Every silver lining has a cloud

In economics, there's nothing fully good.

From the department of counterintuitive findings come two findings showing the downsides of good news.

First up, the Washington Post reports on a new explanation for why it is that people start to die when the economy gets better. For every percentage point decrease in the unemployment rate, there is a 0.004 per cent increase in the number of deaths (a low, but statistically significant amount), which corresponds to about 6,700 dead people.

Suzy Khimm writes:

In a new paper, researchers argue that economic boom times create a scarcity of caregivers in nursing homes, raising the mortality rate through a disproportionately high numbers of deaths among the elderly.

The Center for Retirement Research explains that a strong job market creates “greater scarcity in front-line caregivers in nursing homes, which may cause more deaths among the elderly.” When the overall unemployment rate goes down, for instance, employment declines are particularly noticeable among certified aides and nurses in these facilities.

Meanwhile, in Investors Chronicle, Chris Dillow addresses the upside of a downside (so to speak).

Since 2007, labour productivity has fallen in the UK, meaning that the one hour of work now produces less output than it did five years ago – 3.4 per cent less, to be specific. This is pretty bad news. Historically, a lot of growth has come from population growth. A more populous country can make more stuff than a smaller one, after all. But now that much of the west appears to have a stable population, we need productivity to grow if we are to have any growth at all. If we can't have more people making stuff, we need to have each person making more stuff.

But this prductivity slump isn't entirely bad news:

If the relationship between GDP and employment in the last four years had been the same as it was in the previous 20, there would now (mathematically speaking) be 3.1 million fewer people in work. If all these had registered as unemployed, there'd be 5.8 million out of work - an unemployment rate of 18.2 per cent. Imagine the political effects of that.

On his personal blog, Dillow elaborates:

You might think that the very fact that workers are more productive in this alternative universe would cause firms to hire more of them. But things aren’t so simple. Firms only hire if they anticipate sufficient demand for the additional output. And where would this demand come from? The tendency for higher unemploymentwould depress consumer spending. On the other hand, it’s likely that business investment would be higher - not least because a world of growing productivity is a world in which there are more investment opportunities and easier access to finance.  But as business investment is only 8.3% of GDP, it’s unlikely that it would be so much higher as to create three million jobs.

Sometimes, good news can be bad news, and bad news can be good.

We may not be getting more productive, but there's an upside to that. (Getty)

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge