Stop cheering up! It's not good for you!

By WILLIAM L. HOLMES
Associated Press Writer
RALEIGH, North Carolina (AP) – Mildly depressed older women tend to live longer than those who are not depressed at all, a surprising new study suggests.
The findings are contrary to most other studies on the link between depression and mortality. Those studies have generally shown that depression increases the likelihood of death within a certain time period.
“This is totally counterintuitive to what you expect to see,” said Dan G. Blazer, a Duke University professor of psychiatry and behavioral science. “We know that depression in younger populations is very clearly associated with mortality. It’s not so clear in older populations.”
The results might support the theory that mild depression is a survival mechanism, he said.
The Duke study, to be published in the May-June issue of the American Journal of Geriatric Psychiatry, is the first known examination of mild depression and death, Blazer said. Other studies looked only at people with severe depression.
The Duke study was based on a group that started with 2,401 women and 1,269 men, all older than 65. They were interviewed about their health at roughly three-year intervals from 1986 to 1997 and were separated into three categories – depressed, mildly depressed and not depressed – based on their answers to a 20-question test.
Blazer said 10.5 per cent of the women were considered mildly depressed.
The women with mild depression were, on average, 60 percent less likely than other women to die during any three-year period, Blazer said. Researchers took into account age, chronic illness and other factors in calculating the mortality rate.
The researchers found that depression had no influence on the mortality of men.
“We don’t want to make too much out of this except that it’s a very interesting finding,” Blazer said.
Blazer said the study may support a theory advanced by University of Michigan psychiatrist Randolph M. Nesse that says mild depression may allow people to cope more easily with their problems and remove themselves from dangerous or harmful situations.
According to Nesse humans may need “low mood” or mild depression to deal with failure and disappointment. “People who don’t have it waste their whole lives trying to do things they won’t ever do,” he said.
A psychiatrist not involved in Blazer’s work, Dr. Richard Schulz of the University of Pittsburgh, questioned the findings, noting that previous research has shown that both mild depression and severe depression lead to increased mortality.

That reminds me of something else I read recently, that high self-esteem can be more of a social problem than low self-esteem, because ... well I forget now. I think it was that highly self-confident teenagers are more likely to go joy-riding than self-pitying pimply nerds. That kind of thing.

But the study itself is a bit depressing, isn't it? People who aren't depressed "waste their whole lives trying to do things they won’t ever do,” says Mr Nesse. But how wonderful if you succeed against all the odds! And people do, don't they? Whatever happened to "nothing venture, nothing gain"? Blimey -- imagine living in a world of mildly depressed old ladies...

Forgot to mention, I haven't managed to get the wee "movies" I can take on my camera to play on the television. I'm not sure why it's not working, it should according to the instruction booklet. I'll keep trying.

Despite a slow start and some rain, I've managed to get a lot done today. Weeded the front garden, mowed the back lawn and painted the retaining wall. I decided against using the antifungal wash -- reading the label it sounded so ghastly and lethal I thought I'd rather live with a bit of moss and slime than risk slaughtering the wildlife -- or Bertie.

So it's very smart, but probably only for five minutes. Here are the before and after shots:



Out the front things are looking pretty good. The daphne (below) is looking slightly healthier after its dousing with copper sulphate, though it might need another go.



The hosta isn't dead after all -- in fact it's coming up very vigorously, like a rhubarb, in fat buds. It's hidden by the bluebells at the moment. The himalayan poppy is also coming along very strongly.

Here are another couple of photos, while I'm at it: one of some blossom and one of the road bridge.

I keep meaning to post more pictures here and then forgetting. I made some more movies today (hah! movies! they are 30 second clips) and I'm going to experiment with the AV plugs that came with the camera. I think this means I can watch the movies on TV, because my new TV has AV sockets on the front.

The big question is, can I then record the result on a video tape? Brace yourselves for Bertie, an experimental film made according to the Dogme (hah! Dogme! woof!) rules: shooting on location (no imported props or sets); sound and image produced together; a handheld camera; natural light; no optical work or filters; no superficial action (murders, weapons); no temporal or geographic alienation; no genre films; no signature.

Sadly mine will have no plot, either -- or a very doggy one: eat! drink! run! sleep! eat again!

Woooo!

The universe is about 13 billion years old, slightly younger than previously believed, according to a study that measured the cooling of the embers in ancient dying stars.

But a lot older than Edwin Hubble thought it was, apparently. Back in 1928 he put it at two billion years old, give or take a few million.

In other news, this story has my dander up. Sounds all very well on the face of it, but then you get into the fine print.

The American church leaders said they would recommend a special process to defrock any priest who has become “notorious and is guilty of the serial, predatory sexual abuse of minors.” In cases that are “not notorious” they would leave it up to the local bishop to decide if such a priest is a threat to children and should be defrocked.

Oh, and apparently “a link between celibacy and paedophilia cannot be scientifically maintained”. Eh? Elsewhere, the good cardinals say “attention was drawn to the fact that almost all cases involved adolescents and therefore were not cases of true paedophilia”.

So let's see -- they'll think about defrocking a priest if he molests lots of really young kids and everyone knows about it. If not many people know about it, then the bishop will decide.

Here's my suggestion: call the police, put the alleged molester on trial and let the court judge the evidence. That should make it nice and easy to decide who should be defrocked.

Shop shop shop shop shop shop..... drop.

I had a megashoppng session. Bought a new TV -- a cheap and cheerful little Goodman portable. Bought some headphones so I can watch TV late at night without bothering the neighbours. Bought a new keyboard and speakers for Faye's computer. Bought dog food. Bought paint for the doorsteps, front and back, for the retaining wall at the back, for the back door, plus sandpaper and brushes.

Staggered home, set up new TV, walked dog. Now I'm dropping into a hot bath. Whew.

The new TV is great -- I didn't realise how awful the old one was.

One thing I didn't get that's on my list is a new monitor. I'm still fighting the temptation of a TFT monitor, one of the skinny flat ones. They're quite a bit more expensive than the regular ones, but don't take up nearly as much space. Can't decide.

Cathy emailed me an age calculator -- sadly it didn't work, but I was intrigued so I scouted round on the internet and found this one.

It is truly freaky watching your life whizz by in milliseconds.

Whew! Busy or something. The gas man came today and drilled a big hole in the livingroom wall. It's about the same size as the airbricks in the other rooms but it's down near the floor. It has a grille on it but outside there's just a hood thing, so I should be able to stuff a towel or similar in it to stop the flow of freezing air across the livingroom floor.

This is as close to crazy as it gets -- I pay them £200 to make my home safe from noxious fumes, then I fix it so it doesn't work. But really, it can't be energy-efficient to have bloody great holes in your walls. It's medieval.

My television's starting to go on the fritz -- the sound and colour go very high or very low without input from me, and the remote only works if you're standing right next to the set. I'll shop for a cheapo replacement on Saturday. I've had this one for years, nearly ten years I think, and it was second hand to start with. I want a portable set with Teletext, a SCART socket and a headphone socket. Should be able to get one for £100 or so. (Yes -- Currys and Dixons both have a Sanyo for £110 with all that.)

My trip to Oxford next month is firming up. Colin is OK to look after Bertie -- I have to leave him behind because a) he can't stay at Mrs Kahn's and b) there won't be any room in the car for him and his luggage. I'd wanted Colin and Jenny to have a practice run at hosting Bertie before I go into hospital anyway, so it works out well.

Speaking of hospital, there's still no word on when I'm going in. I'm supposed to meet the radiologist first, but I haven't heard from him either. They have moved out to the new hospital already, so maybe they're still getting themselves sorted out. I'm quite glad they've moved -- there's been an outbreak of the "superbug" at the old infirmary, all the cardio patients got it and one died. Brrrr.

I added a picture to The Mirror Project. It's a fun thing to do -- I have a couple of others to submit, also of reflections in water, I just haven't gotten around to sending them in.

Long day at work today -- 11am start and I'm still here at 9:30pm. I'll go home soon, just waiting for our Jerusalem correspondent to file some copy.

I absolutely must have this drug.

This is my favourite quote from the article: "It is possible it could become a drug of abuse because it would enhance the performance of athletes," he said. No! You really think so?

This site has a link to what it calls "a hugely inappropriate animated tribute to the Queen Mother".

I think it's sort of sweet, in a South Park way.

The weather continues to be glorious and I continue to spend most of my time off outdoors rather than writing to my family. Sorry about that. Today I washed the car -- after walking the dog in a solemn manner befitting the solemnity of the solemn event I was missing on the telly. The lull that fell over the land was quite noticeable, as was the feverish buzz of activity once the funeral was over.

Tesco was shut from 10.30am to 1pm! So was Marks & Spencer! Amazing! The local co-op supermarket Scottishly made do with a two-minute silence.

The gas man visited this morning to fix something I think is called the flue annulus. The previous gas man had quoted me for that work and for drilling a hole through my wall because the window vents are substandard (even after I nagged and nagged at the window firm to make sure the ventilation was up to scratch); but he said I didn't need to get the vent done, it was the flue work that made my gas fire AT RISK (as the yellow sign said that he left attached to it).

But (sigh) today's gas man said no, there's a regulation to say that you can get the ventilation put right without having the flue done, but not the other way round. The bill will be £200 rather than £67.

I gave in -- ok, just drill a bloody hole in the wall, I don't care. I'll care more next Thursday when they do the work, and even more than that when I get the bill. Joys of home ownership.

Saturday I spent at a wonderful spot north of St Andrews, Tentsmuir, which several people had recommended. It's fantastic. The forest borders the beach, making it perfect for walking Bertie. He enjoys running on the sand for about half an hour, then he's sick of it. At Tentsmuir we walked along the edge of the forest, so he was in amongst the trees hunting rabbits, and I was in the dunes enjoying the sunshine and the sight and sound of surf.

I took loads of photos, will post some soon. I have to do some work now, spot you later.

I love this story. How many chihuahuas is your child worth?

[Sadly the story's vanished off the Washington Post's archives -- a woman had tried to swap her baby for a chihuahua. The dog-owner only dobbed her in after she upped the price to two chihuahuas. Or something.]

Back at work, sigh. It's not so bad, I guess. The printing presses threw a wobbly and our deadlines were brought forward, which made for a last-minute frenzy; on the positive side I get to go home early -- and the early deadlines are in force all week.

The news is mainly depressing -- the Middle East situation just about reduces me to tears. I went through a strongly pro-Zionist phase as a teenager, after reading Exodus but gradually changed my views and now I'm more sympathetic towards the Palestinians. As sympathetic as you can be to people willing to blow themselves up in cafes crowded with families. I just don't think the Israelis' increasing aggression is going to do anyone any favours. They're reaping what they sowed.

Back in my mundane world, yesterday I dragged myself off to the shops to get some new clothes. It's an ordeal! I did very well though, I got two pairs of trousers (black), two blouses (one red, one pinkish stripes) and three t-shirts. Favourite purchase is probably a red long-sleeved t-shirt. The blouses are both the same style: short, fitted, with three-quarter length sleeves. This is a real departure for me. I'm paranoid about the size of my bum, so it's risking severe trauma to wear anything bum-revealing.

The paranoia's not entirely unfounded. I was in the changing rooms at the swimming baths in Edinburgh once when a little boy said in a piercing voice: "Mummy, come and look, there's a lady with a really, really big bottom!" And then last year I was strolling down the esplanade wearing comfy loose trousers and a short t-shirt a bloke behind me said: "There's a big arse arse arse."

So I'm trying to re-educate myself to accept my body and not feel bad about the harsh things ignorant people say, and not to cover up the bits I don't like. The blouses are cute. OK, I'm not wearing one of them today, I'm wearing a loose white linen shirt, but I WILL wear them.

I got a great book as a reward for getting through the gruelling task of clothes-buying (hey, it's hot in those changing cubicles!) -- The Years of Rice and Salt by Kim Stanley Robinson. He's one of my favourite SF writers, but most of his books are grounded in the here and now, even his series on the colonisation of Mars. My favourite of his is Antarctica -- even if you don't like science fiction you might enjoy this.

Time to go home!

YESSSSS!!!!!!

No, not because the Queen Mother is dead, bless her, but because I've finally got my printer working (touch wood). The computer shop didn't find anything wrong with the USB, and after a lot of tooth-grinding and uninstalling and reinstalling, I've managed to fix it myself. Just printed out a humungous picture very briskly. Whew.

The good thing about all the hassle was that in desperation at being offline for so long, I dug out my old computer and booted it up. And had a brainwave -- maybe Faye would like this! She's been talking about getting a laptop. So I phoned her today and she's thrilled. I was going to get a new monitor anyway, so that's just a mouse and keyboard to add and we're away. So the plan is to go down to Oxford in May, set the computer up for her and give her a crash course.

I've had an extremely lazy and enjoyable week off, didn't go away in the end but stayed in my favourite place -- home. The weather has been great, so I've been for lots of long walks. Also got the boiler serviced -- it needs some work on the flue, so the man left a DANGER AT RISK notice on it. Also had the car's handbrake fixed. Bertie ended up in the footwell a couple of times today due to the now excellent braking.

What else? Nothing! Hah! Lovely.

OK I'm just going to unplug my computer and take it into the shop, and since I'm on holiday this week that's probably it from me for a few days at least.

Ta ta!

Slow start to the week's activities, mainly due to having been suckered in to watching some of the Oscars last night. How weird is it? First there's the compere, Whoopi Goldberg, then there's another compere or two to give away each prize, plus extra comperes thrown in to announce little bits of film. Then, for no reason I can think of, there are Donald Sutherland and Glen Close bursting in to announce the ad breaks (on a great big olde-worlde microphonic apparatus), and bizarrely, they seem to be also acting as security guards for the statuettes, which are stacked on racks behind them.

Of course since the show is on BBC2, which doesn't have commercials, they have to fill in the ad break time, so there's a studio with Jonathan Ross and assorted celebs droning on.

So anyway, I got up late, walked the dog, then got on to my phone calls. The Window Advisory Service is deep in dealings with Roxburghe Windows' insurance company to see who's going to deal with outstanding customer complaints. Oh. Dear. The woman I spoke to couldn't give me a time frame but asked politely for my patience. Hmm.

The computer firm are blaming a) the printer and/or b) Windoze for my printing problems. I'm to take the computer in to the shop so they can hook it up to a printer there and check it out. I've backed up in case they decide to wipe the hard drive -- that does seem to be their solution to most things.

Then I mixed up some fungicide and went round spraying things with it.

Then I was hungry, so I had an early dinner (grilled salmon steak, mash, carrots and cabbage, delish). Then my boss phoned and said not to bother coming in next Sunday, he'll take Wednesday off instead and work Sunday for me. Hurrah! Even more days off. That's me off right through to next Monday now.

Right now I'm going to have a shower then check out movie times. I might see The Royal Tenenbaums, or either In The Bedroom or The Son's Room. I would have definitely gone to In The Bedroom, except that I watched some live streaming video of the Oscar Red Carpet at work last night, and Sissy Spacek's nose made me feel sick. You can see up her nostrils from the front, you know? It's a bit Michael Jackson. Ewww.


Judge for yourself

I might go to Bridge of Orchy and stay here, or I might go to Rannoch Station and stay here. Both come with personal recommendations and both take dogs.

I usually stay in B&Bs rather than hotels because they're usually friendlier, but these don't sound too bad. And someone also suggested doing a walk I've wanted to do for a while, Corrour to Rannoch Station. You get the train to Corrour, just one stop, and walk back. Previously I've stayed at the Corrour station bunkhouse or at the youth hostel at Loch Ossian, and the one time I planned to do the walk to Rannoch Station the snow was so deep I couldn't see the path & decided not to risk it.

Bridge of Orchy is on the West Highland Way, so there is plenty of good walking there too.

If there are no sheep, Bertie can roam off the lead. He ignores any animals bigger than himself, such as cattle and deer. Corrour is a shooting estate, so it's all deer and ponies. Not sure about Bridge of Orchy.

Undiscovered Scotland

I'm thinking of going away this week, just for a few days, and someone drew this site to my attention. It's "a combination of business directory, accommodation listing and visitor guide. It includes a comprehensive range of links and a large and growing collection of in-depth and illustrated feature pages about places to go and things to do, and mountains to climb".

Great photos too.

Lunch yesterday at Tapas Ole, yum yum. Last month I had grilled sardines at Fishers in Leith; they were sour, bony, dry things, covered in crumbly oatmeal. At Tapas Ole they came fizzing and sizzling on a griddle, moist and tasty. Everything was superb, from the squid rings to the omelet to the meatballs. Triple yum. Afterwards we all went back to John's for coffee -- he and Penny live just along from the restaurant -- and it was after 4pm when I got home.

I made a mess of the rotas again, gah, I can't believe it. It's like a recurring nightmare. But the good side is that I've got next week off -- I made the mistake by copying over an old rota without changing the week off I had that month. I may go away or I may stay at home, I'll see how I feel. It will be a week of sponteneity interspersed with catching up on chores.

Like I have to hassle the Window Advisory Group again about the french doors. The seal has come out on one of the doors, an ongoing problem the company that installed them was meant to be fixing. I phoned them yet again the week before last to discover they've been taken over by another firm. The Window Advisory Group is "getting back" to me on what happens with the guarantee. Grrr. Oh, and I have to get a new wing mirror for my car - the passenger side one was broken off at the weekend. And then there's the garden. And I could do with some new summer clothes. And I really should get in touch with Kate, and Sandy, and phone Fiona in London ...

I'm going to be busy.

I live in such a friendly town, it astonishes me. Like today, I set out with the dog and first of all we meet the MS lady's son and her three dogs (multiple schlerosis, not Microsoft). Tigger barks and huffs and carries on like Margaret Thatcher, but otherwise they all get on famously.

After a play session Bertie and I head off to the marina. En route the bridge maintenance crew pass in their truck and toot and all wave. This tooting and waving thing is because I walk past them sitting under the bridge in their truck nearly every day. The older bloke who always sits in the middle has a shih tzu. One day they were all asleep in the cab, they looked so sweet I nearly took a photo. (I didn't because the engine was running and I thought, what if they're all dead?)

So we walk along the road and the bridge maintenance crew come back along, having done a circuit through the marina, and toot and all wave again. Then we're on the path up to the water treatment plant and Bertie goes on alert and disappears. It's my next door neighbour down by the water with Marble and Lazlo, the gun dogs from the house at the end of the street. Big hysterical bum-sniffing session ensues (the dogs, ha ha very funny). As Frances and I are yoo-hooing, who should drive up but Bridie with her Butch, more waving and tooting.

So I walk round the path and meet up with Frances at the jetty and we walk on together. By the marina office we meet Susy the Yorkie being carried by her owner, who lives in the sheltered housing. Back out on the road, the bridge maintenance crew go past yet again, toot toot, wave wave. I'd love to have their job, what a life they have. You never see them actually doing anything.

Then just as Frances peels off to take the dogs home, her neighbour on the other side, owner of the elderly cats, drives up.

Part of the reason I got a dog was the social aspect, and good grief, it really works. The British love dogs and if you've got a dog, everyone talks to you. Even people who don't have dogs talk to you. I think it's partly because it's something to talk about, but also it helps people recognise you.

Like the checkout woman who served me in the supermarket yesterday: "Is your dog all right?" she inquired. "Errr, yes..." Then the penny dropped. Her dog, Wallace, a frisky young Staffordshire, had tried to hump Bertie the day before. "I was soooo embarrassed!" she trilled, going bright red at the memory. This was the day after the Audrey Hepburn dress-up session. Coincidence? I wonder.