Ever had one of those week’s when you feel that outside entities are getting way too intrusive with regard to your life? I’ve just had one such week, which, if I was that kind of person, would have sent my paranoia levels through the roof. First up, completely out of the blue, I received a letter from some pharmaceutical developer inviting me to apply to join a drug trial. Sadly, it wasn’t for any of the fun hallucinogenic ones, but rather a treatment for type 2 diabetes. The reason I had been ‘selected’ was because these days third parties are given free and direct access to our confidential NHS records, rather than having to go through doctors first. I’m obviously now on their database and meet some of their criteria for this trial – namely that I’m in the right age demographic and have type 2 diabetes. Reading their letter, however, I’m pretty sure that, even if I filled in and returned the application form, I wouldn’t be selected: the nature of the medication implies that they are looking for people with type 2 who are more overweight than me and who don’t take regular exercise. But if I had returned it, I’m pretty sure that I’d end up receiving more of these ‘invitations’ as that would be taken as an indication that I was interested in taking part in drug trials.
As you’ve doubtless gathered, the letter went in the bin without a reply. Quite apart from the fact that I take enough pills everyday as it is and have no desire to spend five years acting as a guinea pig for trialling yet more of them, I just find this sort of approach overly intrusive – my medical records are meant to be private and I object to them being accessed by for profit institutions. Furthermore, I have never given any indication to anyone that I’m remotely interested in participating in any medical trials. The letter also put my back up with its overly alarmist tone, warning that type 2 diabetes can increase your risk of such things as liver failure, kidney failure, heart disease and even lower limb amputation. Well, yes, it can, but so can many other common health conditions. Moreover, such things aren’t an inevitability and the risks can be reduced via lifestyle choices (as can most health conditions) – hence my daily exercise regime and monitoring of my sugar intake, rather than relying on pharmaceuticals, (although I do also take the commonest anti-diabetes drug, Metformin).
Following this unsolicited health alarmism, I had through my letterbox another invitation to sell my house and move to a new, totally anonymous, retirement flat. Worse still, it was accompanied by another piece of junk mail about planning my funeral. For fuck’s sake – I haven’t even started drawing my old age pension yet! I’ve still got some way to go yet before I qualify as an OAP. (Although, to be fair, I do have a couple of work pensions from previous jobs which have started paying out, allowing me to, mostly, live a life of modest leisure). Again, these communications are doubtless the result of data taken from the electoral register by marketing companies – I obviously now fall into an age group where these parasites think that people’s main leisure activities consist of retreating to the parlour, in their dressing gown and slippers and settling down with a hot cup of cocoa to watch an episode of Midsomer Murders in the hope that it will distract them from their imminent decrepitude and death.
But, despite my advancing years, I still don’t feel particularly aged. Mind you, others seem to think differently and not just marketing companies: I’ve recently been referred to as ‘old’ by others, despite the fact that a) I’m certainly not old – I still fall well within the parameters of ‘middle age’, b) I don’t think that I actually look old, (sure, the receding hairline doesn’t help, but is balanced by the lack of greyness in most of what’s left) and c) I certainly don’t feel old. I guess I’ve reached that age where it is somewhat startling to find that it isn’t just kids who regard you, in relative terms, as being ‘old’, but also some adults. Unfortunately, though, the young have this idea that anyone more than a couple of years older than them is Methuselah. Teenage girls are the worst – I once overheard one describing me as an ‘old person’ simply because I wasn’t walking as quickly as them. (One thing age does teach one, I’ve found, is to slow down a bit and actually enjoy the world around you).
Just when the feathers ruffled by all of this unsolicited mail and commentary had finally settled, I get one of those online banking communications from my bank that they obviously think are somehow ‘useful’. This time it was a communication informing me that last month I’d spent 74% more than the previous month and would I like to opt into their budgeting advice service? To which the resounding response was ‘fuck off’. I’ve never actually asked for this kind of rather creepy monitoring of my spending patterns – I only signed up to online banking because my plumber prefers to paid via direct bank transfer. But my bank keeps on giving me unsolicited advice, as if we are in some kind of relationship more significant than the fact that I allow them to hold my money for me. I really don’t need to be pestered about investment options every time I get payments into my account. Incidentally, that increase in monthly spending was down to the one off cost of buying a second hand laptop to back up my now nearly nine year old main laptop and, to be frank, if spending less than three hundred quid can put my monthly spend up that much, then I’m not spending enough! I’m clearly even more of a cheapskate than I thought I was!
Doc Sleaze
