“shit hot diseases like breast cancer”

I had some leaves, lettuce, croutons, cheese and sauce for lunch today. It cost €15 ($22ish?). It was okay. It was the only meat-free thing on the menu.

I dined at the Hotel something something in Paris. Paid for by some business people who deal with healthcare professional databases and research, with a view to selling specified information to pharmaceutical companies so they can market their products to the most influential clinicians who can then be ‘brand ambassadors’ for dimazaponeova or whatever it’s called, leading to other (lesser?) clinicians wanting to use it too (and then maybe media organisations getting wind of it and demanding “WHY ARN@T OUR DOC SCUM USING IT TO GIVE THIS WOMAN EXTRA 2 MONTHS SHITTING IN A BED!!!” pressurising government organisations to with fast-track approval processes, with drugs coming to market before full-effectiveness is determined, or money is prioritised to purchase new mega-expensive treatments for shit hot diseases like breast cancer over treatment (and care/support!!!!) for other diseases, including those horrible chronic ones like Alzheimer’s and diabetes that can take decades of constant support, but no-one really seems to die from them all the time in films and things so nobody cares).

That was written for myself so I could understand it. And how pointless and amoral it is. I’ll never get over profiting off basic human rights. But that’s me!

And only me it seems in the world of smart suits, fast talk, engorged brains, €30 hamburgers with no chips and a menu with ONE vegetarian option, as I mumble my questions and shake hands that must somehow feel I’m a idiot out of my depth and hypocritically indignant in my moral outlook.

I looked good though. Tie, sweater vest, blue shirt. The works.

It was my first time on a Eurostar train too. The St Pancras departure lounger reminded me of Rigsby in 2001: A Space Odyssey, all low, modern seats with curves and patternless surfaces. My coffee was on expenses. It tasted the same.

Paris was not mine to explore though. By time and budget, I was confined to the Metro, the Gare du Nord and the hotel.

In a state of extreme cold and confusion though, desperately searching for an elusive rue (a bluffing boulevard?), I stumbled on my old friend General Koenig. We first met as I exited a bus two and a half years ago wondering what Paris was all about. He was a safe guide then. Shit now though. Making me 30 minutes late and blustered by wind. He’s changed.

It was a happy encounter in any case, as memories of the loveliest times of all came back, involving people and art and talking and 30 cent baguettes and things you know. Not indulging in sorbet in a glass while literally being told the biggest deals in pharma are made on a golf course.


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