Yay! The Media's New Health Plan

Is there anything we can't do while brushing our teeth?

With the help of the Media in January 2024, I am enlightened to how much time I've wasted... for years. While standing, motionless, save for the energy I've expelled crossing the front and back of my teeth with the toothbrush plus the occasional dig around the inside of my mouth, I had no idea I was whittling away minutes, hours, days of my life, that I could have enhanced.

According to my maths: 2 mins twice a day = 4 mins. 4 mins x 365 days = 1,460 mins. I'm actually scared while I work this out. That's already 24 hours a year!

Simple maths from here... I've been just brushing my teeth for 52 days over the course of my life. Only brushing my teeth. What a waste.

Well. Now I know what I've missed out on:

• Lunging

• Squating

• Centering

• Stretching

• Calf raising

• Meditating

• Listening to educational podcasts

• Learning a language

• Exercising my face

• Deep breathing

So, if I've got this right, if I'd been in the know, I would:

• have thighs of steel

• be able to walk in a straight line when drunk

• co-ordinate all parts of my body

• feel as peaceful as Buddha

• top the local pub quiz regularly

• speak upwards of 3 new languages

• have cheek bones like Audrey Hepburn

• and the cardio capacity of an Olympian sprinter

Well. I haven't. And now I'm feeling quite depressed about it. And I'm annoyed that people in the media have made me feel like this.

I see brushing my teeth as an activity that, in itself, is far more worthy than the unlikely outcomes of the above. And...

• I never dread going to the Dentist

I don't need the media making me feel guilty standing still for 2 minutes. It's annoying!

Disclaimer: The author holds makes no apologies for any mathematical errors. If you get the gist, it's irrelevant.

A Local Issue

I live in a beautiful part of England. There is a National Trust site down the hill, an outstanding historical site up the hill and an infamous flight of canal locks right beside us.

The canal path is hilly, which I like and accessible for me without trudging over muddy fields or suffering puddle displacement from cars and lorries passing me on the pavement on super wet days.

I'm not adverse to sharing the towpath. I often pass the same people, most of whom are as happy to see me as I am them.

I'm okay with their dogs who mind their own business, as does mine.

And I totally empathise with the early pram-pushers who are probably experiencing the first moments of peace since 4am. I'm happy I'm not still at that stage of parenting.

All this I'm good with. It's part of the experience I welcome most mornings. But it can get a little busy...

So, I'm lucky that I have another option of running along another part of the same canal currently under restoration. It's a bit boggy getting there with various obstacles to tackle, like barbed wire fences and styles. It's not a smooth journey.

But once I'm on this path, weaving between trees holding nut trays for squirrels; running alongside ducks mirroring my route through bullrushes; ignoring the opportunity to rest on a bench positioned for maximum peace and reflection; I run on, in smooth rhythm. My legs and breathing in sync. I'm properly happy.

So, why do I suddenly find myself hop-scotching over doggie poo bags placed along an open stretch of the path? Bags dropped absolutely, bang centre of the path. Who on earth does this?

Well. I'll tell you! My deduction rests on a lady a head of me, with a pack of spaniels who all seem to poop at different intervals, while thoroughly enjoying the rest of their run-around. The path is literally peppered with dollops of poo, tied up in little black bags.

As I adapt my paces to avoid each one, I can even tell how long ago each dog did their business.

I am actually forced to have to think of it as the stench of newly delivered excrement reaches my nostrils. It's worse than festival public toilets. It's worse than passing the emptying of a septic tank. It's worse because the stink kind of stings my nasal passages, embedding the unspeakable pong into my sense of smell for the rest of my run.

My once smooth running pace is now erratic. Hopping along the path, shifting from a short stride to a longer one as if I'm crossing a river of crocodiles on stepping stones. Which ironically would be preferable. There is actually nothing worse that stepping in dog poo, bagged up or not.

My senses feel violated. I'm fast approaching my target.

The problem is, when running, I find approaching people from behind awkward, when they're not expecting me.

It doesn't seem to make a difference if I subtly cough into my hand a few metres behind; say 'Hi!' in a slightly more shrill tone than I would usually; bang out my strides with extra force so that they might hear my footsteps...

It's actually quite stressful and always ends up in giving whoever, the fright of their lives!

I'll admit, however, I don't really care in this case. This woman's got it coming to her. I run quite deliberately in her direction. God, the bags are absolutely bloody everywhere. Even around where she stands.

I run quite deliberately in the lady’s direction. God, the bags are absolutely bloody everywhere. Even around where she stands.

On arrival I'm really quite pumped with emotion. Adrenaline rages through me. 'Excuse me!' I shout. 'Excuse me!' She hears the second version as she swings round to face me, all the while waving her arms frantically at her dogs. Sweeping them around her for protection. I must have looked really quite frightening.

Just as I have her full attention, face to face, mine strays to over her shoulder. And I see the line of black dots continue along the path.

I make out another dog-owner, with a similar sized pack of dogs in the near distance, moving towards us.

The realisation sets in. I have the wrong dog-owner in front of me right now!

I realise it's the other one, further ahead. And I watch them bend down to conscientiously pick up all the little black bags. And I realise they are the ones who dropped the bags in the middle of the path so they can pick them up as they make their way back again. Not this lady!

I might have got the wrong dog-owner. And I might have stood there struggling to talk about the weather having scared the heebie-jeebies out of her...

But it is not okay for people to do this with their poo bags.

It's annoying.

I'll Take it From Here

This was a while ago and I may have a few details wrong, but my sentiments are the same!

My girls were young, I think around 5 or 6 years old and had been invited to a party in the village hall. It was a disco!

A slightly over the top party for a 6 year old, I felt, but still, the party room was decked out with disco ball, flashy lights, dodgy DJ playing dodgy music. A table set up along the back with bowls overloaded with cheese balls, cans of fizzy drinks, cartons of fruit juice and dishes of smarties. The perfect recipe for a fight over pass-the-parcel later.

The only thing missing was the cake. Which always came out just before home time, already cut up. I'll never understand why.

We'd take it home, wrapped in a napkin that stuck to all sides; squashed from being the first among other utter pointless items in the party bag and then passed straight into the bin due to the aforementioned circumstances. And shortly completely forgotten about.

Regardless of the time spent cooking, hours decorating then lengths gone to keep it a secret: nobody saw it, nobody ate it.

Anyway, as I stood looking about the room, my thoughts rested on the other parents. Many Dads here too which was nice. Although slightly awkward.

Especially those who loitered around the food table as if to keep busy, glancing every so often at the door, longing for home time.

Other stood, legs apart, arms folded like bouncers, on the edge of the dance area. Facing forward. Protective.

The Dads who were hands on got down with the party goers. Joining in chasing errant balloons; having a cheeky go with pinning the tail on the donkey. Trying very hard not to play any of the games better than the party boy... but struggling.

The Mums stood, comfortably chatting in groups. Oblivious to the party. Only glancing down at their child who approached in need of a toilet break. The Mum's response signposted Dad, who duly took care of the job, grateful for something to do.

A few girls were on the dance floor. They moved in isolation, occasionally finding some outstretched hands from another to swing around with. Quite a few of the boys hung around their Mum's legs, nervous about what to do.

It was early for the dance floor to be heaving, but the party was getting going. The DJ was on fire playing 'Crazy Frog' (Axel-F if you want to look it up). All dads could get involved here, nodding their heads, acknowledging the beat; they knew this one.

The darkness would deal with any shyness and, shortly, there would be a swift influx of activity as pass-the-parcel finished. Everything was going according to plan.

I was warming up myself and ventured towards a friend for a light chat. I really didn't enjoy these parties. I liked the ones where I could dump and run. But, here I was...

There was a small commotion on the dance floor. Two girls were having a little argument. Nothing to see at the time really. After a quick glance, I turned back to my chat.

A few moments later, things had escalated. The girls' argument had heated up into rough and tumble on the dance floor. I, with a few other parents, leapt towards the mauling group in amongst the boogie-makers to part them.

'I've got this!' I announced to the adult group but really I was directing my comment to one of the Bouncer Dads who was attempting to clutch my daughter. I will admit, she was the key perpetrator applying the most muscle in the duel.

I was trying to save him from a likely kick in the shin. But, my words made no impact. 'Really! I've got this!' I stressed.

But, he seemed intent on getting involved, and I turned to see him pull my daughter off the other. I was trying to have a word with her myself!

I persuaded him to release her.

"But your daughter was hitting this other little girl!" Bouncer Dad informed me.

"Yes. Thanks for that. They are both mine!"

I genuinely felt I was capable of containing my own children. Sometimes, other parents don't have quite as much confidence in me as I have.

It's annoying.