Leadership whose motivation is constantly in question

It’s not leadership; it’s a guessing game

What’s wrong with paracetamol? Now, there’s a clue. Maybe a red herring. The clue is that many Americans don’t know what paracetamol is. It’s known in America as acetaminophen, but even then Americans don’t know what it is. You have to tell them it’s Tylenol. You have to use its widely marketed brand name so that they know what it is. Like Jello: a fruit-flavoured gelatine pudding. Coke: a cola-flavoured beverage. Rice-a-roni: an easily prepared bag of … rice.

Is paracetamol bad for pregnant women and their unborn children? It probably is. Anything that is ingested by a pregnant woman beyond essential nutrients, trace elements, micronutrients and water without additives is likely going to affect, in some way or another, her unborn child. And once it is born, it will cease to be affected by such things through its mother and will start to be affected directly. The issue that has blown up about paracetamol isn’t just about paracetamol, it’s about women, and pregnant women in particular. It’s just another chapter in the assault on those members of U.S. society.

Oh, we can lend an ear to the plaints of the U.S. government and their concerns about women’s health in pregnancy, and that of their babies en ventre leur mère. And these may be sincere. Fifty years ago, such concerns would have been taken very seriously. Because, fifty years ago, politicians made public announcements such as the recent one concerning paracetamol with the aim of giving the public useful information. And now we’re not so sure. Therefore: maybe it’s a red herring.

I don’t want to scaremonger, all I do is write about my own reaction, and my own reaction to this pronouncement by the U.S. cabinet is that they would not be making it unless it was worth money to them. My scepticism has hardened into an attitude of prove it isn’t so, rather than requiring me to prove it is. From AIPAC support, to Qatari airliners, to attempting to strongarm Brazilian courts not to prosecute former dictators, to sleazy deals with Arab states by members of the Trump family, to, to, too.

President Trump in a tutu

If you put yourself in a darkened room with a cold flannel on your forehead, you may emerge from a migraine or headache unscathed. Dark and quiet goes it. But the temptation to reach for paracetamol will always be there. Except you don’t want your child to be autistic. Well, many of us are autistic, and some to a greater extent than others, and, to paraphrase Antonio at the start of The Merchant of Venice: What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, we are to learn.

“It’s a grey owl,” I said, many years ago, to my friend Peter. “It’s a snowy owl,” came the reply. “Peter, it says on the cage that it’s a grey owl. The zoo would know, surely?” “It’s a snowy owl,” he repeated. We were on a group visit to Pairi Daiza, a zoological garden in Belgium on the site of a former Cistercian abbey. It’s very beautiful. It was an outing, a treat offered by the firm I worked for at the time, PricewaterhouseCoopers, or PwC, to the residents of a home for the mentally challenged. We called it our Community Day. Peter was one of those residents and he was delightful. He could play word games and he could crack jokes and he laughed and he clapped and he was a joy to be with. But he couldn’t administer his own life, let alone a commercial enterprise. Our job as PwC employees was to make his and his companions’ visit to Pairi Daiza joyful. We had an easy task: they brought joy with them. We didn’t need to serve them: they served us all the joy we could want.

I spotted a zookeeper, and beckoned him over. I asked him, in my oh, so arrogant lawyer’s manner, to tell my friend what kind of owl is in this here cage.

“It’s a snowy owl,” said the zookeeper. Peter looked at me. “It’s a snowy owl,” he repeated. Undaunted, I pressed my case. “It says on the cage it’s a grey owl.”

The zookeeper was apologetic. “The snowy owl’s cage is being repaired. We put it in here for a few days. We didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Well, they didn’t reckon on Peter.

An autistic child, an autistic adult can be a serious burden. Everything in this life has its negatives and its positives. And we always want the positives to outweigh the negatives. But I fondly remember the two occasions I went to Pairi Daiza, in 2008 and 2009, with Peter and his friends. I will never forget them.

I’m not a scientist, so I have no view on the deleterious effects that drugs can have on babies and their pregnant mothers.

I know enough about Mr Trump to always, without exception, question his motives.

I’ve known enough autistic people to know that they bring work, burdens, sunshine and joy to all our lives. Just like we ourselves do. That they are members of our community and deserving of our respect and kindness.

I have featured the work of David Afkham before. It is his interpretation of the Shostakovich I wrote about here that I featured in this article:

I’d like you to meet him again, in a short film of only 3 minutes, in which he speaks about the leadership he deploys to make an orchestra sound so wonderful as in the Shosta 5.

I think he’s right.

It’s a very different style of leadership to the U.S. cabinet’s. Question: when you watch the short film, do you question Afkham’s motives?