Post 472: Financial hardship? No. Speeding fines? Yes. But where’s the fairness?

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Post 472: Financial hardship? No. Speeding fines? Yes. But where’s the fairness?

Post 472: Financial hardship? No. Speeding fines? Yes. But where’s the fairness?

Fairness.

It’s a funny old thing.

I read today that the writer, 83-year-old Lynda La Plante, had appeared in court after receiving four speeding offences and a driving ban. The speeds were 24, 25, 26 and 27mph in a 20mph limit on a road she regularly uses while taking her dog to the park.

Now, before anyone says it, speeding is speeding.

It isn’t right.

But I found myself thinking about fairness.

The fines were huge, reflecting her means, and it made me think about the police programmes I watch where stolen cars, drugged drivers and dangerous police pursuits often end with punishments that somehow seem completely out of proportion to the risks they created.

One person creeps through a quiet 20mph zone a few miles an hour too fast.

Another tears through town in a stolen car, putting everyone at risk.

Both deserve to answer for what they’ve done.

Sometimes, though, it feels difficult to understand where the balance lies.

Perhaps that’s why it affected me more than it normally would.

My own life doesn’t feel especially fair at the moment.

Cancer wasn’t something I ordered.

If I wanted to throw caution to the wind I could easily say, “Well, what’s the point?” and ignore the rules altogether.

But I won’t.

That’s not me.

Rules matter.

Kindness matters.

Doing the right thing matters.

Even when life doesn’t seem to be playing by the same rules.

Tomorrow morning I have another Zoladex injection.

I’ll set the alarm, drive there, smile politely, and let another treatment happen that, according to my latest PSA result of 1268, no longer appears to be controlling the cancer as we’d all hoped.

That thought has been sitting heavily with me today.

Maybe much more heavily than the speeding story itself.

Perhaps that was simply the spark that lit an already emotional day.

I’m feeling sorry for myself.

There.

I’ve admitted it.

Sometimes you simply have to.

The forum is the one place where I can say those things out loud without pretending everything is alright.

Some days I need my Champions.

Today is one of those days.

Come and tell me to pull myself together.

Remind me that tomorrow will look different.

Tell me life isn’t always fair—but it can still be good.

Why do I eat all the sweets?

Could it be because of the taste?

Perhaps it’s simply because I need

A little sweetness

On a day

Filled with five thousand sours.

Yes, the fines are part of life

On England’s slowest streets.

But look beyond the hedgerows

And you’ll find troubles

That truly bleed.

It could be worse,

You quietly say,

As chemicals

Quietly change

The man I used to be.

Sometimes

That’s simply

The way

Life is.

I’ll give myself a proper talking-to tonight.

Nothing becomes fair simply because I wish it were.

But neither should I allow one difficult afternoon to blot out all the good things that surround me.

I’ve had wonderful weeks recently.

Friends.

Family.

Pub lunches.

Work.

Laughter.

Love.

Those things are real too.

Today my appetite overtook my needs.

My emotions overtook my reason.

Tomorrow I’ll slow my breathing, gather myself together and remember that one bad day doesn’t define a life.

Thank you, Champions.

You always seem to know exactly what to say.

By tomorrow this feeling will have passed.

Mr U will be back.

A little stronger.

Hopefully a little wiser.

Good night.

Take care. Heart

Madiso
  • I am not going to tell you to pull yourself together. But I do say read back your blog from the day you went to the car show. You were happy then. You can be happy again. Cancer is horribly indiscriminate. My time on this site and my experience whenever I play hospital bingo by visiting whichever department wants to see me next shows cancer affects people in all walks of life. I always want to cry when I see someone much younger than me going through it. I am sad about your son’s partner’s cancer. But us oldies, well we walk through shooter’s alley when we get to a certain age, and I would rather have this than dementia.