Are you a psychopath? (and other stories.)

I heard an interesting fact recently - apparently one of the most reliable ways to determine if someone is a psychopath or not is to monitor them to see if they yawn. If they don't, then they are most definitely a psychopath and you should remove yourself from their presence fairly lively. If they do yawn they are 100% normal and you can be best friends 4 eva. 

Obviously I was mildly curious to know why psychopaths never experience tiredness. How can they not get tired? And if that's true of all psychopaths, have they tried the paleo diet? That'd sort them right out. When I say I was mildly curious, I mean I furiously embarked on a terror fueled Wikipedia exploration in search of answers. If they have 24 hours a day to put in, how have fluffy bunnies not become an extinct species? I'm pretty sure if I had 8 hours extra in my day there's a chance I'd end up taking out newborn lambs for sport too. 

So, my research revealed a multitude. Firstly there's this thing out there called 'psychology' that is, apparently, a science. It's defined as the science of the mind. I wanted to know more but was reluctant to purchase the recommended starter kit (glass ball, some scented oils and a pack of tarot cards). Anyway, the more advanced scientists in this area have devoted years of research into the yawn. Why do we do it? What does it achieve? Why does it annoy lecturers? Is there a more attractive substitute? As far as I can tell, the answers are not very clear. What did emerge though is that yawning actually has little or nothing to do with being tired. It's a social cue. Which is why, presumably, psychopaths don't necessarily pick up on it.

Consider the following scenario:
  
Doctors waiting room
       Woman 1: Wow, that's a big yawn from the guy in the corner. That's why he's here at the doctors. So stressed and tired. Poor guy. Probably only has a few months left. Best yawn back to show my solidarity and heartfelt well wishes.
        Man 1: Myyyy homeboyyyy. Dude must be tired, probably up all night playing GTA5. What a brah. Better show him I approve of his devotion to the cause and give him a cheeky yawn back.
        Woman 2: God, everyone in here is yawning. Am I the only one not getting any post midnight action? This is like, so depressing. Best put on a bit of a show here. Yawn.
         Guy in corner: Look at all these creatures opening their mouths and closing them again. I'm so glad I'm a superior being and don't have to waste hours with such trivial nonsense. Oh wow. I just figured out what's going on. One of them must have glanced at me in a polite furtive fashion  and promptly averted their gaze as British people are born to do. Rather unfortunate, but I reckon they think my jaw-lock is a yawn. Bless their souls! And now they are all compelled to return my yawn, like an adult version of pass the parcel. Well, isn't that just precious. In other news, that receptionist's nails are exceptional. They would look so well on my mantelpiece. 

So, as this is a very well thought out scenario, likely to be happening at least once per minute in any given place the world over, it can be concluded that there are psychopaths all around us. #stats #reliable And we'll never know. Not until Apple release their long awaited and highly anticipated 'yawnometer' app anyway. (Copyright. Just in case this blog takes off). But then I figured - what use is a robust and genius app like the yawnometer going to be if your iPhone runs out of juice just as you decide to zoom in on some dude's mouth on the underground? He is wearing a three piece suit with black Nike Free 5.0 flyknits after-all. Classic psychopath attire I would imagine. So what do you do then?

Well luckily you have me here to put in some serious background research. It turns out that studies have shown (real ones this time, from Universities, peer reviewed and all.) that certified psychopaths have been confirmed to have a lesser functioning orbitofrontal cortex than average in tests. This part of the brain is the bit involved in smelling. Because of their dodgy orbitofrontal cortices, the theory was put forward that this probably had a direct impact on their sense of smell. Cue more tests. Quite interestingly, I have not been able to locate results from these tests, where certified psychopaths were made smell burning rubber and mint leaves through prison cell bars (or similar. Presumably.) But I have no doubt that the theory is solid. Look at all the big words for heavens sake! They must be on to something.

So anyway the answer - what do you do when your iPhone dies when you're on the underground and a guy wearing a three piece suit with black Nike Free 5.0 flyknits is staring at the 'Use to break glass in case of Emergency' mini hammer?  You let one rip. Obviously. That will enable you to confirm his psychological status. I'm not sure what you do then, but we've figured out the hard part and that's what matters. 

The extra great thing about these useful life tools is that they can be applied in all kinds of situations. You don't have to be on the underground with a guy wearing a three piece suit with black Nike Free 5.0 flyknits. So next time you're at a friends Summer BBQ party and Daniel's cousin's husband pops some goldfish from the tank inside on the grill, you will know what to do.

A cultural journey: Welcome to Singapore.

Lent was a difficult time in my life this year. For forty long days and forty even longer nights, I managed to keep myself from scrolling through twitter or facebook home feeds. I do think Jesus, Mary and the donkey are all great, but I didn't really do it for them if I'm being honest. They had half of Ireland abstaining from Dairy Milk, much to the displeasure of Mr. and Mrs. Cadbury who were forced to live on Tesco value baked beans for the month, so I didn't feel my sacrifice could really add much to the cause. I did it more to see if I could repair the repetitive strain injury that has been slowly developing at the base of my right thumb for the past year. I feel the main source of blame here rests with pre-school teachers for not beating ambidexterity into me when I was young and pliable. Since Snake and Snake II came into my life circa 2003, I have been exercising my right thumb for about two hours a day (give or take. Mostly give). The fallout is only just beginning I fear.

Anyway, apart from checking notifications and replying to direct messages, I managed to succeed with my insane mission. It was tough. There were times when I was sure I wouldn't make it. At one point I was so desperate to know what Amy Huberman and BOD were having for dinner that I developed a probability algorithm based on offers of the week in M&S, the temperature in Dublin and popularity ratings per dish calculated through assignment of points for protein content, organic sourcing and environmental sustainability. I'm not sure how well it worked though...I can't really see Brian tucking into a beetroot and bean salad for four consecutive days, as my program predicted. Some adjustments needed before I sell it to the masses.

Anyway, this week after the Easter break, I was back in business. After a marathon catch-up session on Twitter, I eventually got stuck into content from this decade. The following post caught my attention, hitting me from all angles, forcing me to investigate further.

I'm sure at this stage you've all taken a shot at solving the bugger. I saw it and went 'Math! I can math. I can math real good. Lets do this. Come at me brah. Bring all yo money'...and so on and so forth. Ever since my dentist fitted my grill, I've been finding it increasingly difficult to approach life without a passive aggressive attitude. I really need to watch myself. 

ANYWAY! A bit of background to the problem - I gather the thing went viral about a week ago. It's a maths problem from a school in Singapore. Many will remember it in years to come as the soul destroying time when most of the western world realised that 14 year old kids in Singapore had superior cognitive function to them. Prozac and fish oil sales skyrocketed and the hardcore high achievers shipped their offspring off to Southeast Asia, for the good of the human race. It was traumatic. I went through the guts of half a refill pad and spent at least twenty minutes solving the thing. Ultimately the sense of achievement when I finally got it was nice....but I have some ongoing concerns that I feel need addressed.

Firstly, it's rather unusual for a girl to just make friends with two lads. I assume, seeing as the first question they ask her is her age, that they are either in school still, or have been dragged up and have no concept of what is an inappropriate question to ask a lady. For the sake of a keen hope in the standards of humanity, we will base further analysis on the assumption that the lads are indeed just kids. Now, having been a kid myself, I find the concept of a girl befriending two boys totally alien. In reality if she said hello they would have chased her up the field with hurleys. So from the get go, the question is absurd.

Secondly, this is 2015. Even if they did decide to enjoy each others company, there is no way the three of them spent more than a minute together without whipping out their phones to give each other the add on facebook. At which point they would have seen not only Cheryls birth date, but also her relationship status, her extended family, preferred reading material, embarrassing celebrity crushes and the last time she checked in at the gym. Go Cheryl. 

Thirdly, I've never met a child with self assurance as developed as Cheryl's. When one meets two new lads, one does not coyly lick ones lips and present them with a brain boggling conundrum. Normal people are too preoccupied with the state of their hair and whether they have food in their teeth to come up with ridiculous mind teasers. And what ten year old has the presence of mind to play the lads off each other, planting material so that the guy with the higher IQ will eventually be revealed and thus a potential suitor identified. It's just all a bit unrealistic, no?

Finally, what Singaporean couples are going around naming their kids Cheryl, Albert and Bernard? I'm all for embracing foreign culture and all the rest of it but...ah here!

I'm a Scientist...if you make use of the GPS coordinate system and some modern tracking technology you can quite easily get me out of here.

I'm after signing myself up for what promises to be a mental March! For the action seekers out there, leave now...when I say mental March, I mean a March that will be slightly busier than the ordinary March. So, lower those expectations, you'll be shocked by how much more enjoyable life is when you drop all preconceived notions and just allow yourself to be amazed. Or so I like to think. When I permit myself to think. If you do it too often the wondrous joy can wear off. And you don't want that. It a rationing exercise. 

Anyway, all hesitation regarding brain engagement aside, I really am a bit out of my depth here. I got an email in work that should have gone straight to spam, but instead landed front and center in my inbox. It looked innocent enough, and at twenty to five on a Friday evening I have to admit that I had let my guard down slightly. Before I really knew what was happening I had followed a link to a colourful website and applied to be a contestant on 'I'm a Scientist, get me out of here!' - presumably a spin-off of the reality television staple 'I'm a celebrity....'.

I spent the best part of the following week imagining all it would entail. Instead of eating ostrich bits, we would be given the opportunity to blast them with significant amounts of radiation and record the results in a structured fashion. Instead of just crawling out of a water tank full of  baby sharks using blind luck to succeed, we would be allowed repeat the process a number of times to determine margins of error, and obviously a control water tank with no baby sharks would be present to enable viable comparisons to baseline. Bushtucker trials would become Bushtucker clinical trials. The winner would receive a lifetime subscription to 'Scientific America' and rights to publish all breakthrough discoveries from the shows activities.

I immediately began my ground work. Although I was confident enough in my applications of good scientific practice, I assumed that all other aspects of the competition would be equally important. Having no experience in applying fake tan or finding the best position to sleep in with breast enhancements,  I knew I had a lot to get through. I downloaded Katie Price's autobiography (to my Kindle obviously...reading that openly at lunch time in work would have breached the terms of my employment I reckon). I hoped to glean some top tips on maintaining a positive mental attitude in tougher times and how to channel all the extra confidence that would be oozing from my E cups. I also started to compile a list of all the insects known to me and their protein content. Scouts motto - be prepared.

Two weeks later, when the email confirming the success of my application came through, I felt ready. I had been to TK Maxx and purchased a fine selection of capri pants. I phoned my doctor and asked for the works immunisation wise - Japanese encephalitis included.  That was most likely over cautious on my part but I had eaten some pulled pork of questionable origin from a street stall at the Fringe festival back in August. and have been paranoid ever since.

It was only as I poured through the terms and conditions of my appointment as a contestant that a sinking realisation hit. I would not require any jabs whatsoever, as I would not be leaving the UK. I would not require the fake tan either, as I would not be leaving my computer screen. I would still need the capri pant selection as a reliable source informed me that they will be making a comeback in 2017 (take note!), the silver lining to a very harsh blow. I would not be going to the jungle - that extravagance was apparently reserved for Z-list celebrities only.

The take home point from this blog post is to read the terms and conditions before enthusiastically clicking accept. Not following this advice is a very very bad thing to do. Life is precious, read before you click. However, on this one occasion, I think managed to land on my feet. But it's a statistical anomaly. Don't risk it for a biscuit. You don't need another biscuit anyway. Just saying.

 'I'm a Scientist, get me out of here' is in actual fact a science outreach program for kids - scientists are assigned a zone and are in competition with each other for the coming fortnight. Participating classes from schools can book live chat slots where the scientists answer quick fire rounds of questions. Children can also ask whatever science related questions they like on online forums and scientists answer in their spare time. The children vote for the best answers and by the end of the two weeks only the winning scientist remains. The prize is a monetary sum to be spent on science outreach activities. You'll find my profile here in the medical physics zone. Drop in over the next two weeks and see if you can help me out with some of the madness!

In addition to top notch science, I reckon the secret to winning is be down with the kids. #fosho #dude #cool #geeksville #specsareso20now #instagrampositive #instagramnegative #instananogram #heisenbergforpres #ican'teven #ican'todd  #nofilt...ration #yolowpressure #doyouevenscience?

...wish me luck!

An open letter to people selling shoes on ebay

Dear sellers of high heels on ebay,

You may find some of the hard hitting points from this letter a little hurtful. I am coming from a place of love though, this is for your own good. I want us all to get along. I don't want there to be any confusion when I'm done, so I will be frank. Take a moment now to prepare. If ever there was an occasion to comfort eat, this is it. Go and make a hot chocolate with gold top milk and fill the pockets of your nightgown to maximum capacity with Oreos. Nobody is judging you. I have numbered my observations for your convenience. Breath in deeply and proceed. 

1) Heels claiming to be heels that aren't heels. If I search for 'high heels' on ebay, one can reasonably assume that I am not doing so for my general health and well-being, but rather that I actually want to purchase high heels. So when I set to it, full of youthful expectation and an irrational sense of hope akin to that experienced annually by Liverpool fans, I envisage spending joy filled hours scrolling through reams of shoes, glorious shoes. The search should not be interrupted with a dose of sensible. If I wanted sensible I would have put an advert in the parish bulletin. See Figure 1 for the full horror. An inch of solid black rubber does not elevate an item from bog standard loafer to high heel. Also it should be noted that having a massive lump of rubber underfoot will not protect you in the unfortunate event of being struck by lightning. So really these bad boys have nothing going for them and should not be deviously masquerading as high heels. You are only embarrassing yourself here.

Figure 1. A solid pair of loafers. Nice air holes to keep your athletes foot from thriving. In a stunning shade of bland, perfect for the transition season when you 'don't know what to be wearing atall, sure you'd catch your death out there still but isn't there a grand stretch in the evenings all the same Mary?'

2) Heels claiming to have been 'worn once'. This is an ambiguous term, and ambiguity does not sell. What do you mean 'worn once'? Did you pop them on, watch an episode of Hell's Kitchen, get the life scared out of you by Gordon Ramsay, decide you're never leaving the house again and silently slide the shoes off in a fit of moderate anxiety? Did you wear them with a pair of your boyfriends rugby socks folded over twice and climb repeatedly up and down the cream carpeted stairs muttering Hail Mary's under your breath in the vain hope that you would have them broken in before Marion's 21st? Or did you let your cousin Brian mash his hairy size 11 toes into them for his charity 5km fun run where he went in full drag? Figure 2 depicts an exemplary example of shoes that regardless of whether they have genuinely only been 'worn once' or not, should never be marketed as 'worn once'. You will lose all credibility, Clodagh from Cavan will give you a sellers score of one star, your ebay career will be over and all your future hopes and dreams will melt away in front of your eyes.

Figure 2. Brian? Did you do this?

3) Heels lined up for a photo with the left shoe on the right and the right shoe on the left. WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS? Leave.

Figure 3. My OCD is flaring up. Does anyone have a brown paper bag? I need oxygen, ASAP. Do you feel guilty? You should. 

4) Inappropriate placement of heels for the picture. Now this is a rather more sensitive area. My previous points, I feel, are well justified. I would confidently wager that most would be in agreement with me. My next point may not be so much of a crowd pleaser though. I only dare voice my opinion now that I know my dream of running for general election has already been shattered (Gerry Adams feels this blog teeters dangerously towards undermining party policy). The origins of my problem with modern day ebay shoe positioning lie firmly in a rigid Catholic upbringing. I've contacted Father O'Connell-Murphy and Brother Benedict McLoughlin and both are prepared to back me up. We have come together and, between Father O'Connell-Murphy's organisational prowess and Brother Benedict's belief in the human race, come up with a temporary solution. There will be a Novena sometime in mid-February to pray for the redemption of souls engaged in suggestive shoe positioning on global forums. I struggled greatly with the issue of whether to place such filth on here or not, but in the end figured that forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. 

Figure 4. Sweet merciful mother of Mary. Never in all my days....

5) The close up shot. You are not employed by National Geographic, presumably (I realise I'm stereotyping but do National Geographic employees typically sell wedges with free delivery from East-Hampshire? No.) So macro-photography isn't the way to go. If you are photographing the shoes in a bedroom approximately the size of wheelie bin, perhaps placing the shoes in a corner and standing diagonally opposite might work? When one does not include a full size picture, I tend to let my imagination run amok and assume either a rottweiler has done away with the left foot or there are some class of bodily fluids prevalent. 

Figure 5. Lovely studs. No questions there. But...well...I have trust issues okay?

6) Soft edges. I do appreciate photographic artistry. Really, I do. But there's a time and a place. And this isn't it. If you are in such a hurry to take the photo, the logical conclusion is to assume that there is something very big wrong with the shoes and you just can't be rid of them quickly enough. Either that or your camera is not capable of the demands you are putting on it. You need to assess the number of frames per second you can capture without motion blur setting in and tell your enchanted tap shoes to slow down to an appropriate rate for the picture. 

Figure 6.  Tap tap tap tap tap tap, look at me go guys! I got the rhythm, Uhmmm, hmmmm. tap tap tappity tap

Thank you for your time. 

Rebooting Ireland - eh maybe just try plugging it out and in again?

Right, let's talk about Lucinda. She's only after going and throwing a massive spanner in the works and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what to make of it all.  

There I was, sitting back on the couch in the kitchen, feet up, rocking a dressing gown and pajamas combo, waiting on a coffee to make its way to my hand. It was that nice spell after the Christmas madness but before work takes over again, and only about 10:30 in the morning. Having just surfaced from my lair and with free reign of the remote for the afternoon, I was living the dream. As the general Christmas experience tends to numb the senses somewhat, I was not entirely tuned into the happenings on the radio. Who cares what's going on in the world when one has to decide if chocolate biscuit cake for breakfast is morally wrong or just obnoxiously 2015? Anyway, I was away in my perfect little world when Dad tears through the kitchen door, turns the volume on the radio up to at least twenty (Jesus, Mary and Joseph - the neighbours!) and roars at me to hush. The last time such events occurred was 2009 when Liam Clancy regretfully passed away. I feared the worst.

The two of us sat in silence for an hour or so, soaking in the news and making a heroic attempt to decipher the Mayo accent. For those interested, both the coffee and the chocolate biscuit cake found their way to me. I tried to Shazzam some of Eddie Hobbs's speech, but even that magnificent technology crumbled weakly in the face of the Cork dialect - for some reason it kept telling me the song was Independent woman by Destiny's Child. 'All the honeys who makin’ money, Throw your hands up at me, baby' ...well now actually as I'm typing this I realise that that may not have been a mistake at all. And who am I to doubt technology?!

For those of you not entirely up to speed with Irish politics - on the morning of January 2nd 2015, Lucinda Creighton, an Independent TD for the Dublin South-East constituency from Mayo, held a press conference announcing the impending formation of a brand new political party. Talk about upheaval lads! Did you know you could do that?

For the record I think the whole show is only half baked, if even. Without a name, sound policies or even members to back it up, the 'party' is more of a hashtag at the minute than anything else. I think they should have gone and sorted out their ideas before putting themselves up on the national platform for scrutiny. They've a few long nights with bottles of Jameson and a whiteboard to put in before the main launch date. Having said that, the notion intrigues me.

Starting from scratch is a daunting task. Where are they supposed to even begin? I've been thinking about this a fair amount and still can't come up with a plan of attack. But I find myself wondering, how great is the need to start from the beginning? #RebootIreland is all well and good but why is there such a desire for this fresh start? Irish politics may be a complete car crash, but a new party isn't going to change that....is it?

The answer is no. The nature of Ireland is being overlooked - we claim to want a straight talking government....but do we really? Ahhhhh go on, go on go on go on go on go on. We all want to eradicate alcoholism, but when the gardai close the lock-in in Murphy's bar of a Sunday night we are outraged. We want to have safe roads to drive on, but when we're done for doing 55 in a 50 zone the first thing we do is get on to the second cousin who might be able to sort it out. We are all for saving the planet, but when the recycling bin is only collected every other week we snake a few milk cartons into the open fire. What's the harm sure? Ireland has always and will always be about the trickery, the skullduggary, the desire to have the craic. And we can try and have politics separate from that, but I don't think that's how it works. Some things are ingrained.