nails,
to know about your shed.
I want as many people now
to know about your shed
as stand to learn from it,
because it’s more than shed
we talking here.
Fine as it no doubt is as shed,
this one is more than timber,
more than tar paper and sweat,
more than determination,
more than a health and safety risk,
more than some slabs of wood
arranged with more or less regard
to canons of structural integrity:
It is a thing of spirit,
creation of a living poet.
Architecture. Frozen blues, maybe.
Cathedrals come to mind.
Not that they should come
en masse to make a pilgrimage,
although in fact when you have gone
they might well come,
for few are famous while they breathe,
and of the ones that are,
it would be better for us all
that they were not,
maybe.
The point is that this shed
is getting built.
Trees are our brothers.
They live and die
just like John Barleycorn,
and willingly give up the sap
to win new life in service to their family.
This shed was once alive,
bi-placentate in form,
a joiner-up of earth and sky
the fusion point in its green sap
to all four elements.
Like Shiva’s locks that broke the flood
Its leaves gave shade from blazing sun.
Trees give us unconditional love,
like dogs and gods;
some gods,
sadly not all.
It died to find itself becoming shed.
Frozen blues? In Florida now
the only frozen things
are found in white machines
humming beneath their breath
just while the juice is on.
Not frozen: solid blues
from far away, blown out by Buddy Bolden,
crossing a river wider, deeper, cooler than
Pontchartrain to celebrate one poet’s work.
It’s up there with the wolf and owl
and in the end, I dare say
up there with
Eli, Eli Lama Sabacthani,
if all the Truth be known.
The point is this:
this is a shed that’s going up.
Rudy is in the business of building sheds,
not breaking them.
He does not use his strength to knock down sheds.
He does not bulldoze structures.
He brings no lethal force to bear on others’ work.
There are no bombs in Rudy’s bag.
That’s all. That’s good. That’s all we need.
(c) Richard Lawson
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