When Illness Meets Labour Supply

We keep talking about growth as though it lives entirely in tax policy, trade deals and planning reform. Meanwhile, around 2.7 million working-age adults are economically inactive because of long-term sickness. That number rose sharply after 2020. Mental health accounts for a large share. Musculoskeletal conditions remain significant. Post-viral illness is part of the picture, though its precise contribution remains debated.

This is not a single-cause story. It is a systems story.

At various points, ONS surveys have estimated around 2 million people reporting ongoing symptoms after Covid infection, with several hundred thousand describing their daily activities as limited “a lot”. Many remain in work. Some reduce hours. Others move in and out of employment. What matters here is not mechanism, but function. Labour supply is not binary.

Even small shifts in functional capacity are economically material. The UK workforce numbers over 33 million. A reduction of just 1 percent in effective working hours across that base equates to the output of more than 300,000 full-time workers. At median earnings levels, that translates into several billions of pounds annually in lost output before tax effects are counted.

That is macroeconomic, not anecdotal.

Now compare political framing.

Dementia research attracts tens of millions annually from NIHR alone. That is not a criticism. Dementia imposes substantial health and social care costs. But it primarily affects older people, many of whom are already outside the labour market. Its economic impact is indirect, through care systems and family labour displacement.

Yet dementia is framed as a strategic priority.

That reflects something straightforward. Pensioners are numerous, politically engaged and economically influential as a voting cohort. A condition that affects them carries electoral weight.

By contrast, health-related inactivity among working-age adults is diffuse. It cuts across diagnoses. It lacks a single organised constituency. Its costs show up gradually in productivity statistics rather than dramatically in headlines.

The point is not to challenge the legitimacy of dementia funding. It is to observe how urgency is generated in practice.

At the same time, fiscal constraint is real. The NHS is under pressure. Waiting lists remain long. Staff shortages are persistent. No government has unlimited capacity to add new programmes without trade-offs.

So the issue is not expansion. It is alignment.

Health policy focuses on clinical outcomes. Labour policy focuses on participation rates. Treasury oversight focuses on expenditure control. What is less visible is whether restoration of working capacity is treated as a shared objective across those systems.

Current welfare structures remain largely binary. You are fit for work, or you are not. That works tolerably well for permanent incapacity. It works less well for conditions where functional capacity fluctuates over time.

Where someone can manage limited hours for a period and then relapse, the interaction between NHS care, DWP assessments and employer expectations can create friction. Attempted partial recovery can trigger reassessment, uncertainty or financial instability. That is not a moral failure. It is a design feature.

Addressing that does not require a vast new funding stream. It requires coordination. Align rehabilitation plans with benefit case management. Allow graded, flexible returns to work without repeated entitlement resets. Treat partial capacity as something to preserve rather than something to test suspiciously.

This is not about biological certainty. The underlying science is heterogeneous and still evolving. Institutions, however, cannot wait for complete mechanistic clarity before adapting to observable functional realities. In a constrained fiscal environment, avoidable labour market loss is expensive. Growth rhetoric and labour supply design should not operate in separate compartments.

Dementia demonstrates that when political urgency is strong, uncertainty does not prevent strategic framing. The question is whether erosion of working-age capacity attracts similar attention when its constituency is dispersed. That is not a partisan argument. It is an observation about incentives, and incentives, sooner or later, shape outcomes.

Sheep in the Sunshine, Tax in the Shade

I’ve revisited the farm Inheritance Tax debate, wondering how solar farms affect the argument, so I did some digging (I’m starting to hate the word research as it has become debased by Reform supporters’ shouts of “Do your research,” when what they mean is to visit a Facebook echo chamber).

What I wanted to know was simple. If a farmer leases a chunk of land to a solar operator for 30 or 40 years, what happens to all the high-minded talk about Agricultural Property Relief and protecting the sacred continuity of the family farm?

The answer is not ideological. It is technical.

If the land stops being used for agriculture, Agricultural Property Relief may fall away on that portion. Solar generation is not farming. It is an energy business. If sheep genuinely graze beneath the panels, you may preserve relief on the agricultural value. If it is fenced off and humming away like a polite industrial estate, relief becomes harder to defend.

On the other hand, Business Property Relief might step in if the wider enterprise remains mainly trading rather than mainly investment. That “mainly” test is where advisers begin earning their sheep.

And here is the delicious irony.

The same voices arguing that unlimited inheritance tax relief is essential to prevent the breakup of fragile, cash poor farming businesses are often the same voices signing index linked 40 year leases at £900 an acre with minimal operational risk. Quite rational. I would do the same. But it slightly undermines the image of the perpetually imperilled ploughman.

Let us be clear. Diversification into renewables is good business. It provides stable income. It improves liquidity. It strengthens balance sheets. It makes servicing a deferred tax bill far less apocalyptic than the tractor convoy suggests.

What it also does is blur the line between working agricultural enterprise and structured land investment. Once land becomes a long term infrastructure asset with sheep as a decorative accessory, the moral case for unlimited, unconditional inheritance tax exemption becomes less self evident.

This is not an attack on farmers. It is an observation about coherence. You cannot simultaneously argue that land is uniquely deserving of tax immunity because farming is uniquely precarious while also turning parts of that land into highly predictable energy income streams and expect no one to notice the tension.

The debate should be honest. If relief exists to protect active trading businesses from forced break up, then structure it accordingly and apply it consistently across sectors. If relief exists to preserve land wealth across generations regardless of use, then say so openly and defend that principle.

But spare us the pastoral theatre. The sheep are grazing beneath solar panels, the rent arrives on time, and somewhere a tax adviser is quietly updating a spreadsheet.

The Trump Tariff Racket

Trump’s outrage at the Supreme Court has all the hallmarks of performance. You would think he had been blindsided by an unforeseeable betrayal, rather than watching the final act of a legal drama that had been playing out in plain sight for months. Courts had already ruled that he lacked the authority to impose those tariffs under the emergency powers he claimed. His administration appealed, delayed, and carried on collecting the money anyway. The legal vulnerability was not hidden. It was the defining feature of the policy.

What turned this from a constitutional misstep into something far more revealing was what happened while those legally fragile tariffs were still in force. Companies paid billions. And Cantor Fitzgerald, the investment bank run by the sons of Trump’s Commerce Secretary, Howard Lutnick, who himself championed the tariffs, began offering those companies cash upfront in exchange for the rights to any eventual refund. This was not charity. It was a calculated investment. Cantor paid a discounted amount today and secured the legal right to collect the full refund later, as the courts eventually ordered. The difference would be their profit.

That calculation only made sense if they believed the tariffs were likely to collapse in court. No bank advances serious money unless its analysis tells it the odds are favourable. They were not betting on Trump winning. They were betting on him losing. The more likely the tariffs were to be struck down, the more valuable those refund rights became.

This transformed the illegality of the tariffs into a financial asset. The pool of money created by Trump’s legally questionable policy became something that could be bought and owned in advance. And here is where the structure becomes impossible to ignore. Trump imposed the tariffs. His Commerce Secretary defended them. His Commerce Secretary’s sons ran the bank buying the rights to profit when those tariffs were declared unlawful. The profit did not come from successful policy. It came from failed policy.

And the public ultimately pays for that failure. When the courts ruled the tariffs unlawful, the government became liable to refund the money. That refund comes from the US Treasury. And the Treasury is funded by taxpayers. The public pays first through higher prices while the illegal tariffs are in force, and then pays again when the government refunds the money. The intermediary keeps the margin.

This is where the incentive structure becomes deeply troubling. Trump did not divest from his financial interests. His political operation depends heavily on private funding, donations, and financial support from wealthy individuals and institutions. When policies create large pools of financial gain for those close to power, some of that financial gain can naturally flow back into the political ecosystem that created it. Not necessarily as a crude cash transfer, but through campaign donations, political funding, legal defence funds, and financial support structures that sustain political influence.

What makes Trump’s latest move even more revealing is that he has now imposed a new round of tariffs under Section 122 of the Trade Act, a provision that is explicitly temporary and lasts only a few months unless Congress approves it. This means that from the moment they are imposed, their permanence is uncertain. The money collected immediately becomes legally contingent, just as before. The same refund mechanism can arise. The same financial opportunities can be created. This is no longer a constitutional misstep. It is the recreation of a structure that converts legal uncertainty into financial profit.

In other words, policy creates profit. Profit sustains political power. Political power creates more policy.

Trump’s anger at the Supreme Court makes sense as theatre. But structurally, the tariffs had already served their financial purpose. They extracted billions. They created a pool of legally contingent money. They created an opportunity for those positioned correctly to profit from the legal correction. The judicial defeat did not erase that structure. It completed it.

This is why tariff authority belongs to Congress. Tariffs move enormous sums of money. When imposed without lawful authority, they do more than distort trade. They create financial opportunities tied directly to the restoration of legality itself. By the time the Supreme Court restored the constitutional boundary, the financial consequences had already been allocated.

Trump wants the public to see a president thwarted by judges.

What actually happened is simpler. His unlawful tariffs created a financial asset. Those closest to power bought the rights to profit from their collapse. And the public paid the bill.

To understand any of Trump's policies, they have to be framed through one simple lens - how does someone else's misery make profit for Trump, his family or his close associates? It's nothing to do with Make America Great Again, it's Make Trump Fabulously Wealthy.

Spooky Action at a Distance

I have recently been attempting to understand “spooky action at a distance.” This was Einstein’s irritated phrase for quantum entanglement, in which two particles appear to remain mysteriously correlated no matter how far apart they are. It sounds dramatic. It is dramatic. It is also, apparently, experimentally verified and mathematically unavoidable.

I have read about Bell’s theorem. I have read about measurement axes. I have read about probability amplitudes that must be squared before they become probabilities, which feels faintly indecent. I have read about hidden variables that cannot be local and local variables that cannot be hidden. At some point, I found myself muttering “statistics, shmatistics” at the laptop.

Logic suggests the whole thing is not as problematic as advertised. If two particles are created together and must conserve spin, why not assume that from the start one is simply the opposite of the other? Symmetry maintained, books balanced, distance irrelevant. The particles separate, each carrying its assigned role. No drama. No metaphysics. Just tidy accounting.

The physicists, however, insist that this perfectly sensible picture will not survive contact with rotated measurement axes and large data sets. There is, apparently, no pre-written answer sheet listing what each particle would do if measured in every possible direction. Classical intuition would very much like there to be. Quantum mechanics politely declines.

Apparently the failure is not of statistics, but of classical statistics. Which is the sort of sentence that makes you put the kettle on.

And then it happened.

While I was deep in Hilbert space, wondering whether locality or realism was the sacrificial lamb, I noticed movement in the herb bed.

Spooky.

Spooky is one of the neighbourhood cats.

He was not in the garden. Then he was. I did not observe his arrival. No trajectory. No intermediate states. One moment absence, the next moment presence. A full collapse of the feline probability waveform.

I stepped outside. He vanished. I returned indoors. The rosemary was disturbed again. Non-local. Quite clearly non-local.

This is what the physicists are up against. They worry about entangled electrons separated by kilometres. I worry about a cat entangled with three gardens, two compost bins and a suspiciously shredded cushion on our patio furniture.

Unlike electrons, Spooky definitely carries hidden variables. If measured along the axis of food, he is always spin up. If measured along the axis of obedience, he is catastrophically spin down. No statistics required.

The physicists can keep their Bell inequalities. I will settle for a functioning fence.

You Can Declare an Emergency. You Can’t Invent the Powers

The United States Supreme Court has just performed an act so shocking, so constitutionally outrageous, that it may cause permanent injury to the modern political psyche. It has read the law.

Not skimmed it. Not waved it around at a rally. Not squinted at it through a haze of grievance and capital letters. Actually read it.

And in doing so, it committed the gravest sin imaginable in contemporary politics. It noticed that the word "tariffs" does not appear in a law being used to impose tariffs.

This has caused understandable distress. After all, the International Emergency Economic Powers Act sounds exactly like the sort of thing you would use if you wanted to do absolutely anything at all, simply by declaring an emergency. The clue is in the title. It contains the words "emergency" and "powers," which in modern political dialect translates roughly as "do what you like."

Unfortunately, the Court has now pointed out a tedious technicality. Tariffs are taxes. And under the US Constitution, taxes are the responsibility of Congress. This is not an obscure footnote or an interpretive flourish. It is the entire point of having a legislature.

The dissenting judges, to their credit, took a more modern and imaginative view of language. They essentially argued that when Congress authorised the president to "regulate" imports, it might well have meant "tax them arbitrarily, in unlimited amounts, for as long as he feels cross." This is a refreshingly creative approach to statutory interpretation, and one that could be usefully applied elsewhere. One imagines bank customers would be fascinated to learn that "account management" now includes confiscation.

But the majority remained stubbornly anchored in the dull world of words meaning what they say. Their ruling has now crystallised the law, which is deeply inconvenient. It means that presidents cannot simply rummage around in the constitutional toolbox, pick up the largest wrench labelled "emergency," and start swinging it at global trade.

Naturally, this has prompted howls of outrage from those who had grown accustomed to government by proclamation. They had assumed the presidency had evolved into something between a medieval monarch and a disappointed hotel manager, empowered to impose penalties on foreigners for failing to admire the curtains.

What makes this episode particularly instructive is that the Court’s conservative majority largely agreed with the liberal minority. This is deeply unsettling, because it suggests the decision was based not on tribal loyalty, but on law. And law, as we are increasingly discovering, is a profoundly unreliable instrument when your strategy depends on ignoring it.

The ruling does not mean tariffs are impossible. It merely means Congress must authorise them, which is where tariffs have always lived. This is rather like discovering that only the owner of a house can sell it, rather than a man who has loudly declared himself in charge of the neighbourhood.

In the end, nothing has changed, except one crucial thing. The emergency powers toolbox has been closed, labelled properly, and returned to its shelf. And somewhere, deep in the machinery of American government, a dusty and neglected concept has stirred briefly back to life.

Just After Opening Time

You know how, when there’s a bombing in parts of the Muslim world, reports often say it happened just after Friday prayers? The phrase does a lot of work. It tells you the place was full. It tells you it was timed. It tells you the weekly rhythm had peaked.

It got me thinking what the British equivalent would be.

We don’t really have a single weekly religious congregation any more. If something happened “just after evensong”, most of the country would assume it was a Radio 4 scheduling mishap. Our predictable mass gatherings are secular.

So the British bulletin would read: “The bombing occurred just after Wetherspoons opened on Saturday morning.”

You can picture it. Nine o’clock. The doors swing open. The early congregation files in with quiet resolve. The laminated breakfast menu is studied with monk-like dedication. Coffee for some. A pint for others. The carpet pattern defies science. It is ritual without theology, but it happens every week.

And if you wanted the full, grim symmetry - the so called double tap - you would wait.

“Another device detonated just after the 3pm kick off.”

Now you have the second congregation. Scarves raised like hymn sheets. Chants replacing psalms. Entire towns gathered because the fixture list demands it. Hope, despair, indignation at the referee - all delivered on schedule.

The joke, dark though it is, rests on structure not belief. Friday prayers marks the weekly moment when large numbers gather. In Britain, our weekly congregation points are the opening of Spoons and the 3pm whistle.

We have not stopped assembling. We have simply changed the altar.

And if a newsreader ever did say, in solemn tones, that something happened just after Spoons opened and again just after the 3pm kick off, the entire country would understand immediately. Not because of doctrine. Because we know exactly where we would have been.

R v Brother, and the Curious Case of the Bone-Dry Defendant

There is something magnificently British about the possibility that one day, in a courtroom smelling faintly of damp carpet and quiet authority, a clerk might rise and announce, “Rex versus Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor.”

Not Prince Andrew. Not His Royal Highness. Just Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor. Defendant.

And Rex, of course, meaning the King. His brother.

It would not be Charles the man prosecuting him. Charles would be elsewhere, unveiling a plaque or examining an anachronistic shrub. The prosecution would be brought in his name but entirely without his involvement. This is the genius of the British constitution. The monarch is everywhere in theory and nowhere in practice. The law proceeds with perfect indifference to family Christmas seating plans.

In the eyes of the court, Andrew would simply be another name on the docket. No titles. No ceremony. Just procedure. The same quiet machinery that deals with unpaid taxes and unfortunate scaffolding disputes would turn its attention, briefly and without emotion, to a man who once saluted from the quarterdeck.

It would be a moment of remarkable levelling. Because when titles fall away, what remains is simply the name and the evidence.

Or, in Andrew’s case, the absence of perspiration.

His most famous defence was not legal but biological. He explained, with straight-faced conviction, that he could not have been sweating at the relevant time because he did not sweat at all. A condition, he said, brought on decades earlier during the Falklands War. It was a bold strategy. Not alibi by witness, but alibi by epidermis.

He missed a commercial opportunity there. In a country that spends millions trying to suppress the faintest hint of underarm anxiety, he alone possessed the ultimate solution. Mountbatten-Windsor Dry. Guaranteed protection, even under intense public scrutiny.

Instead, the claim entered folklore. A reminder that confidence and plausibility are not always close acquaintances.

History offers less subtle precedents. His distant predecessor, the Duke of Clarence, allegedly resolved his own constitutional difficulties by falling into a butt of Malmsey wine. One hopes modern Britain would opt for something less medieval. Perhaps a vat of sherry. Something measured. Something bureaucratic. A quiet administrative misstep near a label marked “Property of the Crown.”

But no such drama is necessary. The real genius of the system is that nothing so theatrical need occur. The Crown does not rage. It does not seek vengeance. It simply processes.

And if ever the words are spoken - Rex versus Mountbatten-Windsor - they will carry no emotion at all.

Just the quiet, inescapable suggestion that even a man who never sweats cannot remain dry forever.

How a Tax Exile Becomes a Patriot Overnight

I have noticed a behavioural change on Facebook.

I have already written about Jim Ratcliffe and his pronouncements on immigration. His comments were revealing enough. But what has been more revealing is what happened afterwards. The shift has not been in Ratcliffe. It has been in the behaviour of those now rushing to defend him.

The man who physically removed himself from the UK tax system is suddenly being praised as a patriot. Nothing about his economic behaviour has changed. Only his rhetoric has.

This is a man who moved to Monaco. Not for the weather, but for the tax regime. Monaco does not tax personal income. It is a convenient place to live if one wishes to retain the benefits of British enterprise without the inconvenience of British taxation.

Ordinarily, this would provoke outrage. Social media is usually full of anger at billionaires who "don't pay their fair share." But something curious has happened.

Ratcliffe entered the immigration debate, using language that aligns with a particular political narrative. And suddenly, his tax exile status evaporated. The Monaco residency, the detachment from the UK tax system, and the asymmetry between public subsidy and private contribution, all quietly forgotten.

It is obvious, apparently, that Jim Ratcliffe, that famously patriotic UK taxpayer now resident in Monaco, has embraced Reform's rhetoric purely out of civic concern, and absolutely nothing to do with their enthusiasm for slashing taxes on the very wealthy.

After all, when a billionaire relocates to a tax haven and aligns himself with a political movement promising unfunded tax cuts tilted toward people exactly like him, the only reasonable conclusion, we are invited to believe, is coincidence. A remarkable coincidence that aligns perfectly with his financial interests.

Whether intentional or not, the alignment is unmistakable. The public response to it has been even more revealing.

His industrial empire has benefitted from substantial public support, funded by taxpayers. That cost does not vanish. It is transferred onto the public balance sheet. And if every wealthy individual behaved the same way, relocating their tax residency while retaining the benefits of the system that created their wealth, the burden would not disappear. It would shift onto those without the means to leave.

In defending the behaviour, people are legitimising a system that, if widely adopted, would worsen their own financial position.

This is not an economic calculation. It is an identity calculation.

Ratcliffe has not changed his contribution. He has changed his signalling. And that has been enough.

Humans filter reality through identity. When someone signals tribal alignment, inconvenient facts recede. Behaviour that would otherwise be disqualifying becomes forgivable, even admirable. Moral standards are not abandoned. They are applied asymmetrically. Identity does not erase judgement. It redirects it.

We have seen this before. Brexit provides the clearest example. Faced with economic harm, reduced trade, and weaker growth, many of its strongest supporters did not reconsider. Instead, the explanations multiplied. It was the pandemic. Global inflation. Ukraine. Sabotage. It was not the right Brexit.

Anything except Brexit itself.

This is not because the evidence does not exist. It is because accepting it would require abandoning an identity that has become psychologically important. Like a football supporter defending their club through defeat, loyalty becomes untethered from outcomes.

The same mechanism is visible now. Ratcliffe’s tax exile status, once disqualifying, becomes irrelevant once he signals alignment with the tribe. The facts have not changed. The identity has.

The contradiction is stark. A migrant who works and pays tax is framed as a burden. A billionaire who removed himself from the tax system is framed as an asset.

The difference is not economic. It is psychological. Contribution becomes secondary. Alignment becomes primary. The man who left the system is embraced as its defender. Those who sustain it are treated as its threat.

It reveals something uncomfortable, but important. For many, the debate was never really about economics. It was about identity all along.

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

Trump has been circling the Chagos Islands like a man trying to remember why he walked into the room. When Britain first agreed to transfer sovereignty to Mauritius while leasing back Diego Garcia, he called it weakness. Later, he conceded it might be the best deal available. Now, once again, it is a catastrophic surrender. Meanwhile, the United States government itself - the part staffed by admirals, diplomats, and people with maps - has formally backed the arrangement because it guarantees continued military access. The base remains. The runway does not dissolve simply because the paperwork changes hands.

Faced with this latest presidential lurch, Karoline Leavitt stepped forward and delivered what sounded like a clarifying statement but was, in reality, something far more revealing. When Trump posts on Truth Social, she said, it is “straight from the horse’s mouth.” In other words, this is not commentary. It is not impulse. It is policy. The President is speaking directly, and the world should listen accordingly.

This was not a casual remark. It was an attempt to elevate Trump’s latest Chagos pronouncement above the inconvenient fact that his own State Department had already endorsed the deal. It told allies to ignore the formal machinery of American foreign policy and focus instead on the President’s personal feed. The signal was clear: the post outranks the paperwork.

But this presents an obvious difficulty, because earlier this month the same “horse’s mouth” posted a video depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as monkeys. At that point, the White House’s enthusiasm for direct authorship cooled noticeably. Now there was talk of staff. Of process. Of material that had somehow slipped through. The pure, unfiltered presidential voice became, briefly, a shared administrative responsibility.

Yet Leavitt herself had already defined the terms. If Truth Social is the direct voice of the President when criticising Britain’s handling of Diego Garcia, then it is the direct voice of the President at all times. You cannot promote it to an instrument of state authority when it suits your geopolitical argument and demote it to a staff-managed accident when it becomes embarrassing. The mouth cannot be presidential on Monday and clerical by Friday.

What this reveals is not merely inconsistency, but function. Truth Social serves as both amplifier and shield. When the message projects strength, it is presented as authentic presidential leadership. When the message creates discomfort, it becomes a misunderstanding, a technicality, a staff matter. Authority is claimed when useful and diffused when necessary.

And that leaves allies in an impossible position. When Trump declares Starmer is making a historic mistake over Chagos, are they hearing US policy, or are they watching performance? His own government continues to support the base lease. The strategic reality has not changed. Only the rhetoric has. Yet his press secretary insists the rhetoric itself is the true signal.

The result is a communications system that asserts absolute authority while retaining absolute deniability. It is designed to sound definitive without ever being binding. The President speaks directly, except when he does not. The platform carries the full weight of statecraft, except when it suddenly carries none at all. Truth Social, it turns out, is straight from the horse’s mouth only when the horse likes the sound of its own voice.

A Winter Olympic Apology

I owe the Winter Olympics an apology.

This is not a sentence I expected to write, and certainly not one I intended to write voluntarily.

A couple of weeks ago, I dismissed the entire enterprise as a niche festival of sliding about in specialist sleepwear, observed mainly by Norwegians and the sort of Britons who own breathable base layers. I regarded it as an athletic sideshow conducted in temperatures normally associated with freezer burn and poor life choices.

This position remained intact until it was undermined by an administrative error. While attempting to locate the news, I watched it accidentally.

This was the beginning of the problem.

Because once you actually see it properly, stripped of commentary and preconception, you realise that winter sport is not theatrical. It is contractual. Gravity makes an offer. The athlete accepts the terms.

Take downhill skiing. A human being voluntarily accelerates towards frozen ground at motorway speeds, balanced on two narrow planks, relying entirely on reflex and nerve to remain upright. There is no negotiation available once committed. Only competence.

Biathlon is worse. An athlete arrives at the shooting line in a state of cardiovascular revolt, lungs and heart conducting a private argument, and is then expected to shoot with microscopic precision. And somehow they do. Five shots. Five quiet demonstrations that control can be reimposed on chaos.

And then there is Big Air, which I had previously assumed was a recreational miscalculation. It is not. It is deliberate. A skier accelerates towards an enormous ramp, launches into open space, and rotates repeatedly with such calm authority that the act appears briefly to suspend consequence itself. Four spins. Sometimes five. The body behaves as if gravity were a guideline rather than a law. Then comes the landing. Clean. Final. Undeniable.

There is no panel to persuade. Only physics to satisfy.

Even curling, which I had categorised as competitive tidying, reveals itself to be something colder and more exact. It is not about effort. It is about inevitability. Once the stone leaves the hand, the future has been decided. All that remains is to watch it arrive.

What makes the Winter Olympics so compelling is its indifference. The environment does not care who you are. It responds only to what you do, and whether you do it correctly.

Britain, naturally, remains better suited to observation than participation. Our national winter discipline continues to be switching on the heating and issuing cautious statements about road conditions. We do not negotiate with ice. We avoid it entirely.

And yet, by accident, I witnessed something precise, unforgiving, and completely absorbing.

I regret the experience and will take greater care when operating the remote control in future.

As an amusing aside, I saw a Facebook reel where someone had set their circular, robotic vacuum cleaner off on their kitchen and started sweeping furiously in front of its path with a broom as an homage to curling.