Readers from outside the State, probably don’t realise the state our health service is in. Read about a real life - real time - example here. Irish readers, accustomed to the state our State is in, please copy. It might help. Probably not, but it’s worth a shot.

Maybe you could let your local representatives (fellow bloggers … during the election … since ceased) know. Here’s the link to one of mine.

We didn’t have TV until I was about 12 or 13. I hope no kids are reading this as that’d scare the living daylights out of them.

An aunt got one of those new fangled coloured TVs and gave us her old black and white. Such excitement. It was like Christmas. Probably because it was Christmas.

The snag was we didn’t have a spare socket. To the rescue rode my uncle. (No messing - he had a bike). A table was pulled to the middle of the floor and the set was plugged into the light fitting. It worked fine and we all huddled around to watch a war movie. It may have been called Mother Goose. I’m not sure. Maybe that was just the call-sign used by the pilot of the lead plane. It’s all I remember.

It wasn’t until the new year my uncle returned and wired up an extra socket. All over Christmas, the auld fella would sit with just the flickering light of the TV and the fire, grumbling as he tried to read his paper.

Up until then, I had been dabbling in the drug that is TV. And like all addicts, I was creative in getting my fix. An old man down the road had one and it put it on on Sunday afternoons to watch the big game from Croke Park. I didn’t mind the hurling but loathed the football, yet I’d sit through it feigning excitement and making appropriate comments and noises. Once the game was over, he’d put the kettle on and produce the biscuits and buns. Ah shur, leave it on, I’d suggest. There might be something else good coming up. It was always Tarzan after the game and I knew it. He did too I suppose and just played along. He wanted the company, I wanted the telly.

That was years ago. Months ago I turned off my own TV and haven’t turned it on since. I don’t know how for long. It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t even notice I’d kicked the habit until I was asked if I’d seen such-and-such.

If I get rid of it altogether by year end I won’t have to renew my license come January. That’s appealing. The license itself is appalling. All that money for RTÉ and they just show rubbish. They don’t even have Tarzan any more for crisake! Even the ads they run reminding us we need a license are rubbish. One had three Irish twenty some things pretending they couldn’t speak English. The inspector responds in Polish and Chinese, and reminds the guy who says he’s from Barbados, that English is spoken there. The funny thing is, no Polish person can understand what the actor’s saying - it’s definitely not Polish.

If I hold onto it, it will be to watch DVDs. I can do that on my computer but the quality is not the same. I’ll see how things go during the feathers - there are always DVDs then, and time to watch them. And some worth viewing a second time weeks later.

Yeah, I may hold onto it just for that. What’s bugging me though, is I’d have kicked the habit, yet I’d still be paying for the drugs.

Contrast these three snippets from recent Irish newspaper articles. (Headlines underlined)

Katy on life support after heart attacks

… Katy’s failure to respond to treatment is viewed as so serious that doctors have ruled out moving her to a more acute hospital in Dublin … Close friends revealed Katy was …

Read the full piece from the Irish Examiner.

Tragic Katy dies in sister’s arms

… Katy’s heartbroken parents were also at her bedside … A team of consultants are understood to have examined Katy in Our Lady’s Hospital yesterday afternoon.

Read the full piece from Irish Independent.

Top model Katy French dies in Navan hospital

… Ms French (24) was taken to Our Lady’s Hospital in Navan … French celebrated her 24th birthday …

Read the full piece from the Irish Times.

Spot the difference? Top marks if you noticed the third one is journalism. I don’t know what you’d call the other two, but certainly not journalism.

The Irish Times is the only paper that has covered this saga impartially and professionally over the last few days. They have not lowered themselves to the lovey dovey style of familiarity the others have.

And rightly so. I didn’t know this woman. I never heard of her until this happened. You probably didn’t either unless you read society/gossip columns and their ilk. Being seen at parties and functions doesn’t achieve anything. It doesn’t stop wars, feed the hungry, advance life-saving technology. Not even help old ladies across the road or cats down out of trees. Nothing. So why the familiarity?

There are few exceptions for reporting on a first name basis. One was the Robert Holohan case. A child was missing and later found dead in a ditch. The whole nation empathised. The whole nation worried. The whole nation was united. Lines like “Robert is now missing three days” were acceptable. No, we didn’t know him, but it was as if we did, because we could imagine what his family and friends were going through. Our genetic programming triggers protective responses where the young are concerned. “Robert is now missing three days” = “A helpless child is now missing three days”.

This is not the case here. Despite its flaws, it would seem the Irish Times is the sole surviving newspaper in Ireland.

Warning: Not for the weak of stomach

I was up to my eyeballs yesterday what with making a shopping list, reading blogs and generally avoiding work when the mobile rang. I grunted my displeasure and frowned at it, but being a cheap Huawei import it has difficulty understanding western social norms and kept ringing. I had to answer it. It was Kathy inviting me out to lunch. Well that was okay then. Very pleasant in fact. As we all know, doing lunch is a 100% legitimate excuse to avoid work. And of course she would have the wee man, Oisín, with her. At just 3½ months old he’s already becoming an individual in his own right with his likes and dislikes, big gummy smiles, eyes that follow everything that moves, little fisted hands that rub his eyes when tired. Mighty craic all together.

Now those of you who are mums or dads will know that the SAS, climbers on Everest and Arctic explorers have it easy - they have damn all supplies and equipment to carry compared to the parent of a baby. When picking a lunch venue you need one with space. Preferably big couches to rest the baby-carrier or to lay the child down on and room for bag(s) with nappies, wipes, creams, soothers, bottles, spare bibs, clothes, shovels, rakes and implements of destruction. The list is endless.

I was commended on my choice. It ticked all the boxes apparently. We chatted away over a lovely lunch all the while being checked on by the staff who were really making up excuses to ooh and aah at Oisín. It never ceases to amaze me how people, even the grumpiest of old men, turn into blubbering idiots in the presence of a baby.

Coffees arrived and an unrequested jug of hot water in case we needed to warm a bottle. Which we did. I was impressed with the service.

I fed himself while Kathy slipped to the loo. On her return she moaned that they were tiny with no room next the wash hand basins to comfortably, or safely, change a child and obviously no fold down contraption for the job. Then inspiration hit her - a quick check and his nappy was just damp. I’ll slip a new one on discretely where we are. That’s a runner, I figured. The crowd had all gone and we were in an alcove hidden from view.

Just as the fresh one was being slipped on there was an almighty explosion and the proverbial hit the fan. Well not totally true. It hit everything except the fan as there wasn’t one. But it would have if there was. Now I’ve had the hottest curries in my day and ended up with an arse like the Japanese flag, but never like this. Good f*ck! This happens once a day, explained Kathy. Like clockwork at 4 in the afternoon. It must have come early as he’s on extra feed since today.

Just then I noticed, well more sensed, one of the staff approaching. I jumped up on my hind legs and intercepted him. Ah, there ya are now, Derek. Ya have the bill with ya. Good man, I’ll get ya on the way back. Just have to nip to the mens. I hovered at the door for a minute or two then returned. Kathy gave me the Iarnród Éireann line - we’re not there yet, but we’re getting there.

Derek was making his way over again. With a cloth in his hand. I grabbed the coffee mugs, pulled a wipe from the baby bag, cleared down the table and made intercept number two. There ya go now, Derek. All done.

Ah thanks, Primal. There’s a job here for ya any day. Want to settle up now? I stalled and made like I couldn’t find the bill. He ran off a copy. I glanced at Kathy shaking her head vigorously. It looked like Oisín was sorted and she was working on the (luckily PVC) couch. Oh, I think this isn’t right. We didn’t have coffees did we? Derek looked at me sideways. But shur you just handed me the empties. Bad stall, Primal - 1 out of 10 - must work harder. I glanced at Kathy now sitting back looking flushed but smiling. Or trying to. Oh, yeah we did. Yer right. I paid and we left.

At the car she remembered her handbag. I went back in. Derek met with it at the door. It must be something in the air today, Primal. You forgot the coffees. Her ladyship forgot her bag. And I forgot to tell ya we have a new baby changing room down the hallway.

• I see the folks over at blogger.com, and they are not evil as we all know, have dickied up comments: If you don’t have, or don’t wish to use, a don’t be evil account, or comment anonymously, now all you have to do is enter a nickname. None of the messing from before where you had to type in your name, email and URL. Makes it all very easy doesn’t it. Well not for the next reader who wants to click through to your site. They can’t. Maybe they mean don’t be very evil, but be as evil as you can get away with.

• Another thing I see is that the Swearing Lady has resurfaced over at the Arse End of Ireland. Well she yawned, stretched and rolled over back to sleep. Not that it mattered - the beast awoke solely to poach bloggers for her new project. I volunteered. I wonder will I be considered acerbic enough.

• I seen a lot this week. Yet another thing I seen is Eolaí has revamped Irish KC. His own postings now take pride of place in the (larger) left column while news of events in Kansas City are relegated to a small ads section in the centre. And rightly so now that he’s back home in dear old Ireland. Oh, and there’s new favicons too for Irish KC and American Hell.

• Stats junkies will be interested in an article from the Economist. It’s really aimed at marketeers but for bloggers it throws up some interesting food for thought. Not that throwing up food is something I encourage.

• The latest little worry to crop up in the world of yours truly was when a business partner asked for a cheap and dirty database for his client, a pharmacist. (Read nothing into this, girls - really. Sam, Gayé, the lot of yee, stop it. I’m warning you both - you’ll be barred). It’ll just be used for a few months for a special project. He’ll need to record this, that and the other, and run this and that report. Easy? Yeah, no problem. When do you reckon? Give me a couple of days. Great. Oh, but no mistakes ok - this drug he needs tracked has potentially lethal side-effects. Well no pressure there, eh.