“And he had a very unusual career path into Biology. In addition to doing a Bsc in Physics and a Master’s in computer science, he spent a couple of years working for the Ministry of Defense. So not only does he look like he can kill you, but he actually can.”

Knock ‘em dead, Michael.

That might sound harsh, but it’s the pachyderm in the parlour. There was a hint of it in the evidence check held by the House of Commons Science and Technology Committee, when Paul Bennett, superintendent pharmacist at Boots the chemist, admitted that the chain stocked homeopathic medicines because there was a market for them. “It’s about consumer choice for us”. Sod evidence of efficacy, proof of profit is what matters.

As Edzard Ernst has pointed out far better than I could, the essentially fraudulent nature of homeopathy is fully compatible with people going to a homeopath and feeling better. Homeopathy is centred around the ‘empathic encounter’ where the homeopath sits with the patient and considers their problems ‘holistically’ (a typical session with a homeopath will last much longer than a GP consultation. The reasons, if you think about it, are obvious). This is an obvious source of a strong placebo effect. Placebo is stunningly powerful. Daniel Moerman’s brilliant book “Meaning, Medicine and the ‘Placebo Effect” documents its extraordinary impact on of all sorts of illnesses. And one of the things which can influence its potential is whether the practitioner has drunk the same Kool-Aid (in homeopathic concentrations or not) as the patient. The more you believe something is going to work, the more likely you are to see an effect. This is one of the reasons why double blind trials are so bloody important. It also may explain why drugs with newer brand names tend to outperform their older competitors (even when the chemical content is exactly the same, as several trials have shown). People expect them to work more. Truly, we ignore the placebo at our peril.

But that is not to say that makes it OK for people to start pushing it at patients. Any placebo effect is in addition to the pharmacological properties of a drug. So why not have both. Furthermore, it is plainly unethical to lie to people about the active ingredients in the stuff they are taking.

And it’s not just placebo. People with the sort of self limiting illnesses which are popular with homeopaths tend to get better anyway, a phenomenon known as regression to the mean. This does suggest one possible use for homeopathy. Otitis media causes misery for parents and children. And it is the cause of a large number of totally unnecessary antibiotic prescriptions, because in the vast majority of cases it resolves in a short period of time without any intervention. So why not license homeopathic remedies for otitis? Pushy parents demand a pill for little Peter or Penny who’s screaming and clutching his/her ear – just give them a ‘powerful’ homeopathic remedy made of, I know, water. It would be at least as effective, and cheap. I know it’s unethical but you’ve got to think outside the box.

That last bit was not serious by the way.

In the main, I would guess that homeopaths fit into the deluded category, at least partially because they will be more effective the more they believe in their own medicine. If they want to persuade gullible people to part with their money they are welcome. But I am not gullible, and so like many I have long objected to my taxes being used to fund this parasitic and ignorant industry on the NHS. Hopefully, the conclusions of the House of Commons Science and Technology Committee will now bring an end to this shameful practice.

Recently, though, I’ve accidentally discovered a new trick: if I book the confocal microscope from 12 til 2 PM, lunch somehow doesn’t happen. I’m not hungry enough to eat before noon, but by 2 the canteen is closed and foraging for food starts to fall below the threshold of my average activation energy barrier. Before I know it, it’s time to go home and, as I make my way (rather light-headedly) to the Tube, the idea of dinner has never sounded so good.

Today my plan was thrown a bit of a curve as, after my microscope session, the weekly lab meeting was enhanced by several boxes of sweets that someone had brought in from their long weekend in Brussels.

They had to scrape me off the lab ceiling.

The thing about beta-mercap is that the smell can linger for hours even in tiny residual droplets from a spent pipette tip. So I just went through his trash trying to find anything smelly and purple, but drew a blank. Next, I took off my lab coat and swirled it around my head for about a minute trying to circulate the smell away from my bench – in vain.

Plan C: a coffee in the office while I wait for my stomach to settle and for diffusion to do its thing.

No I am being drawn out by a letter in today’s Nature. A few weeks ago, that august journal published a short story in its ‘Futures’ series speculating on what sort of diseases a god would suffer if we were truly made in his image, and conversely whether our diseases would be visited upon him. Now Denis Alexander writes to state:

“…this gratuitously offensive junk has no place in a serious scientific journal.”

Denis Alexander is at pains to point out he is not a Catholic (that faith and its doctrine of transubstantiation being clearly mocked in the story), but he is the director of the Faraday Institute for Science and Religion. So he’s not quite the disinterested observer seems to be trying to claim.

Arguably neither am I, as an atheist. But I’m not bringing this up to have a narrow go at religion (honest). It is the notion that the story should not have been published “in a serious scientific journal.” I have long felt equivocal about Futures. When it was trailed a few years ago I found it an irritant. Here was some jejune piece of science fiction whimsy at the tail end of one of the most important journals around. So I just ignored it. Since it has returned however, I think there has been a real improvement in quality. I am still not persuaded that Nature should carry such a series, but it is now entertaining more often than not.

The story to which Alexander objects was not one of the high points. It was more like an overstretched idea for a stand-up comedy routine. The serious point it is making, if there is one, might be something about how our perceptions of deity have changed over time. I don’t want to over analyse the story though, because I don’t think it merits it.

But criticise it on these grounds. I can easily see how some believers might find it offensive, but one person’s offense should not be privileged over another’s. Personally, I would find the idea that it was censored because of what it was about just as objectionable. There is a case to be made that a scientific journal should not carry fiction. But having decided to do so, the choice of that fiction should be based on its quality, not on its content.

Of course I understand that it’s a lot cooler to have a computer generate alerts as the need arises, rather than imprisoning Mrs. Flibbledy-bit from Dagenham in a small room and forcing her to record all the possible syllables one might possibly need while traversing the bowels of London. We all know where the latter leads: the sheer desperate boredom that causes the tannoy to squeal out that your train will be terminating at “Wiiiiiiiilllllsden Green!”

But surely the technology has moved on: why can’t these systems get the vowels right? Why can’t the computer be taught that the end of a sentence involves a falling intonation, or that sometimes you need a pause between words? Until it’s sorted, I say bring back Flibbledy-bit et al. She may sound a bit stilted, but at least she doesn’t resemble a circa-1970’s science fiction film.

Not a geek.

This is a myosin motor – no question.

Sort it out, guys. You promised me 4 transgenic lines and a stonking phenotype in less than a week.

As the day lengthened I felt worse and worse. Up to the nines with various analgesics, I checked out the decongestants, and slowly realized that what I had bee relying on to make me feel slightly less blocked than the Blackwall Tunnel actually contained phenylephrine, which, as you probably know, isn’t really effective yet can’t be used to make meth. Whereas the decongestant that does work is all but unavailable in the Tottenham Court Road area (as I soon ascertained to my immense dissatisfaction). Fortunately, after convincing the pharmacist at the Surrey Quays Tesco that I knew what I was doing I obtained some ‘Non-drowsy’ Sudafed® and was soon able to breathe, and to sleep again.

A week or so ago, Jenny complained of what she thought was an allergic reaction. After her experience with seafood last year she wasn’t keen to take any chances and asked if I had any antihistamines. I did, and proffered them.

“Are they non-drowsy?” she asked. I admitted that I didn’t know, because antihistamines don’t make me drowsy at all (I must have a storming blood-brain barrier). She took one anyway, and spent the next 48 hours in a near-coma. Ah.

So then this reaction actually turned out to be a cold, complete with avocado sinuses and other unpleasant side-effects, so I suggested she took one of my ‘Non-drowsy’ Sudafeds®s. The ones, as I say (pace Eva), that actually work. Which she did.

And you know the ‘Non-drowsy’ bit? Well, it turns out that one of the side-effects of pseudoephedrine is, uh, non-drowsiness. Serious non-drowsiness. Again, I didn’t suffer from this, but Jenny did. In spades.

Therefore, if she’s willing (or when she’s looking the other way), I’m going to feed her one of the ‘Non-drowsy’ Sudafeds®s with one of my ‘May cause drowsiness’ antihistamines and see if she notices.

All in the name of Science, naturally.

Not much on the docket: thawing out cells from their cryogenic hibernation, doing a few routine PCR/RT reactions to replenish those of my dsRNA stocks that were running low. Sitting at my desk bundled up against the chill and drinking tea as I finalize a manuscript that I couldn’t quite manage to submit in the crazy crush right before the holidays.

Mixed feelings about the new week tomorrow: it will be back to full swing…I might even have to start multitasking again.