Faith-based initiatives

It's no secret that I'm a fully-qualified homeopath. I got my Dip. Hom. about 10 years ago, which is amazing considering the fact I was going through a fairly messy relationship breakup (following on from the messy relationship) at the time. I have done precisely nothing with it, other than ram potions down various friends' throats, whether or not they actually ask for them (I'm trying).

So, I've been following with interest the current blow-up in the UK with the British Medical Association pronouncing that alternative therapies such as homeopathy, acupuncture et al should not be funded via the National Health Service. Given the state of GPs' waiting rooms in the UK, I think they should be grateful for any therapies that take the load off conventional doctors. *ahem*

Anyway, the Guardian got around to interviewing the clinical director of the Royal London Homeopathic Hospital (it's "Royal" because the Queen, Queen Mother, Prince Charles and Princess Anne have all been treated there) on the issue. The Guardian headline? Bottom line is that it works, says homeopathic chief.

*Snarf!*

Oh, it just cracks me up, because it's true. It does work, and there is no logical or proven scientific method as to why it does (and no, it's not just placebo, unless placebos work on 3-week-old babies with jaundice - ie. my nephew). But I like it that he just came out and admitted it.

Well, it'll be interesting to see what results.

It's ironic that I never saw a homeopath while I was in England, tho'. I certainly could have done with one!

Le weekend

Well, I had a delightful weekend. Bought some new jeans, very exciting. Although they only seem to do black jeans with the stovepipe legs these days. Since I'm not a boy with hips narrower than my waist, I had to forgo them. Still, the kind of not-quite-black bootcut boys' jeans I ended up getting are pretty comfy. I just have to get 6 inches of excess trimmed off the bottom. *sigh*

I also bought some foam to stick under my fucking useless futon mattress. If you're after a good-quality, 5-layer futon (wool/cotton/foam/cotton/wool), do not go to Futons Express in Canberra (no linkie for them). The super-duper expensive "sumo" mattress hasn't even lasted a year - I can feel the slats when I lie on my side. And yes, I turn it every week and give it a thump.

Actually, I just looked at their site, and they do have a diagram of the 8" sumo mattress. There is only 2 inches of foam (which must be the crappiest kind), "4 layers" of cotton, and what looks like a miniscule layer of wool (an inch in total)? I didn't see that diagram before I bought it, or else I wouldn't have got it. Serves me right for not asking at the time.

When I got it, I was thinking of a certain brand of futons they sell in NZ, where the primo 6" mattress has a 2" coco fibre core, surrounded by an inch of latex on each side, and then an inch of  wool for the final layers. Maybe I should just get another bed - and I've found a new shop in Canberra that appears to do decent bases, with rubber mounts for the slats - but the only decent mattress manufacturer here appears to be in Melbourne. I'll try the shop in Sydney next time I'm up, but they look as dodgy as the Futons Express ones.
( Cut for Saturday night date trivia )

Today, I drove around some obscure country towns - I felt like a scenic drive - and went to see X-Men, which wasn't quite as fun as I was hoping it to be. The ending was frankly stupid - I don't know how they got from the chaos of the 5 minutes before to all the lovely hearts and flowers at the end. What was stuck in as "light relief" was irritating, and Vinnie Jones should hold his fucking head in a bucket of water (or perhaps concrete would be better) for at least the next decade or so. There was maybe 15 minutes' dialogue in the whole thing? No character development to speak of, except Jean's (and "development" is kind of relative, here). Although I laughed at the part with the Golden Gate Bridge. Hm, entertaining, but I liked the last one better.

Also, the person the row behind me who ate her fucking popcorn with her mouth wide open throughout the entire movie - one kernel every 20 seconds, audible in the noisy parts, like a fucking overgrown rodent nibbling celery stalks - should be forced to eat it through her nose next time. God, it was irritating, and something I couldn't tune out. She'd eat faster in the exciting bits. And in the few times there was dialogue, she would punctuate it with her fucking crunchcrunchcrunch. Oh, and to all the people who laughed uproariously at the promo for the sexist retro bullshit that's Adam Sandler's latest vehicle (Click)? You're all fuckwits. So there.

But, you know, I had a great weekend.