I was amazed to hear that in the current
climate of recession and austerity and credit crunches, Costa
Coffee is coining money in, hand over fist. Personally I begrudge paying
the price of a jar of coffee for just one cup of the stuff, but it would seem
that for all that no one has any money, and inflation is far outstripping wage
increases, the Great Unwashed can find money to spend on expensive coffee.
I have colleagues who do this – admittedly the
posh coffee is a bit cheaper in the works canteen, but it’s still a quid a cup,
and these colleagues have two cups of the stuff. Every day. That’s a tenner a
week on coffee!
Perhaps they can afford it by selling their “muck”. Up until now I’ve had a sneaking
admiration for those who donate eggs. Sperm is dead simple to donate, but eggs
are somewhat more difficult to extract. And so the Human Fertilisation and
Embryology Authority is planning to give every egg
donor a £750 bung. There was a very stupid spokeswoman from this fertility
watchdog on the radio this morning. She was adamant that this £750 was to cover
any expenses the donors might have incurred, but was equally adamant that she
didn’t want to get bogged down with donors brining in receipts for their
expenses.
Why on Earth not? I get my expenses paid at
work. But I get exactly my expenses paid. I bring in a receipt, and I get paid
(to the penny) what I spent. Surely
these people should learn from the examples of overseas egg donation clinics in
which the amount of donors goes through the roof every time there is a
financial downturn.
And let’s get the terminology right – if there’s
£750 to be made, eggs aren’t being donated, they are being sold.
Is that the price of a life? Over in China,
life is even cheaper. A two year old girl was run
over yesterday. The accident was caught on video. Whilst tragic, road
traffic accidents happen. What really boiled my piss was the fact that the same
video footage showed loads of passers by passing by, leaving the child
bleeding. What kind of person could do that?
Meanwhile, it’s Wednesday, and so to the
Stour Centre for a bit of swimming. Five hundred and twenty five metres in just
under half an hour can’t be bad. And I
realised something tonight. As a child I would swim at the White Rock Swimming
Pool. And before you got anywhere near the pool, there was a footbath full of
bleach to kill off any nasties on your tootsies. There’s no footbath at the
Stour Centre. What’s that all about…?
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