I bet many of us with anti-conglomerate sentiments had a quick chuckle after reading that GlaxoSmithKline were fined NZ$217,000 for making the misleading claim about the vitamin C content of their Ribena drinks. More chuckles abound when it transpired that they were caught out not by competitors in expensive research labs, but two schoolgirls, who were 14 when their innocent science experiment showed results that probably made Jean-Paul Garnier shake in his hundred dollar boots.
Before I turned to the solace of caffeine, I loved Ribena. We had an intense relationship that began even before my birth, and it carried on throughout my high school years. Even my parents were supportive of our love, making sure we were never out of constant contact. But as Nescafe Gold Blend kept me awake in ways which Ribena could never dream of, the relationship broke down as I entered postgraduate study. I bear no grudges. A Ribenaberry is still part of my collection of small soft toys.
What I liked about this feat of the school girls is that it reminded me what research is about. Sometimes I obsess in trying to ask the cleverest of clever questions; trying to frame my work in the most complicated of econometric models that my mathematically -challenged brain can fathom; I try too hard, and often I fail. What these two girls reminded me was that it’s the simplest questions that yield interesting answers, sometimes. Small things, simple ideas, basic concepts: they make much more of a difference than trying hard to seem clever, your vision blurred by delusions of grandeur. You don’t need to come up with a new theory of relativity to prove to the world that you are a good researcher. You just need to never stop asking questions – even the ones people forget to ask because they’re so simple. Like, how much vitamin C does Ribena really have, yo?
I’ve been trying to cultivate a healthy reading habit (yes, a lifelong challenge, it seems). Having identified that my writing pattern only emerges after 3pm, I figured I might as well get as much reading done in the morning as I can. Courtesy of a very cheap past-issues magazine stall in Colchester (Friday mornings only, opposite JD Sports), I’ve managed to purchase past issues of Foreign Affairs and Prospect, many just one or two months old, for either 80p each or 3 for £2. (Anuar Fariz, ini betul betul 3 for £2). Each retail at £8.95 and £4.50 respectively. So I’m trying to discipline myself to digest one article a day, just to get the brain churning with matters outside my academic realm. So far, so good – I’ve managed Tamar Jacoby on Immigration and Francis Fukuyama on Identity over lunch. We’ll see how this lasts before I fall asleep half into a sandwich.
Today is a typical spring day in that it’s 16 degrees outside; but atypical of the weather we’ve had of late. Still. Every ray of sunshine is welcome. Sunny days remind me of August 2001 – my summer of love – especially now when coupled with writing up research findings and this song, which out of nowhere came on the radio as I was wiring home some cash. Today is pay day; and the cash is to pay for the Satria I can’t bear to sell. Just in case anyone is nosy enough to wonder. No, not you.. you never would, kan?
Or maybe you’d prefer this version of Nelly and Steve Vai singing the same song:
I flicked through the magazines at the garage. Each and every one of them, fashion magazines or that of its ilk. Grazia. Elle. Marie Clare. Where were the car magazines, the football stuff? Don’t men come to garages? Oh wait. Real men fix their own cars, I suppose.
I left my book in the car, so I suppose the magazines had to do. I flipped through the pages. Posh. Sadie. Kate. I. Don’t. Care. I tried to look at the pretty clothes. Who was I kidding, I’ve never been into fashion ever. Unless you call bright yellow Asadi slippers the height of fashion.
I flipped through the pages in abject horror. I could sense the fear washing over me. Oh my god I was turning into a magazine snob! I knew there was something wrong when I stopped, cold turkey, from buying Heat magazine every week about two years ago. Was it not enough that I was a book snob, now I am a magazine snob too? Have I been cursed by Sophie Kinsella and Danielle Steel for turning away those who devoured their literary masterpieces? My womanhood, where art thou?
Tommorow I will buy a Shopaholic book and repent.
*****
Guardian gave away free What’s Eating Gilbert Grape DVDs a few months back, and a search on youtube for clips from the movie yielded this (among other things):
It’s a good song. Even if the sun’s still here when she’s gone.
