Not such a dilemma after all, then

Thank God for Virginia Ironside, who in yesterday’s Independent cleared up the whole complex moral question of aborting potentially disabled babies. Responding to an anguished reader who has taken the difficult decision to have an abortion because her child would have been disabled, Virginia reassures her that actually it would be completely wrong not to have an abortion in that situation.

“What parent,” Virginia asks, “would knowingly give birth to a child who she knows is going to be born at a dreadful disadvantage, probably having to suffer endless operations, pain and suffering for what may be a very short life?” A very bad one, I think we are meant to conclude.

That’s that then – if in doubt, don’t give birth to that handicapped person. It’s a good job we’ve got hacks like Virginia to sort out these issues, as the people who are supposed to be qualified to do so – the Priests, the philosophers, the Reader’s Digest – are still dragging their feet and debating them endlessly. And if only we’d had the technology to identify potential disabilties in previous centuries, we might have avoided the lives of Ray Charles, Stephen Hawking, Lord Byron, Beethoven, and every single one of those athletes who has won a medal in the paralympics. And if Professor Hawking was reading this, I’m sure he’d be the first to agree he should never have been born – though I fear he’s currently too busy answering questions from all around the world about the first ever discovery of a triple quasar in space. Tsk – the life of a quadriplegic, eh.

But even if Hawking were to argue that he’s rather pleased that he was born, Virginia Ironside has anticipated his argument: “Writing this will, I know, bring in an avalanche of letters…from severely disabled adults who are horrified that I’m proposing their lives should have been extinguished before they were even born. And once they’re on the scene, of course what is there to do but love them and help them?” Of course, what indeed? It isn’t their fault they were born. “But,” she warns, “those who write optimistically about a disabled life are the lucky ones” – that’s right, disabled people who believe they had every right to be born are just selfishly ignoring all the others who would rather be dead.

In any case, as a reader letter succinctly puts it: “a handicapped child handicaps the entire family”. Damn right, they just drag everyone else down with them. Bring on the gas chambers. (Quoted reader is, I’m glad to say, now enjoying a box of Charbonnel et Walker champagne truffles for their profound opinion.)

Reading a little deeper, I think that Virginia is actually making an even more profound point; when she says that “it is only kind, fair and, importantly, truly loving not to give birth to a child who might spend its life in permanent pain and suffering”, she is surely advocating a blanket stop to any childbirth whatever. After all, any child might spend its life in permanent pain and suffering – God knows, many of us feel that we do. We all know that man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery – and as Virginia says, “there is nothing about life that makes it worth living per se”. I only wish that my parents had loved me enough to have me aborted.

Virginia Ironside is, as I said, expecting an “avalanche of letters” so if you can spare a moment email your thoughts to dilemmas@independent.co.uk because I wouldn’t wish to begrudge her a little feeling of satisfaction at every narrow-minded conservative who disagrees with her. After all, she’s probably still coming to terms with the fact that her parents didn’t love her enough to put an end to her foetus’ growth into a human being.

Well – a being, at any rate.

An epiphany

J. S. B. Monsell’s hymn O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness declares in the fourth stanza, “mornings of joy give for evenings of tearfulness”.

After the kind of week I’ve had, I can’t help feeling that a more useful dictum might be “evenings of joy make for mornings of tearfulness”…

I'm in charge

I’m in control of BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. The whole thing. Right now.

Just me.

I’m in charge. I can do what I like.

If I wanted, I could completely stop it from going out to Cambridgeshire. I could pull the plugs on the whole thing.

On the other hand, that would inconvenience an awful lot of Fenlanders.

I’d better leave it as it is.

"Dual stick" movement control

This year’s Doctor Who Christmas offering, “The Runaway Bride”, was so tiresomely crap that I can’t even be bothered to talk about it.

But I have reason to be grateful for the new series of Who, substandard though it so often turns out to be (and don’t even get me started on Torchwood…). Because one its consequences has been the production of a varied and I reckon pretty high-quality (if overpriced) range of merchandise. And as of Christmas day, I have been the proud owner of a radio controlled Dalek.

It is officially the Best Christmas Present I Have Ever Had.

The downside, I fear, is that it already accounts for most of next year’s procrastination time. In fact it seems likely that I’ll have to make a whole load of extra time for the usual procrastination, meaning that I’ll get nothing useful done at all.

Ah well, so much for 2007.

What's brown and sounds like a bell?

Thanks for the many enquires I’ve had into the current situation as regards my plumbing problems; for those of you still worried that I may be drowning in my own excrement, I’m pleased to say that Ambassador Property Management sent somebody to sort out the problem after a mere two days of pestering phone calls, and we now have a new toilet which doesn’t sluice our own shit into the hallway.

On the other hand, in spite of assurances that the shit-encrusted hole in our hallway ceiling would be repaired, and that the shit-encrusted lino in our bathroom would be replaced, and our sewage-soiled carpet would be scrubbed, nothing further seems to have happened. And there’s only so many phone calls you can make before it started to feel like somebody is taking the piss.

Yesterday we discussed the possibility of sending a Christmas card to Ambassador, perhaps containing a subtle reminder about our problems. We came up with various messages that managed to combine Christmas with sewage, but the following are my current favourites:

Ding dung merrily on high
I saw three shits come sailing in – through the hole in our ceiling
This is the shit sent from above
Deck the hall – with shit
Shit had fallen, shit on shit, shit on shit
(after Christina Rossetti)
How silently, how silently, the shit drips through our ceiling
I’m dreaming of a brown Christmas
When Santa got stuck up the chimney…at least we had a second hole in our ceiling for ventilation

Or perhaps the most pointed in the circumstances:

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…sewage-related hepatitis B

Serendipity of Carols

I’m working on my Britten biopic and I just noticed that at one point I’d described Peter Pears as “a figure of clam sanity”.

I immediately corrected the word “clam” to “calm”. Then I started to wonder if it might not have been better the way it was before. I admit that it would change the focus of the film considerably – if Pears is to be portrayed as a clam then Britten will have to be a mussel or something similar – and it would be altogether less of a costume drama and more the kind of film produced by Pixar.

But so what? I can think of several advantages:

1. It would bring the music of Britten to a younger generation through a Snorks-like re-imagining of history.

2. It would draw clever parallels with the sea-oriented operas Peter Grimes and Billy Budd.

3. It might inspire the insane people who threaten world peace with their nuclear stockpiles to try to be “figures of clam sanity”. And drown.

4. Peter Pears as a clam – you’ve got to laugh. And it would make the sex scenes considerably easier to write.