Tag: Fitbit

Per Haps

Photo by Andras Stefuca on Pexels.com

Following on from Monday’s post I gave some thought to why I so seldom base these little nosegays on the actual haps of a day and, despite everything I said at the dawn of the week, I decided to try today.  So here, per Haps, I give you my Tuesday.  Sorry…

Yesterday was forecast to be a typical English summer day: cloudy (but not overcast), breezy (but not windy), warm (but not hot) with occasional showers (raining on and off for most of the day) so we decided to take the grandkids to the coast.  As we fairly regularly do, we headed for a local area that boasts miles of beautiful sand, car parking close to – or in some places on – the beach and public lavatories freely available (a must for a man of my age with two under-nines in tow).  On this occasion, we found ourselves on Huttoft Bank after a journey of about seventy five-minutes featuring, miraculously, only one ‘U’ turn, and unloaded picnic mat, windbreak, beach umbrella, coats, towels, swimming costumes, buckets, spades, football, cricket set, boules, a complete change of clothing and picnic – in short everything that we hadn’t forgotten – before finding ourselves a spot on the sand in the sheltered lee of a small, grassy sandbank.

There was what we shall call a brisk offshore breeze and the normally benign sea was frothing and raging.  Never mind, the kids were perfectly happy in the shallows, chasing the waves, as long as grandad came in too.  Since I turned sixty I have lived in fear of looking at my Fitbit only to find it saying ‘Are you actually wearing me?’ so, as I always do, I joined in – at least up to my knees.  The kids are sufficiently disparate in age to never want to do the same thing at the same time, so I tend to do all things twice – although seldom in the same order.  When the youngest spotted a jellyfish (real) and the eldest a shark (almost certainly not) we trotted up the beach for a drink and a biscuit before various rounds of football, tennis ball hurling, cricket, boules, sandcastle building – not forgetting, of course, the kids particular favourite: poking grandad in the back of the neck with a short stick when he isn’t looking.  And so we spent a pleasant morning.

As picnic time beckoned we trooped off to the loo which was surprisingly clean for the seaside and featured an electric hand-dryer with a flow of air like an angel’s fart, ensuring that everybody emerged wiping their still dripping hands on their shirts.  At least it had soap and water.  Dutifully relieved and cleansed we walked back to our seafront spot and prepared to battle the wasps which appeared in such numbers that it seemed likely they had a nest in the sandbank.  They didn’t, but looking around us, the whole beach was filled with shrieking children clutching food whilst attempting the wasp avoidance dance, which involves a lot of noise, a lot of running about and very little wasp avoidance.  Thankfully nobody got stung and we settled back in for an afternoon of japes (e.g. the same as the morning, but with the sea having moved some five hundred yards towards mainland Europe) all of which required the application of no more than four sticking plasters and a short length of micropore tape amongst the small people.

A day at the coast always involves a teatime trip to a nearby ‘resort’ for Fish & Chips and ice cream so, as the heavens began to turn the dimmer on the sun, we ladled ourselves back into the car and – with nothing more than an extra three tons of sand on board – we headed to Chapel St Leonard for our deep-fried libation.  The chips were outstanding – although mysteriously devoid of the much-requested salt & vinegar – and all were eaten before the short walk to the ice cream shop.  The youngest did not want ice cream, but opted instead for ‘Cotton Candy’* – the result of watching too much You Tube – but I forgave her because she is cute.  We ate them staring out to sea and then returned to the car by way of the local ‘Public Conveniences’ which, fairly inconveniently, are shuttered up at 4pm, because everybody knows that a five year old on the outside of a full bottle of Dr Pepper’s will not need a pee before getting home.

We looked for somewhere to stop on the way home, but to no avail.  Never mind, they were both asleep within two minutes of setting off, and never made a peep all the way.  No perseverance kids!

*In the UK it is known as Candy Floss.

So, they were my haps, and a pretty good example of why I seldom bore you with them they were.  Unusually I still have little idea of where Friday’s post will take me, but it won’t be back to the seaside I promise…

The Clarifying Clause

So, my phone pinged this morning with a message from my Fitbit, informing me that my cardio fitness is ‘Excellent for a man of your age’.  That’s good news, I thought, until I started to consider the clarifying clause – for a man of your age.  I wonder whether the clever little algorithm has taken into account the fact that I am incapable of being a man of any other age?  I couldn’t help thinking that it could just as well have said ‘Excellent, for a sedentary oaf,’ or ‘Excellent for a man who is just about to have a coronary.’  It means nothing.  It tells me nothing except, possibly, that it could be worse.  It is actually difficult to think of a sentence that cannot be qualified in such a way: ‘He’s really tall for his height,’ ‘She’s really plain for a supermodel,’ ‘He’s really funny for an Estate Agent,’ – an adjunct that renders the rest of the sentence meaningless.  Like a politician’s promise.  Like a Kremlin denial.

Furthermore, I then started to fret about why my little Spy Watch felt it necessary to impart this particular piece of information anyway.  It is true, I do have a tendency to press things willy nilly, not at all certain of what they do – it adds spice to a colourless life – possibly I inadvertently invited it to confide in me.  Possibly it did not decide for itself to let me in on its secret.  Maybe the faceless Chinese (I presume) coder decided that bad news had to be sugar-coated. Maybe the likely alternative – if I was no more than 50 – would be a blue-light trip to the ICU, but at my age, what’s the point?

In normal times I get an annual once-over from the doctor.  This involves numerous phials of blood being siphoned from my enfeebled arteries and sent for analysis – to ascertain that the drugs, indeed, do still work.  The resultant Middle-Aged Talking-To that I receive from the doctor always involves the phrase, ‘Stats are all good for you,’ which I take to mean that for anybody else they would not be.  This, I do not find reassuring.  The two appended words are something akin to a medical cop-out codicil.  A kind of iatrical way of saying ‘Don’t you wish you were somebody else?  Readings like this and, if you were not you, we would be putting you on a drip.’  I emerge from the surgery a shadow of the man who entered.

This year, I have not yet been summoned – presumably the threat of me contracting/spreading Covid, trumps all the other maleficients queuing up to take me under.  I’m pretty certain that my prostate, for instance, is not aware that it is no longer being monitored, but it’s hard to be sure.  Are glands capable of sentient thought?  The brain sits above all nerve connections, so I can concede the possibility of it handing down info.  Not an instruction exactly, just a tip of the wink.  ‘Nobody’s watching you.  Playtime!’  Anyway, just in case my blood pressure is reading this – I’ve got my eye on you.  I have one of those little electronic monitors which I use as regularly as my memory allows, but it stresses me out.  By the time I have connected the cuff to the machine, got the cuff on the right way round, worked out how to use the Velcro, I am as tight as a drum.  With the pressure inside of me, I could probably hold my own at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

At least the sphygmomanometer is a fairly straightforward measurer of fact.  It tells me what my blood pressure is.  It does not have the Artificial Intelligence to make value judgements.  It does not say, ‘Hi,’ (McQueen’s Law of Artificial Intelligence: All AI devices begin by saying ‘Hi’ before they become patronising) ‘your blood pressure today is 120/80 which is ok for a lardarse.  Now, why don’t you try and do something with your life that does not involve lying down and eating crisps?’  No doubt, if I bought a newer one, it would.  The level of oversight we are allowing technology is becoming alarming.  My mobile has just ‘pinged’ in order that it can advise me of my daily usage and whether it feels that I should cut down on my screen time.  I can’t help but wonder how much time I would actually have to spend staring at my mobile before it felt that it was all too much.  Presumably when I start to interfere with its work/life balance.  Rather like asking bookmakers to monitor the issues of problem gamblers, I do somewhat question the motivation.  Mostly the poacher only turns gamekeeper because it saves him laying his own traps.

Anyway, if you are at all interested, my phone usage is actually fine – for a man of my age.

The photo at the top was originally from the piece Newspeak – The Curse of the Smart Phone – which is here. The quote on the phone is from George Orwell.