Moving the Furniture

          This week, I re-positioned an armchair and in doing so made a small but significant change to my outlook. Not only do I get an altered visual perspective when seated, but the spatial dynamic of the room is changed so that a previously ‘dead’ corner has now been brought into use with the aid of a side table I had earmarked for sale on Gumtree. It’s been six months since we moved into this flat and, whilst we are intent on setting it up to suit our lifestyle, I am keen to avoid the trap of creating the kind of later-life abode that is comfortable but immutable and really only a form of premature entombment. Hence the occasional re-shuffling of furniture and ornaments.

          The unwanted stuff in the garage, destined for Gumtree listing, has begun to diminish. The easing of lockdown emboldened me to advertise at last, inviting would-be buyers to view and collect. It seems I need not have waited, however, since buyers so far have insisted on delivery: Sandy, from Newcastle, who bought the hi-fi speakers, got me to pack them up and send by Parcelforce, despite my misgivings about the possible damage in transit; Paul, from across town, wheedled me into delivering the ladders because he didn’t have a car; and Shane, from Torquay (an hour’s drive away), also played the ‘I don’t have a car’ card, so I duly joined the fleets of ‘fulfilment’ vans plying the roads.

          Gumtree is a useful addition to the local newspaper classifieds and corner-shop window boards – if they still exist – but I have found it intriguing beyond its transactional functionality. I notice the user etiquette that has developed and the ways in which mutual trust is built in the lead-up to the deal. The tone of the initial email might be quite curt – “Is this still available” – but can soon turn friendly, with “please”, “thank you” and “would you mind?” lubricating each exchange. And there is that innate curiosity that drives you to speculate on what sort of person you are dealing with at the other end of the line – why are they buying/selling? what is their situation? – and the visceral need to know what they look like, to put a face to the voice. In the case of Sandy of Newcastle, I never saw him (I say “him” because my unconscious bias that tells me that only blokes buy hi-fi speakers) but ‘he’ had a very polite manner, even to the extent of emailing to confirm safe delivery of and satisfaction with the goods. Paul, the ladder-buyer, was not the rough builder that my mind’s eye had fixed upon. He was a 30-something, cheery-faced office-wallah who, having just returned from living in Hong Kong, had bought a house and was fixing it up. But the most intriguing of the three was Shane.

          Initial correspondence was by email, during which it was established that he would buy the amplifier if I delivered it by Saturday afternoon. Was he about to throw a party? When we spoke by phone, he seemed young and polite, but in an old-fashioned way, offering “refreshments” on my arrival. He also had a very faint trace of a foreign accent. Approaching his house on a steep, narrow street in an otherwise nondescript suburb, I was confronted by a two-metre-high, impenetrable fence, behind which small terraces populated by exotic statues led down to a patio door from which Shane emerged, shyly. His geekish long hair framed an inexpressive face that had eyes only for the amp. Conversation did not flow, so I declined the refreshment and forgot to ask him about his deadline. I did ask him if there was a turning at the top of his road, but he did not know. “I don’t go out”, he said. “No worries”, I said and bade him goodbye. But as I left, I’m sure I heard the sound of a tomb being sealed.

 

 

 

 

Lock Up Your Gnomes!

           When I was a student our little clique abducted a gnome from the garden of a tutor, to whom we subsequently sent a series of postcards purporting to be from the gnome, who “had gone on tour”. Of course, garden gnomes don’t take holidays and, even if they did, their postcards would not have their hometown postmark stamped on them: it was just a jolly jape. But if gnomes disappear from gardens these days they are more likely to have been stolen in earnest for, according to the headlines, there is an acute shortage of them in the shops. And this is no joke, because the reasons for the shortage comprise a warning about the state of world affairs: Covid has caused a surge of interest in gardening among stay-at-homers, leading to increased demand for garden ‘products’, the supply of which depends on the availability of materials and unhindered trading links. An unexpected pandemic, coinciding with Brexit and the temporary blockage of the Suez canal have highlighted the fragility of the latter, while the scramble for raw materials has always been at the heart of geopolitics.

          It seems odd that our gnomes are made in faraway places such as China – but I’m sure this is commercial opportunism, not cultural appropriation, since Chinese tradition has its own mythical creature, the dragon. Perhaps now is the time to re-shore gnome manufacture, not to reclaim our heritage but to reduce the carbon footprint of the little fellers who travel halfway round the world, only to spend the rest of their lives stationary in suburbia. As children, in the 1950s, we had a plaster-casting kit, complete with Humbrol paints, with which we could make our own gnomes while waiting for the peas to sprout.

          I don't have a garden, just a balcony and, while scouring the internet recently for a weatherproof outdoor storage chest, I was dismayed by the vast range of stuff on offer, none of which appealed, aesthetically, practically or eco-sustainably. What to do? The solution was a visit to a local depot that sells military surplus equipment, where I hoped to find something I could re-purpose. I came away with a NATO anemometer-container that is not only weatherproof, but bombproof. Even so, I was dismayed by the fact that there was a huge pile of these expensive-looking containers and by the whiff of ill-spent taxpayers’ money which hung about it. If NATO has no use for hundreds of anemometer cases, why were they made in the first place? I have some satisfaction in being able to repurpose one of them, but what will be next? The news is that Russia is massing an army on the Ukrainian border and, with President Biden now in office, NATO forces will probably be on the alert and stocking up on all sorts of expensive equipment. I hope they don’t ask me for their box back.

          It appears that Russia is planning a land-grab, as is China, whose sights are set on Taiwan. If this is the case, there is a question over why either nation would bother. Assuming that the goal of conquest is material enrichment, surely the preferable means to that end is trade, not war? Ask the Swiss. Even we British, who used a deadly combination of manufacturing and enforced commerce to gain wealth, have in the end come to rely on trade to sustain the economy. Now, our manufacturing has fallen away and our military power has been eclipsed. Still, there is some ironic satisfaction in the endurance of some incidental cultural exports: the language, cricket, football, rugby and – to my astonishment – snooker, which has become huge in China, where Ronnie O’Sullivan is now an icon. Pedantically speaking, it could be argued that this is a form of cultural appropriation, but I am relaxed about that. As long as they keep us supplied with gnomes, it’s a fair exchange.

Leisure Pursuit?

           The long-anticipated kayaking lesson, postponed because of lockdown, began to loom and I had to get some appropriate boating shoes. So, not wanting to over-commit to specialist gear, I headed to Lidl where, for a mere £12.99, I found just the thing; a pleasing bargain, but not as much so as the portable workbench I bought in the same shop for £15.99 and which, intuition told me, would prove a sounder investment.

          With the easing of lockdown, life has become busier. All those things I became unaccustomed to are now back on the agenda – though now might be a good time to appraise the value of some of them with a view to a cull. Personal grooming, however, remains on the to-do list and I spent some time on Tuesday looking for a slot at a barber’s. I took a break at the Portuguese café where, fortuitously, coffee can now be served at the pavement tables from which there is a clear view of the barber’s shop opposite. Patience paid off and I dashed across the road as soon as I spotted an opportunity. My barber was talkative, excited to be back at work – and Kurdish (many of them are, around here), so I asked him how things are ‘back home’. It was difficult to hear what he said because of his mask and the noisy buzz of the clippers around my ears, but the gist of it was that Kurds are unhappy. They fought off ISIS and didn’t even get a thankyou from the West for their efforts. It crossed my mind that a barber with a grudge might do some serious damage, but I put my trust in capitalism and its need to keep customers happy and was not disappointed.

          Kayaking day arrived and – first, the good news – the sea was as calm as a mill pond. I had insisted on this try-before-you-buy session, as I have previous experience of leisure activities not living up to expectations. I well remember the mid-life-crisis moment when I imagined myself on a motorbike, roaming freely and in style around the lanes and byways of Britain and beyond. When I went in search of a machine, a motorcycle dealer in Rochdale put at my disposal a powerful Triumph. “Tak’ it up in t’hills for a spin,” he said, casually. He did not mention insurance, nor ask to see my licence – and I did not mention that my only previous experience had been of a 75cc Lambretta back in my student days. I set off in trepidation, disguised as bravado, but lack of experience soon told and the machine got the better of me with its terrifying turn of speed. It was not long before I returned the bike – in one piece – and parked it up, along with my dream. I was not only traumatised but also suffering from a backache brought on by the riding position. In the end, I bought a campervan instead.   

          At the water sports centre the pupil/teacher ratio was three to one, though it seemed there was little to be taught except for how to hold the paddle, which took about three minutes. When it came to struggling into wetsuits, jackets and buoyancy vests, however, we were on our own and it took far longer. Once afloat, I found the experience pleasant but unexciting: perhaps that is the point of kayaking as opposed to ocean sailing or white-water rafting, though I have experienced both of those and emerged equally unenthused. The main problem with the kayak session was the uncomfortable seating position that left me nursing a backache. That and the disproportionate kit-to-enjoyment ratio. Kayaking, however, does have the potential to be a useful way of cleaning the oceans: I picked up some floating litter en route – a wine bottle and a beer can. Incidentally, the shoes performed well, though it could be a long time before they show any signs of wear and tear.

Volume Control

          If you like popular music, I can recommend Radio Paradise. It’s not really a radio station, as such, but a curated playlist that lives on the internet. However, it has four strong features: no adverts, no chatter, 24/7 availability and no cost (though donations are solicited). Occasionally, the DJ (there is only one and he has the superhuman quality of needing no sleep) does interject, sometimes to inform, sometimes to comment briefly on the music. For example, after the Rolling Stones’ Gimme Shelter he said, “Ah, that one always has me reaching for the volume knob – clockwise, of course”. As it happens, I agree, though there are tracks to which the opposite could apply. But that’s the beauty of an eclectic playlist: it’s a roller-coaster of musical highs and lows, with the capacity also to broaden listeners’ horizons. I mean, I had never heard of Melody Gardot until RP played her version of Who Will Comfort Me? but it was definitely clockwise-volume-worthy.

          This week I was roped into door-to-door leafleting for the Green Party’s candidate in the local elections. Usually, I am more comfortable with armchair politics but my Other Half, who is more of a doer, urged me to share the foot soldier experience and I could think of no convincing reason not to. There was no canvassing involved, no door-knocking or face-to-face encounters of the kind that might result in altercations. The only threats were fiercely-sprung letterboxes and the aggressive dogs that sometimes lurk behind them, both of which could be dealt with by folding the leaflet around the end of spatula before poking it through. Nevertheless, I was out of my comfort zone. It was not our ward, but a suburban estate of a type to be found all over the country: every house set in its own plot and every street jammed with cars – just the sort of heavy carbon footprint lifestyle that ought to make a Green candidate shudder.

          Fortunately, any concerns I had about confrontation quickly dissipated. The few people who were out on the streets responded to my proffered “Good Morning!” with civility and, reassuringly, there were pro-Green posters in a few of the windows. One man, however, did pop out to hand the leaflet back to me, having obviously not glanced at it. “I don’t agree with this Conservative government,” he said. “But it’s for the Green party in the council elections,” I replied. “Whatever. I don’t do politics,” was his response. I tried not to show my dismay at his lack of engagement, but I’m no politician and, by definition, no canvasser. If this was an indication of alternative views people hold outside of my comfort zone, perhaps it is best to get out there and find out, before it’s too late and they come for me. I have just been reading about covid-deniers and the like – people who believe there is an international conspiracy afoot to enslave whole populations – and I think it’s best to hear their reasoning so as to know what to expect and prepare as best I can for the day they take over.

          This theory may well be tested at the weekend, since we are invited to attend an actual non-zoom drinks party on our neighbours’ terrace. We know them only from brief encounters in the street and, while they seem sociable and smiley, I have no idea of their political views – nor those of the other couple they have invited to form the regulation maximum party of six. One thing, however, is for certain: the conversation will turn to covid, vaccination and lockdown. I hope for neighbourly accord on these matters, but I do see the potential for heated discussion or worse, especially after drink is taken, the volume starts to rise and there is no one in control of the knob.

Taunted in Taunton

          I remember once watching a young lad performing cartwheels. He was standing, talking with a family group, yet he was so full of beans that every minute, it seemed, he would cartwheel on the spot then return to the conversation as if nothing unusual had happened. Such restlessness, I thought, such energy and fitness – qualities that I can lay some claim to as well, though much diminished over time and never in such abundance that they were ever manifest in gymnastics.

          Still, what remains of these attributes was called upon this week when I volunteered to lend practical assistance in the case of an aunt-in-law, who is old, disabled and becoming quite confused. My task was to take a train to her house in Salisbury – which is currently vacant as she is temporarily in a care-home, following a period of hospitalisation – and prepare it to accommodate a live-in carer. It may not sound like much of a job, but there were challenges. It’s a dilapidated old rabbit-warren of a place, in which the aunt has lived alone, except for dogs, for 50 years. During that time, she has accumulated a great deal of medical apparatus deemed useful to her condition, along with all the paraphernalia associated with her interests and hobbies. All this has been added to family heirlooms, furniture, doggy accoutrements, utensils and the everyday household effects that she has acquired without ever having willingly discarded a single item. Simply walking through the front door is an obstacle course and a foretaste of what to expect in the less frequented parts of the house. Still, I knew what I was in for and, for three days, put my shoulder to the task, the nub of which was to rearrange the contents without disposing of anything – for she would surely notice if I did. It was a logistical and physical challenge.

          Yet it became more than that. It had been the urgency of her need for practical support which led me to volunteer for the task, rather than personal empathy which, I must admit, was somewhat lacking. With none of us being allowed to visit the aunt for the past year, the lack of face-to-face contact had perhaps diminished familial intimacy and relegated it to second place in the caring stakes, leaving practicality to hold sway and nuisance to take its corrosive toll (I speak for myself). However, the balance changed due to the intimacy of my task. Whereas I began by surveying the scene in a critical, judgemental frame of mind, I found that, by handling the stuff of someone else’s life, poking through documents, clothing, mementoes and redundant equipment alike, I soon came to some understanding of how and why her way of life looks as it does, so different yet neither better nor worse than mine. Handling someone else’s shoes is as close as I got to standing in them, but it had the same effect, flooding me with empathy for the expectations, triumphs and disappointments that are common to everyone’s life.

          At the end, I made my weary way to the station through the centre of old Salisbury, where the threadbare  gentility of the fabric of this medieval cathedral city is evident in the discreet pandering to paying tourists. At least the church is attempting to embrace modernity while hanging on to the best of its legacy. If only the aunt, who lives within its ambit, could do the same…but there I was, back to being judgmental. Out of sight, out of mind?

          Having bought some refreshments for the journey, I settled into an almost empty carriage with a sigh of relief and, after a couple of glasses of wine, dozed off. I was awoken by the announcement that we were arriving at Taunton, where, during the brief stop, I watched a young girl on the opposite platform execute perfect cartwheels in front of her apparently uninterested family. I hope things turn out well for her.