Upper Respiratory Tract Infection?

          There are two things about the ‘common cold’ that puzzle me, the first being its name. How did the cumulative symptoms of snuffling, dripping, sneezing and nasal congestion – viral infection of the upper respiratory tract – come to be called ‘a cold’? If we were starting afresh, I’m sure we could find a more appropriate name for it – one that does not confusingly associate the illness with ambient temperature. At school, we used to call it ‘the lurgi’ and, although that was a term we applied to any unpleasant medical condition, it did usefully imply that avoidance of contact with the afflicted person was essential. By comparison, to say that you “have a cold” does not sound sufficiently off-putting, given the real risk of contagion you pose to others.

          Which brings me to the other puzzling thing: you can catch a cold no matter how many oranges you eat. One per day is my target and, although my self-imposed ‘air-miles’ rule, whereby only European produce is acceptable, has made me fall short of late due to seasonal unavailability, I felt nonetheless that I did not deserve to catch a cold last week. I had imagined myself to be at the unassailable peak of health so, when I detected the first symptom – a soreness at the back of the nasal passage – my spirits drooped, even though, considering my partner had already succumbed, it was probably inevitable. She “gave” me her cold, despite knowing full well that we men suffer the symptoms much worse than women. She apologised, of course, but deep sympathy was hard to discern in her brisk, business-as-usual manner.

          I stocked up on tissues and ‘remedies’ (cures are not available) and prepared for the worst. Fortunately, I was far from bed-ridden, so my activities were not entirely curtailed. Except for, in the early, feverish phase, declining an offer to attend a jazz gig and opting instead for an early night with a mug of Lemsip, I kept up a fairly active programme. At the British Museum I saw the exhibition demonstrating the influence that Eastern art and culture had on Western artists and designers. In one example, a ceramic bowl produced in 19^th century Persia mimicked designs from 18^th century Europe which had, originally, been based on 17^th century Middle Eastern originals. It reminded me of how 1960s British pop music had taken black American music, repackaged it and returned it to America, where it found a white audience for the first time.

          I also made my way to Tate Modern, lured by the hype for the Olafur Eliasson exhibition. Now, it is a fact that one’s appetites and senses are dulled by the common cold, which may be why I was not moved by his work; or it may be that I would not enjoy it much, even in the bloom of health and vitality. I will look to test the argument in future. Likewise, Mona Hatoum’s sculptures at White Cube in Bermondsey aroused in me more curiosity than emotion. I hesitate to pronounce on art because – technique aside – its manifestations are observed subjectively. However, if pressed, I like Paul Klee’s explanation: “Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.” More to my liking, at the Barbican, was an exhibition of the various cabarets and clubs that were inspired by the modern art movement. In those establishments, the expression of art was brought to life by incorporation into décor, acts and philosophies, all of which were consumed socially and irreverently.

          I would like to make clear that, during my snuffling peregrination, I had tissues at the ready and kept a decent distance from others. I know what it’s like to have the lurgi, and I wouldn’t want to spread it around.

Dinner Date

          Two men in their seventies walked into a trendy Shoreditch restaurant on a Tuesday evening. “Hi Guys,” said the hipster meeter/greeter in the spirit of modern, casual dining that makes no distinction between gender or age. The guys in question (my companion and I) did not bridle – such places are not novel to us (though we are not yet entirely comfortable with the lack of respectful address to which we feel entitled). Therefore, knowing what to expect, we set about the task of fitting in as best we could with a room full of people still racking up the second of their three score and ten.

          “How can young people afford these prices?” I said with a touch of resentment as we scanned the menu. “I thought we boomers were supposed to have all the money.” Apparently, the popular story of millennials’ straitened circumstances is exaggerated – or at least does not apply around here. So, it’s enlightening to get out and about, mingle with other social groups and expose oneself to a few myth-busting experiences. We, the older generation, can benefit from shunning the same old places with the same old faces from time-to-time. Exposure to change is a chance to broaden horizons and challenge beliefs and entrenched preconceptions, for, in the end, modernity will have its way – though we do have choices: resist change unto the end, absorb the shock of the new, or adopt a conciliatory position somewhere between the two extremes. So it was that evening; we could either have turned curmudgeonly or decided to go with the flow. We did our best to take the latter route, but with age comes experience and so we did have a few set ways to overcome.

          The menu was explained to us (hackles rose but restraint prevailed) and we listened politely to the suggestion that we should share the selection of “small plates” that were on offer. But experienced diners like us know what we want and don’t want to share it, so we ignored the (very) young waitress’s advice. Besides, diminutive portions can lead to awkwardness when it comes to allotting fair shares and awkwardness is the last thing you want to intrude on an evening of camaraderie. But we continued to keep our minds open, notwithstanding the filters of experience firmly embedded in our systems. The important thing to remember about filters, however, is that they can get clogged up and, like those on my Dyson, need periodic cleaning if they are to remain effective and prevent motor seizure.  

          Actually, the food was excellent, the wine, such as we could afford, was pretty decent and the service was attentive and the very opposite of casual. The only fault we could find was the choice of background music which, considering the majority of the clientele, was unsurprising. Yet we refrained from complaining and we had a good time – thanks in part to our open attitude. But, before I get carried away with self-congratulation, here is a stanza of verse:

When I can look life in the eyes, / Grown calm and very coldly wise, / Life will have given me the Truth, / And taken in exchange…my youth*

          They say that youth is wasted on the young and, looking around the restaurant, slightly nostalgic for my own formative years, I could only agree. Yet, having wasted my own, I bear no grudge.

          As we left the restaurant, we got a cheery “Goodnight, gents,” from the desk and were chuffed with the promotion from regular guys to revered customers. On reflection, however, the salutation might just have been code for “You’re not really our target market, guys.”

*Sara Teasdale, poet. 1884-1933.  

Citizens or Crusties?

          Last Monday was a busier day than usual in Westminster, where Extinction Rebellion (XR) had started its campaign to bring disruption to the seat of power in order to emphasise the “emergency” part of the Government’s declaration of a Climate Emergency. I was there in the capacity of camp-follower/bag-carrier and I experienced, vicariously, the frisson of a crowd assembling in anticipation of deterrent action by the police, whose mission was and is to keep the traffic flowing – the irony of which may be lost on those who are unsympathetic to the cause.

          There is a deal of harrumphing over the inconvenience caused by these demonstrations but emergencies, by their nature, are inconvenient. Besides, the broad cross-section of participants makes it difficult for those who feel aggrieved to get too nasty in their objection. The face of the XR crowd is the face of their own society: mothers with babies at the breast parading in support; clergy leading a singing crowd carrying a symbolic Noah’s ark; professional people – teachers, lawyers, medics et cetera – all joining in, some lending their skills; grey-haired retirees sitting defiantly in the road, while exuberant youths drum enthusiastically in samba percussion bands. But this great, varied assembly of citizens was described by our Prime Minister as a group of “importunate nose-ringed protesters” and “uncooperative crusties” with “hemp-smelling bivouacs.” Sure, some of the activists fit these descriptions, but most do not. This is our Prime Minister, in Trumpish mode, setting up scapegoats for his fan-base to scorn, rather than addressing the issue with which the populace is concerned.

          As well as XR, the permanent campaigners for and against Brexit are in their positions outside Parliament, though their flags and symbols have been temporarily overshadowed. Two XR grannies walked past the pro-Brexit lobbyists and admonished them with a curt “There are more pressing issues to be addressed, you know.” They took no notice. I am anti-Brexit but refused the offer of a “Bollocks to Brexit” badge on the grounds that the phrase obliterates the argument in favour of a slogan. Show me your arguments, I say, not your hatred.

          By the end of day two, the police had succeeded in ‘persuading’ some of the XR people to abandon their sites and move to a designated protest area (Trafalgar Square) where they would present less of an obstacle to traffic flows. The story is by no means over but, on day three, with cat-and-mouse being played all over the city, I took time to go to the William Blake exhibition at Tate Britain. My route took me via several XR sites that were still clinging to the tarmac but, off a side street, I came across a tiny, tranquil, tree-lined park with a statue at its centre, around which a dozen costumed figures slowly processed. The sun was glinting off their silver, hooded, floor-length cloaks and their heads bore silver crowns in the form of the XR symbol. They were followed by two people carrying a banner. I thought it a vision that Blake himself might have dreamt up but, as I got closer, I saw that the banner read “Aged Agitators” and, when I spoke to them, the ethereal figures were very down to earth. “Wrinkly, but not crusty,” said one as they set off to join the other demonstrators.

          Later, on the way back to Westminster tube station, I passed a chap selling toilet rolls imprinted with the face of Donald Trump. He was at risk of alienating at least half of the American tourists but doing brisk trade, nonetheless. “It’s a smear campaign,” he hollered, and I could not help smiling. I almost stopped to buy a couple but remembered my principles just in time. How easy it is to bypass argument and resort to insult instead.

United? Kingdom?

          Our solitary campervan lords it over a remote field overlooking the sea on Dorset’s Jurassic Coast. It is dusk, suppertime and daddy-long-legs (if there is a ‘grown-up’ name for these elegant, fragile creatures, I don’t know it) come to visit, attracted by our lamp. For a brief period, we have turned off the background noise of furious political debate raging through the media – the angst of Brexit, the rise of populism and its threat to democracy, in short, the division of our society under a curiously self-supposed “one nation” Conservative government. But we are only semi-detached from events: the field is a respite, a change of scenery. When we turn on the radio, the turmoil burbles forth again.

          We had been poking around Dorset for a couple of days and poking around Dorset, or any other part of Britain, is, for me, essentially about rummaging through the remains of social history for clues as to who we are and why we are the way we are. History provides a context to our lives, without which we flounder in the sea of here-and-now, without landmarks to lend perspective or guidance. Who, for instance, can pass a road sign for Tolpuddle and not consider the importance of the Trade Union movement? Each region of Britain, small though it is, possesses its distinctive characteristics – topographical, geographical and geological – which have determined the ways in which its population developed; and these are the starting points – and sometimes the ending points – by which they are defined. Regional histories somehow add up to more than the sum of their parts when they come to define national history and, even in that process, never quite lose the traces of their individuality. Blandford Forum, a Georgian market town with a Roman-influenced double-barrelled name typical of the region, is an example.

          I first went there in 1968 and, though I was then ignorant of its provenance, I could feel history seeping from its stones. Progress, as manifest in high street uniformity and the decline of traditional markets, has diminished its uniqueness since then but the buildings in the centre have survived to provide a framework for whatever comes next: tourism, most likely. There is certainly a thriving local history museum, which occupies a stable building in a courtyard off the main square, though it is staffed by volunteers so ancient that I fear for its future. Outside the door were wooden boxes of apples, “windfalls, help yourself”, and so I did – to a delicious James Grieve, a variety not available in shops, alas. Inside, I became acquainted with not just the Great Fire of 1731 but also the intertwined histories of the nearby army training camps.

          Twelve miles away, at Shaftesbury, I admired the quintessentially English view from the top of Gold Hill (made famous by the Hovis TV ad which pretended it was in the north of England) then enjoyed the modern luxury of a decent cappuccino on High Street. But the old ways linger in the lifestyles of the locals. In the market hall, gardeners and smallholders offered their fruit and veg for sale, ladies stood behind tables full of home-baked cakes and a communal pay-by-chitty system was in operation. On the street, among the professional market stalls, a ruddy-faced, posh-spoken gentleman farmer sold meat exclusively from his herd of Red Poll cattle and a cheerful-chappie baker offered wholemeal and sourdough to the discerning. Is this the tail-end or the vanguard of the fight against globalism?

          Being back in Manchester a day later was like waking from a dream infused with genteel county-town vibes. The Conservative Party conference was in full swing behind high security fencing, guarded by more police resources than we even knew existed. But, if they had come to convince this staunchly Labour-voting populace of their “one nation” bona fides, they had a lot of reputational damage to repair. Labour and Conservative, like Remain Manchester and Brexit Dorset, though they are both British, remain worlds apart.