Always Look On The Bright Side?

          There’s been a lot of wind and rain lately and it’s been going on for so long it seems now to be the norm. Everyone I meet is looking forward to brighter skies. In the meanwhile, I’ve adopted a coping strategy, which is to time my outings with breaks in the cloud, put on my weatherproofs and sally forth.

          As the rain lashed against the windows one day last week, I was reading through Rory Stewart’s account of his time as an MP and Minister in government (Politics on the Edge). The memoir is entertaining to read, but his descriptions of the incompetence and waste of public funds he encountered are enough to boil the blood of any even marginally engaged citizen. His account of the politically cynical appointment of Ministers, their ignorance of the affairs they are entrusted with, the tenuous terms of their office, their lamentable failures to get to grips with issues of critical importance to the wellbeing of the nation and the resulting waste of billions of taxpayers’ pounds is frightening. As soon as the rain eased, I went out for a stomp to work off my outrage.

          I walked to the park opposite, a grassy hill with the remains of a heavy gun emplacement on its summit. There, against the circular stone wall built to protect the gunners, I found a seemingly abandoned camp. The tent had collapsed and its contents – sleeping bag, mattress, camping stove etc. – were tucked into an alcove built as an ammunition store. I assumed the discarded gear belonged to a homeless person and let it be. Many desperate people pitch their tents in overtly public places so that they stand a better chance of being noticed by the authorities and taken into shelters, but some prefer to pitch wherever they can find a degree of privacy. I waited a few days to satisfy myself that the gear had been abandoned, before collecting it for recycling to an agency that provides tents in place of the proper shelter that is sorely lacking. In the process, I ruminated on how successive governments haplessly attempt to address with sticking plasters what is fundamentally a problem rooted in social inequalities. Could things get worse?

          Well, yes – at least if, like me, you happen also to be reading Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments. This fictional account of Gilead, a brutal theonomy established after the disintegration of the USA, may have seemed far-fetched in 1985, its year of publication, but with the subsequent rise of Donald Trump, her prescience is apparent and her premise all too credible. Trump’s fundamentalist Christian backers work to subvert democracy and establish their version of their god’s laws in place of those that have been constitutionally established. Gilead-like states already exist – Afghanistan, for one; could another be in the making closer to home? I know, gloom-and-doom so easily snowballs out of control. I really ought to lighten-up my reading list.

          By way of a diversion, I went with a group from the University of the 3^rd Age to absorb some of the local history of Saltash, specifically H. Elliott’s family-owned grocery shop, which they closed in 1971 rather than have to deal with decimalisation. They subsequently established the shop as a museum and the unsold non-comestible stock remains on the shelves, along with the packages, now empty, of what they could consume. Given the age of our group, much brand-nostalgia and poring over the museum exhibits upstairs (the Elliotts were hoarders) was only to be expected, but I was surprised not to hear anyone mention “the good old days”. Had anyone made a plea for their return, I might at that point have agreed, given my reading-induced pessimistic view of the state of things. But as we left the shop, the chatter was about the rain easing and the tea and cake on offer at our next stop, Mary Newman’s Tudor cottage.

 

To Google or Not To Google?

          Just the other day, Microsoft asked me, ever so politely, whether I would answer “just one question” about advertising. Since I was at a loose end and feeling relaxed and magnanimous, I tapped the “yes” option, which opened a list of tick-boxes aimed at determining whether P&O is my preferred cruise line. Now, I wouldn’t go on a cruise unless I were paid to do so as part of a research project, so the omission of a box labelled N/A was a bit of an error on their part. Fair enough, I did once book a P&O ferry, but they surely know the difference between a practical, point-to-point sailing and an extended point-less jaunt around the oceans.

          During my brief career in Monmouth Street, the one-time epicentre of London’s advertising industry, I learned a few things about the business. Apart from absorbing the adage that only half of all advertising pays off and nobody knows which half that is, I also learned to appreciate the power of subtlety and humour in ads and, more crucially, the importance of placing them where they would have the best chance of reaching their intended audience. (This has come in handy later in life, as in deciding how best to promote the jazz evenings, for example. My campaign includes posters in nearby leisure venues and a carefully cultivated WhatsApp group.) Microsoft may have screwed up, but I can’t really blame them for making assumptions about me, since I provide only the bare minimum personal information when creating accounts with internet service providers (ISPs). Google and Microsoft may know my name and date of birth but, because I don’t use their browsers (if I can avoid doing so), they can’t define my social demographic accurately. So, I don’t feel justified in complaining when they target me inappropriately.

          And the ISPs, have another problem coming. AI is eating their lunch. I and others have taken to using AI for internet searches, a method of enquiry that bypasses the list of websites you might otherwise have to visit to obtain your answers, thereby diminishing their source of advertising revenue. I heard on the news that Google, recognising that it has shot itself in the foot, is considering charging for internet searches. This may make commercial sense, but it would surely lead to a lexical adjustment regarding the verb ‘to google’. Will we see the advent of pay-per-use Google? Perhaps they should ask AI what the best way forward is for their business model.

          Instagram is another platform that culls personal data, but that doesn’t dissuade me from using it to stay in touch – even with the dead! I’ve recently been following Frank Zappa and the Furry Freak Brothers (well, the FFBs would be dead by now if they weren’t comic characters). As for Frank, there are many video clips of him, not only performing, but also being interviewed and it is in these exchanges that I’ve come to realise just how politically and socially clued-up he was. Although this was always evident in his lyrics, I was too preoccupied with the guitar licks to pay much attention. In fact, you could say I was laid-back, FFB style.

          I also use a free online diary to manage my busy, eventful life. Of all the apps there are, you would expect this one to be best placed to collect personal data with laser-like accuracy. Yet, despite occasionally displaying ads that are almost on target – and never having touted sea cruises, by the way – I’m at a loss to work out why it has lately been showing me a photo of a WC and urging, “Transform your toilet”. I mean, I hadn’t given it a thought, never mind a diary entry.

Philosophy On The Cheap

 

          I had only gone to the outdoor adventure superstore to buy some toilet fluid for the campervan but I could not resist a bit of fantasy shopping while I was there. I was almost tempted to buy some plastic plates that were cleverly shaped to be held in one hand rather than laid on a level surface. The design seemed obvious for table-free dining, so why had it taken so long for someone to come up with it? Considering I haven’t slept in a tent for years, I have an inexplicably lingering obsession with camping utensils.

          Yes, at last, the campervan season is upon us. I spent a couple of nights last week in mid-Wales, just outside the former market town of Llanidloes and, so as not to alienate the locals, I asked the owner of the campsite for its correct pronunciation. “We call it Lanny”’ she said. When I went to have a poke around the town on Saturday morning I found it has that alternative vibe associated with an influx of incomers looking for a haven. The medieval butter market still stands in the middle of the road – awkwardly at odds with modern traffic flow – and the characterful buildings from its prosperous Victorian heyday are intact, if a little run down. Many have been re-purposed and there are quite a few independent retail outlets, interspersed with second-hand shops. I sense that its rural economy is nowadays supplemented with tourist income. There is still a functioning library-cum-museum, but it was deserted when I went in and the librarian looked surprised to see me. On one of the tables was a stack of copies of The Light, a free publication associated with the far right and conspiracy theorists. As I flicked through, I was taken aback by a strapline that stated, “no illness has ever been caused by a virus” and would have read on in the hope of enlightenment if the librarian had not stirred to remind me it was closing time. Following that unexpected encounter with unreason, Lanny took on a slightly sinister aura as I left it in the rear-view mirror.

          I was happy to return to the city and the company of my fully vaccinated social circle, in particular the philosophy discussion group under the auspices of the University of the Third Age (U3A). We number, at most, half a dozen and are currently learning a bit about the ancient Greeks. But our other preoccupation is finding a meeting space that is suitable, by which I mean free of charge, quiet and available around lunchtime – but mainly free of charge. We used to be happily accommodated in the lounge of the Theatre Royal, but its open-plan arrangement can be too noisy. All the cafes we contemplated as alternatives were similarly afflicted. In fact, it’s a mystery to me how the distinguished intellectuals who famously traded ideas in the cafes of Paris and Vienna managed to make themselves heard above the din. Could it be explained by the fact of their relative youth and soundness of hearing? As for the Greeks, it is easy to imagine that they could just have met outdoors.

          So, we went across the road to the Travelodge, where there is a lounge-cum-breakfast area that is deserted between the hours of 10.00 and 15.00. The receptionist, Lilly, was pleased to make us tea and even agreed to turn off the TV and the muzak while we held our meetings. But, alas, those days are no more. This week, Lilly’s manager was on site, enforcing the regulations concerning corporate branding, especially those relating to the TV and muzak playing constantly in empty spaces. Before leaving we agreed reluctantly to meet at the Theatre Royal next time. I’d swear that even Lilly, sensing we would not return, looked dispirited as we abandoned her to her corporate fate.

 

 

Home Alone

          In the late 70’s, there was a fad for the pseudoscientific theory of biorhythms. It came to mind this week when I experienced a day of extraordinary listlessness, brain-fog and clumsiness. Since this is not how I normally feel, I sought an explanation for the condition but, lacking the energy to dig deeply, fell back upon the familiar, half-boiled theory. I might as well have consulted my horoscope – another unsubstantiated system that purports to explain the vagaries of life. On reflection, it’s more likely that my bio-system was fully engaged in fighting off a viral attack, therefore short on reserves for anything but the essentials – getting up, getting dressed, getting lunch, etc.

          It may be unrelated, but I think the fact that I had been on my own for a few days imposed a layer of introspection on what would otherwise have been an unremarkable event. With no-one around to chivvy me along, perhaps I was just wallowing a bit – which is one reason why I wouldn’t choose to live alone. On the other hand, the temporary absence of my Other Half is something I savour as an opportunity to break out of habitual behaviours, free myself of compromises and revert to solitary indulgences, such as uninterrupted reading for hours on end – which has enabled me to finish several books – and watching a tv series for which she has shown no enthusiasm but which has captured my full attention (Better Call Saul). And there have been podcasts to fill the silences, among them a discourse on the history of the waltz (I find myself tapping the keyboard in 3/4 time as I write this).

          A lot of cultural ground can be covered when your time is your own, but the downside is not having anyone to share your harvest with. Perhaps, when she gets back, I can interest my OH in the following. Having read an account* of the prosecution in 1960 of the publisher of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (unexpurgated), I was struck not only by the contortions that the law has to perform in order to impose a moral code on its citizenry, but also the way in which that same code is applied differently to social classes. The now infamous line uttered by the prosecutor, “Is it a book that you would even want your wife or servants to read?” would be laughed out of court today (I hope). Then there is the waltz, which originated in Germany. It eventually gained acceptance as a civilised form of social recreation in England, but here it evolved a certain form of etiquette: ladies and gentlemen held themselves with a formal reserve, taking care to avoid intimacy, even in the form of eye-contact, unlike the lower classes, whose heartier embraces they considered vulgar and prurient. And, lest you should believe the USA is a classless society, check out Better Call Saul, with its revealing sub-plot of snobbery within the American legal profession. (I notice that Saul lives alone, by the way.)

          One day, while out cycling for exercise, I stopped to consult my phone and was approached by a man in his thirties who asked me a series of questions about cycling. At first, I assumed he was someone considering buying a bike and wanting some tips. But it turned out he was already an habitual cyclist and he just wanted to moan about how dangerous it is on the roads, what with motorists seeming to have a vendetta against him. “I ride every day and I get cut up almost as soon as I leave home!” I didn’t quite know what to make of the conversation, but it did occur to me afterwards that he might live on his own and need to express himself to someone – anyone. Either that, or his biorhythm had hit one of those low days when paranoia finds an easy way in. Perhaps what he really needed was a hug.

*Alison MacLeod Tenderness

Baked-in Heritage

          ‘Tis the season of hot cross buns, which reminds me that, as a student, I once had a holiday job in a bakery, where one of my tasks was to put the crosses on top of the doughy blobs before they were slid into the ovens. These seasonal treats were baked originally to mark the beginning or end (I don’t remember which) of a Christian fasting ritual. I could check online – if I could be bothered. But I take the view that if we were to get too picky about the origins of our numerous traditions, casual conversations based on commonly accepted heritage would be impossible. Pedantry is an acquired taste. Nevertheless, I think it behoves bakers to make some reference to the origins of the bun, lest another generation grows up in ignorance of its religious conception. The story could be printed on the packaging, in between the list of ingredients and the table of calorific and energy values, where those who are habitually investigative might find enlightenment.

          But do the details of religious history really matter in today’s more secular society? Perhaps not so much for their own sake as for the fact that they are the foundations of traditions we can share, thereby binding us socially and anchoring us to a place and a past. In a way, this argument applies to the village of Buckland Monachorum and its over-sized church. The unusual placename is a Latin reference to the monks who lived at the nearby Abbey and who were probably responsible for the jumbo church. On Sunday, when we visited a friend who lives in the village, a very small congregation was visible through the open door of the church, suggesting to me that things will end badly for the almost-redundant building – unless it gets rescued by a heritage preservation fund and turned into a tourist attraction, whereupon its back-story will be revealed in detail for those who are interested. And as a concomitant, the village will become even more quaintly attractive and further distanced from its original reason for being.

          Of course, there is a view that neither the past nor the future is of much consequence in people’s everyday lives; it’s the here-and-now that counts. Given the unpredictability of events, it’s a reasonable stance, though it smacks of selfishness and, actuarily, it might not stack up. While there is nothing to be done about the past, the future could be rosy and, with a bit of planning, rosier still. Studies of available statistics* show that, on the whole, humanity has more reason to be optimistic for the future than is generally acknowledged. And if you have won the postcode lottery of life and live in a peaceful, prosperous part of the world, there is a good chance that forward planning will pay off eventually. However, if your part of the world happens to be Britain, then you will find yourself swimming against a tide of short-termism, as embodied in our political and economic systems. What with our politicians preoccupied with winning votes from a mostly ill-informed and disillusioned electorate and our businesses dedicated to maximising shareholder returns in the shortest possible timeframe, investment in the future, both socially and industrially, is not on the agenda.

          Like most of my generation, I used to enjoy a mass-produced hot cross bun, toasted and slathered in butter. They gave me indigestion, so I laid off them for many years. Nowadays, I get the sourdough ones from the artisan baker and scoff them un-toasted and un-buttered. It’s a heritage product that has been through a rough patch of industrial processing but is coming good with a return to wholesome ingredients and craft baking skill. Past, present and future all in a bun.

 *Hans Rosling Factfulness (2018)

and Hannah Ritchie Not the End of the World (2024)