Cosmology and Domesticity
Cosmologists are always banging on big time about the origins of the universe as we know it. As an ex-astrophysicist, who wrote a Ph.D. thesis about as thick as I feel now on the subject, I really ought to be up on the latest star-gazing theories and scientific observations. Unfortunately, these days my head is more likely to be looking down at a washing machine than up at the heavens. Not that I was into the star-gazing bit anyway, as evidenced by my less than Hawking-like questions on the way home with my colleagues after some extensive 'research' down the pub.
'Why do they call it a plough when it looks more like a wheelbarrow?'
'If we all make a wish to see a shooting star, will it come true?'
'I think that could be the North Star. No, not that one. The one that's moving towards Luton airport.'
As a student, I may not have been a 'star' pupil in the 'un-Earthly interest in other worlds, and having to wear anoraks warm enough to prevent the knob falling off your telescope at two in the morning' sense, but I was interested in the areas of physics much loved by sci-fi novels and comic books. Mention cosmic rays, particle accelerators, reversing the polarity or 'Klingons on the starboard bow' and I was as interested as the rest of them.
Being the only postgraduate student in my group without a phobia of confined areas, caused by my colleagues' preference for space on an interstellar scale while I was happy with the space beneath my wonderfully thick, duck down duvet, I was always the one who had to repair the particle detectors we used in our experimental research. Which involved crawling beneath a tennis court-sized steel frame supporting thousands of lead bricks. Admittedly, I had other uses as I was also a dab hand at analysing data and using the university's state of the art computers - which in those days were the size and stubbornness of adult hippos but with far less brain power.
Apart from some seriously bruised elbows - the only alternative to which were the dreaded academic elbow patches - I also came away from that period of my life with a doctorate. Although I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn't my astronomical knowledge that swung it, but my geeky thesis title*. That title obviously convinced the Profs and Docs who adjudicated my Ph.D., but it certainly didn't convince anyone when I used it as a chat up line at student parties.
Which brings me to the scientific theory that I discovered recently while sitting in my dentist's waiting room perusing old editions of New Scientist - the only alternative on offer to Root Canal Monthly. Like Archimede's 'Eureka!' moment in the bath, the theory flashed into my mind without warning and I didn't even have to take my clothes off.
It amazes me even now to think that, while waiting for a scale and polish, I'd got my teeth into a problem scientists have been debating for decades: whether there is a grand unified theory that proves everything in the universe is connected in some way. Well I can officially announce that I have solved one key aspect of that goal. In short, I have discovered the link between Cosmology and Domesticity!
I know, I can tell you're impressed, but I'm sure you want me to explain myself in more detail before awarding me the Nobel Prize for Physics and Househusbandry (in the non-animal sense). Before I reveal all, I need to set the scientific scene. Bear with me on the next paragraph as it's a bit techie, but I will return to more familiar domestic ground once I've got the Carl Sagan stuff over and done with.
Scientists have observed that other galaxies are moving away from our own galaxy. As it would be bigheaded of us to assume we are at the centre of the universe, those same scientists argue that this must mean the universe is expanding. Think of it a bit like grains moving away from each other in a wholemeal loaf as it bakes - look in your bread maker if you don't believe me. However, cosmologists - who are just physicists** with a fancy title - believe that at some point gravity will take over and cause the expansion to slow and stop - a bit like your bread if you lifted the lid to look at it rather than peered through the window. Some say the expansion could even reverse so everything squishes to nothing again. Presumably ending in a small pop rather than a big bang - either that or a finger roll.
Still with me? Good. Well, I believe the same theory applies to life, be that at home, work, or both. If I may use the word postulate rather than suggest as it makes me sound like a real scientist rather than a stay-at-home dad who happens to know that gamma rays won't make you change into the Incredible Hulk, and that radioactive waste won't turn you into the comic book hero Daredevil - just more radioactive waste. I, Doctor Barley, postulate my own expansion theory and this is how it goes:
"The universe of jobs, whether large or small, career or domestic, within an individual's life is forever expanding."
Obviously this statement needs scientifically sexing up by calling it a theorem rather than a theory, and by including a few words ending in '-ivity' to give it more gravity, subjectivity and cognitivity but, all in all, I feel it's a good start. I've given my creation a name, the Diversification and Augmentation of Duties theorem.
Postulating a theory is one thing, proving it is another. But I feel I have some pretty substantive evidence to support the DAD theorem. Here it is:
1. There never seem to be enough hours in the day to accomplish what I plan and/or commit to.
2. Every task I finish seems to spawn one or more new ones.
3. When one job goes smoothly, the next one takes twice as long.
4. If I do a job well, someone always wants me to do it again next year/month/week/day.
5. Last week I had to stop myself adding, 'Update To-Do List' to my To-Do list.
I'm sure I'm not the only one with this work virus. And I don't mean virus in terms of waking up feeling as bad as you look in the mirror, making a croaky phone call to the office, then watching a full day's television in the prone position whilst wearing your dressing gown and chugging enough Benylin to make you cough. No, I mean work virus in terms of jobs replicating themselves until you have more things on your plate than gluttonous guests at a wedding reception.
When I gave up paid work just over three years ago to become a househusband and do the odd spot of writing, I naively expected domestic life to be far easier than my former full-on career in IT and banking. Not so. Almost from day one a tidal wave of domestic duties came crashing my way: cooking, tidying up, childcare, shopping, being a taxi-driver on call 24-7, gardener, decorator and DIYer. And that was just the stuff initiated by my wife and kids.
Once the outside world found out that I was no longer employed by the 'shirt and tie brigade', I soon found myself coerced onto the committees of five local non-profit organisations, I acquired the position of Editor for a writers' circle newsletter, was drafted in to become publicity officer for an action group to save Hitchin's greenbelt, and I somehow volunteered as chief fundraiser for my son's Scout Group. All unpaid of course. Add to that: keeping an eye on, and doing odd jobs for, half the elderly neighbours on my street and my enjoyable, but burgeoning, creative writing tutoring work and things are a little hectic to say the least.
So I can safely say that I am living proof of the DAD theorem, and I am quite prepared to take on any cosmologists, astrophysicists or housewives that doubt my claim.
Only they'll have to add it as an item on my To-Do list first.
QED. Theorem proved!
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*An Investigation Of The Muon Component of Extensive Air Showers Initiated by Primary Radiation From Hercules X-1 - beat that Einstein! (back)
** Who are just scientists with a fancy title. (back)