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talesofstyles · 3 years

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Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain.

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder.

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment.

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car.

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.”

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later.

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald.

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.”

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later.

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks.

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off.

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.”

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors.

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve.

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING.

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head.

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her.

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals.

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom.

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife.

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process.

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop.

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache.

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink.

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers.

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest.

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room.

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls’ school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward.

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket.

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages.

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side.

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door.

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.”

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going.

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him.

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear.

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat.

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes.

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,” Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt.

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige.

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down.

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.”

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching.

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.

#harry #harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles fics #harry styles ff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles au #dad!harry #husband!harry #doctor!harry #surgeon!harry

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StravaYet another example of why we at Cracked continue to condemn exercise in all its forms.

By analyzing the data, you could theoretically figure out patrol and supply convoy routes, and make educated guesses as to where on these bases soldiers eat, sleep, etc. That’s a lot of useful information for someone planning an attack. You could also track individuals, potentially important ones. One researcher claimed they tracked a French soldier’s entire overseas deployment and subsequent return home.

This wasn’t an evil ploy by a terrorist cell in league with Big Fitness; you can turn that data tracking off. It’s just that no one even thought about it until someone finally pointed out that it was a huge security issue. American rules for fitness trackers in the military are now being “refined,” which we assume is PR speak for “Goddammit, turn that shit off.” But it’s only a matter of time until another seemingly innocuous technology accidentally gives away state secrets.

Space Commercialization Might Contaminate Planets

Elon Musk set a new precedent when he launched a car into space, and not only for tacky egotism. The rules about what corporations can and can’t do in space are essentially nonexistent, because the government’s authority ends somewhere around the thermosphere. Governments, however, have legal responsibilities listed in the Outer Space Treaty — one of the few things America and the Soviet Union agreed on. Most of the world has signed as well, and in addition to promising not to put nukes on the Moon or claim all of Jupiter for the proud people of Denmark, adherents agree not to send Earth germs to other planets like the interplanetary version of coughing on the guy next to you at the movie theater.

That sounds a bit silly, but there’s a real point: If Earth microbes accidentally end up on other planets and moons, it becomes impossible for scientists to tell if their “discovery” of life on Io is native, or if it originated from someone sneezing in a Tesla factory. So NASA and other government space agencies follow a strict anti-contamination protocol. American Mars rovers, for example, had all of their parts heated to 230 degrees before launch, and they are routinely sterilized with alcohol. Even if your mission is only to orbit a planet (or swing by one), you have to prove that the odds of an accidental crash landing are equivalent to that of winning a fair-sized lottery.

Kim Shiflett/NASA“Like, Powerball odds. No Pick 3 crap.”

In theory, governments are also responsible for ensuring that any corporations within their borders follow the same rules. But once you move beyond launching satellites into Earth’s orbit, the government’s ability to enforce the law is about equal to your ability to enforce a responsible bedtime on yourself. Maybe that flying Tesla was carefully sterilized, or maybe Musk went out of his way to fart it up before launch. We don’t know. And as more and more corporations talk about going to the Moon and Mars, we may have a germ problem.

There’s also the issue of debris. While we like to think of space as a pristine void, the Solar System is starting to resemble a freshman’s dorm room. Space missions are supposed to be as clean as possible, and a mission to another planet should either purposely burn up in the atmosphere or land when it’s done. Musk’s car was heading toward Mars, where plans for it were sort of a vague shrug. It could have eventually broken up and left debris around the planet, or it could have infected the surface. But instead, it went off-course toward the asteroid belt … where it could also very well hit something and break up. Worst-case scenario, we end up with a bunch of junk floating around that could take out a future mission. Even if his car never hits anything, Musk still broke bold new ground in space litter.

Moderators Have To Watch All The Heinous Garbage That Gets Posted On Social Media

Try to imagine the worst job possible. Sewage sampler? Elephant masturbator? How about social media moderator? It sounds like a joke at first: “Facebook has moderators? Then explain all the crap I see every day!” Then you learn that their job is mostly to filter out pornography, and it sounds awesome. Aren’t you supposed to get paid to do what you love?

But then you learn about the truly awful shit that moderators see as they cruise through a thousand flagged posts an hour, and you want to give them all hugs and raises. Child pornography, bestiality, hate speech, extreme violence … if you can imagine something awful, someone has put it online. Specific examples included a man’s testicles getting crushed, a boy getting his legs mangled by a truck, someone getting hit by a train, a man shooting himself in the head, suicide bombings, a man hurting and possibly killing small birds by having sex with them, and a woman whose body had been blown in two. Imagine dealing with images like that for 40 hours a week. It’s like playing roulette, except the closest you get to winning are shots of consenting genitals smashing together.

youtube

Imagine being forced to watch Logan Paul videos and considering that a good day.

Over 100,000 people trawl through e-trash to keep Google, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, and other major sites (relatively) safe to use. And you can’t click away the moment you can tell a video is getting nasty — you have to verify that the content is real, and learn as much as possible so you can try to destroy it at its source. And while you will become somewhat numb, dealing with the worst of what humanity has to offer day after day can haunt you. Turnover is high, and there are few resources for moderators who need counseling. Which, shit, has to be all of them, right?

Facebook’s Fake News Problem Is A Feature, Not A Bug

Despite the fact that you probably took at least one break from reading this to check your Facebook feed, we still think of the site primarily as a vehicle for vacation photos where the worst thing that could happen is getting into a bitter argument with some friends about how to pronounce “GIF.” We’re all too smart to get suckered into politics, right?

But Facebook’s politics come after you. Ten million users saw “Russian-linked” ads placed during the 2016 election, mostly focused on big, controversial issues like immigration and gun control. Facebook also admitted that they placed about $100,000 in ads from “inauthentic accounts.” The issue isn’t ads spamming “Vote for Clinton / Trump / X’algax, Destroyer of Souls!” Everyone already saw those a million times; they’d sway no one. The problem is that they spread stories like “FBI AGENT SUSPECTED IN HILLARY EMAIL LEAKS FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT MURDER-SUICIDE,” which linked to a fake newspaper, quoting a man that doesn’t exist, who lives in a town that doesn’t exist (they spelled the town’s name wrong).

The Denver PostAt this point, we’re starting to doubt the existence of Denver too.

If you see that stuff in your feed, wedged in between a cat video and your friend’s new spaghetti sauce recipe, you don’t click through to verify it. So it weasels into your brain as something you vaguely remember that may or may not be true.

Facebook has also become a playground for trolls, regardless of whether they have a political agenda or just want to watch the e-world burn. If you can think back to the Las Vegas shooting (before all those other shootings removed it from the headlines), a slew of hoaxes spread from the moment the news broke. Some people invented fake dead and missing victims solely to see how many likes they could get. Others claimed that the shooter was still active, invented fake perpetrators, assigned nonexistent motivations to the shooter, or claimed that he was a Democrat, a left-wing activist, or a recent convert to Islam (in reality, if the shooter had any political motives, he took them to his grave).

It’s the cruelest and most devious form of misinformation, because it’s hard to keep your bullshit detector functioning when you’re in shock. Maybe some of those moderators could get a well-deserved break from the animal torture to focus on this crap instead?

Someone Could Steal Your Face And Make Porn

We have the technology to swap someone’s face onto someone else’s face in a video. That’s fun if we’re putting Nicholas Cage into Raiders Of The Lost Ark …

youtube

… but it’s a problem if someone is making it appear that a person said or did something they didn’t really do. And that problem gains an extra level of creepiness when someone’s face is slapped into a porn video. All it takes is some training, some raw footage of the subject, and a few spare hours. And if you’re the sort of person inclined to make fake porn, you’ve probably got a lot of time on your hand.

Reddit had an entire community dedicated to this “hobby,” until it was shut down, but that only made enthusiasts migrate elsewhere. Called “deepfakes,” after the Reddit user who pioneered the practice, they started editing the faces of celebrities onto preexisting porn. Some of the fakes ended up on porn sites being pitched to viewers as real, because porn is now a genre of fake news.

While it’s unlikely that anyone would believe Taylor Swift was suddenly so hard up for money that she appeared on FuckBrothers.biz, it’s still an ethically off-putting mess. It’s not limited to the living. Someone made a video “starring” a young Carrie Fisher. And it’s not limited to celebrities, either. Anyone armed with a scraper can pull photos from Facebook and Instagram, combine them with any of several search engines that look for porn stars by facial recognition, and make a fairly convincing video of anyone doing pretty much anything. Reddit users were making videos of their friends, co-workers, classmates, and exes. They were “only” for private use, but what happens when someone wants to manufacture revenge porn? So there you go: We’re reaching a point in history where we can’t even trust our pornography. And then what’s left to believe in?

Mark is on Twitter and has a book.

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For more, check out 5 Ways The Modern World Is Shockingly Ready To Collapse and 22 Everyday Problems Caused By Famous Sci-Fi Technologies.

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nothingneverforever · 7 years

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Remember Me (2010)

Hmm

It would be accurate to say that I hated this almost wholeheartedly until the last and extremely rushed act when there was some actual, on-screen emotion that didn’t leave implied connections to be made by the viewer, but then this emotion was still very thin anyway and hinged totally on the viewer’s own associative understanding of the 9/11 attacks and less so on loss in general, so perhaps it is better to simply say that I hated this, period.

I remember avoiding this back when it was first released (on DVD at least, I didn’t go to the cinemas for anything besides crap back in 2010. Not that this film isn’t crap….cos it is) for some reason, I think maybe it was rated M18 or something and strangely for an early teen I did usually dutifully avoid such rated films because I didn’t (and still don’t) like explicit scariness or sexualness in any form. And then later on when I had lost interest in the genre (drama/romance?) but gained interest in Robert Pattinson, I still avoided this because it looked dumb. Anyway, we’ve made it here today and I sit eating my nice lentil dinner having just finished the film. So let’s go !

Okay firstly… I am not surprised at all at its 27% rotten tomatoes rating lol

Maybe it’s personal to me, but I really hate playfighting couples. I talked about it <<here>> briefly, exactly 2 years ago in my Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) review:

This scene, of Clementine and Joel play-fighting got me rather angry. I hate hate hate it when couples, people, do dangerous shit for fun.

^Lmao, rather angry wtf? The writing sucks lol hate it…… But this still stands; in Remember Me the playfighting is not ‘dangerous’ as it was in Eternal Sunshine, but equally successful in making me rather angry in its annoying grossness. Is it unfair for me to find it childish?! Like the fuck??? Where’s the fun in getting each other wet and forcing each other into submission in the shower?! And as complained about to Jade, self-aware, intertextual, referential, whatever the term for it is, scenes, dialogues, films, are as annoying as ones done in earnest.

Okay this playfighting scene was a one off, but it is absolutely extrapolate-able and gives insight to why Ally’s character was so phony and wobbly. Ally ultimately stands for nothing, all her quirks don’t create a whole, and as a result we can anticipate nothing from her nor can we actually feel for her at all. That I have dessert before the main scene was shockingly out of place because its manic pixie dream girl brazenness and eccentricity don’t present itself anywhere else. Full transcript of her dumbass dialogue (re: why she has dessert before the main. Substituting their names with Girl/Guy cos that’s literally all they are, their chemistry is so absent and their connection so fucking blah that they are any and every guy/girl ever):

GIRL: I just don't see the point in waiting. What if l die eating my vindaloo?

GUY: Is that probable?

GIRL: It's possible. Embolism bursts, asteroid hits the restaurant. I'd die without having eaten the one thing l wanted most.

GUY: l mean, the odds are...

GIRL: Tell you what. Guarantee me, swear to me on your eternal soul that l make it through my entre, and I'll wait. Before you answer, if l die, you're gonna have to live the rest of your life knowing not only did you lie to me, but you denied me of my one last indulgence. My last wish. Are you prepared to shoulder that kind of responsibility to prove a point?

If you feel like that second bit (swear to me on your eternal soul etc etc ad nauseam) went on for far longer than its logical reach, you’re right, and you’re lucky you didn’t have to sit through it. “Are you prepared to shoulder that kind of responsibility to prove a point?” - eh, i don’t remember anyone but you having a dumbass point you were desperate to prove, unprovoked?? I don’t know, I don’t think this is specific to the film’s storytelling or scriptwriting, I just generally am averse to such people in real life (same with the playfighting issue I guess). Like Jade said when I complained about this scene to her, it reminded of her Zoe Kazan’s character in What If? (2013) which we barely emerged from alive. Fuck that film lol seriously. Sorry I made yall sit through it… But Daniel Rafcliffe is so nice :’( Okay but how should I best describe these increasingly commonplace female characters? Manic pixie dream girl doesn’t suffice anymore (lmao I googled MPDG just so I could get ideas of other prototypes and wiki lists Belle from the 1991 Beauty and the Beast as one?!), and I feel that they do belong to a specific type. Just reading the dialogue above, don’t a handful of other annoyingass “””not like other girls””” girls from film come to mind? I don’t know, does ‘fake-witty’ cover enough ground? Like Jade says, why do people even enjoy these characters? Just because they are different from what is commonly shown doesn’t make them more endearing or likable or even remotely realistic surely?

In general, MPDGs are dangerous because their blinded male lovers don’t seem them in any real measure, more as designs of their own, existing to imbue their own lives with all they are missing. But in Remember Me, we don’t even get to see how Guy sees Girl, much less see her for our own selves. Guy and Girl barely share a meaningful eyeline, I can’t recall a single intimate or perfectly honest conversation, which leads me to……

UGH I’m tired of big screen romances having their highs shown almost exclusively through physical intimacy, because this message is completely toxic, and this is not just me spreading my asexual agenda honestly? Seriously, how much of a copout is it for the connection to be, you know, ambling on just fine, nothing special or sparkly, until that one kiss or that one morning-after with a camera pan of the girl’s bare back kissed with soft dusty morning sunlight and the guy looking at her from the window with some kind of stupidass serious contemplation? Can we not be led to believe that this is how connections are formed, that you know someone when you know their body? It’s like that song, Suzanne by Leonard Cohen , that Leila used to play over and over when we sat alone at the pagoda every Tuesday, an hour early for our organic farming sessions, which I now love because it reminds me of those nice sunny times and nice sunny Leila who I loved so much, but bleghhh this line plz stop: And you know that she will trust you/For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

I know, it’s obvious, Guy and Girl here are each other’s safe places in a world where so much is messy and dark for them, etc etc etc, but we don’t get a sense of the warmth at all, we don’t see how much they love/need/appreciate each other or why.

Conclusion: I do not ship Guy and Girl because there was literally nothing to go off on and therefore the entire emotional premise cannot stand and we cannot love anyone or anything we see on screen.

Moving on~

Okay it’s unfair to compare the two just because of the 9/11 relevance, but seeing this reminded me of When God Was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman that I read in 2011. It remains one of my all-time favourite books, and I remember liking it so much I lent it to Rebecca, and then later Nichole, and Krysia, and maybe some others. Lol cute memories, being in school, with girls, nice girls, wearing a uniform, sitting outside the class on the steps by the grass patch…2011 was chill as hell. ANYWAY the book changed my life and I remember sobbing in my bed when I first read it, because 9/11 being woven into the storyline felt authentic and necessary and actually helpful to our understanding of its characters – what little I’ve read of the critiques of Remember Me from Rotten Tomatoes decry its opportunist, ‘piggybacking’ of the tragedy. I’m sure everything I feel about the cheapness of the 9/11 insertion has already been written about, and my arms /shoulders hurt from my heaviest clean and press sets ever last night, so let me look for something that speaks what is in my heart.

Okie, found something close enough:

I hate this movie. I hate it a lot. And I want to spoil the ending right here but I won't. I want you to go feel the same feeling of being sucker-punched that I anti-enjoyed in the final minutes when THE BIG SURPRISE ENDING takes place. Because it's cheap. And shallow. And manipulative in a way that's not heartwarming or cute or moving. It's just gross and infuriating. It's also pretty easy to predict: a rug-pulling, emotionally pornographic climax of tragedy-kitsch that will come to you early if you're willing to pay attention to small details here and there, things the movie just puts in the background or touches on briefly, creating a timeline and an inevitable outcome that it finally shoves in your face with a big, "TA-DAAAH! TIME TO CRY EVERYONE! DO IT! NOW!" (source)

Ah this doesn’t fit in anywhere else so here is an important stand-alone comment: fuck the opening of the film! Honestly is it naiveté that I don’t believe something like that would happen? Okay not that it would never, but it’s certainly not probable? Who the fuck shoots the individual, a mother to a young (and present!) girl no less, they successfully rob and are getting away comfortably from? I don’t wanna be this person but………..it seemed damn racist lol

Okay so obviously it’s the cheapest technique in the book but I am a sucker for voiceovers, especially ones that open and/or close films (I’m sure there’s a technical term for this, but whatever). Okay well not all, the dumbass fake deep quotes that the Twilight series open with are, well, dumbass. But the film series still rocks :-) fight me if u disagree :-) But okay the point is that Remember Me ends with Tyler (whose life we know to have just been taken by the 9/11 attacks) and this stupidly moving voiceover narration:

Whatever you do in life will be insignificant, but it's very important that you do it, because nobody else will. Like when someone comes into your life, and half of you says, "You're nowhere near ready," but the other half says, "Make her yours forever." Michael, Caroline asked me what l would say if I knew you could hear me. I said l do know. "I love you. God, l miss you. And I forgive you."

Sorry but…………..that is just truly so stupidly moving. :’( I need my inspiration spoon-fed with zero subtlety, and this did just that. I will indeed do all I want to in life! Nobody else will! I’m gonna make her mine forever! And I truly miss and love everyone who has ever been in my life!

Since we’re on the positives now let me also generously add that there was in fact a lot of potential in the film. Which…naturally….only made it all the more disappointing. But, okay, there was a lot of richness in the subplots. Maybe too much, because it was slightly stifling, how little space they were given. But that’s only realistic right? That one guy and one girl should have at any time a hundred other things going on in their lives that aren’t played out on centre stage. So that’s good, yay. Robert Pattinson’s sister’s narrative especially was quite unique, subtle, engaging, and all in all a nice character to follow. It taught me things about the various ways in which mettle presents itself in different people, and made me want to know how to stand my ground more convincingly. I have a long way to go in denouncing cowardice. Again, I think the voiceovers helped in this respect. Pushes the viewer just enough while holding them back in the right ways, deepening roots while inspiring upward growth. Nice!

Okay I think I’m done……..gtg eat lunch

No offence but Miley Cyrus’ new song Malibu contains and inspires ten times the emotion that this film did. This being said, I did cry in one of the final shots, of Pierce Brosnan bringing his daughter round (presumably) the Met. Only cos he’s a good actor though. Like everything else in the final act of the film, his character’s growth was very heavy-handed and traditional but he played it well. Also Malibu rocks. Also I need to stop listening to pop music :’( save me!

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trendingnewsb · 6 years

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5 Real World Problems That Are Straight Out Of Black Mirror

Fitbits Are Giving Away Military Intelligence