Table Talk

          I should have known what to expect when my Other Half invited a couple of her Extinction Rebellion pals to dine with us after one of their meetings. Ever the gregarious host, I had prepared the meal, raided the wine cellar, pimped up the table and braced myself for the additional company of the small dog and ‘rescue’ parrot that would accompany one of our guests. My efforts were rewarded with warm words of appreciation, but it soon became apparent that conversation thenceforth would be dominated by the intricacies and intimacies of their particular group and its interactions with the wider movement.

          I endured it for a while, then made a few determined attempts to divert talk in a more general direction. But the urgent vitality of their topic had an unstoppable momentum, so I quietly abandoned the project and focussed my attention on filling glasses and clearing plates instead. Eventually, I wandered over to hear what the parrot had to say, but I soon discovered the pertinence of the expression “to parrot”, so I patted the dog on the head and retired, unnoticed, to the study, where I caught up on the latest news and commentary.

          By the time I rejoined the company, they had moved on to the topic of polyamory, a behaviour that one of our guests had enthusiastically adopted since the recent breakdown of her long-standing mono-amorous relationship. I could have told her that, in the sixties, we called it ‘free-love’, but it seemed she had just discovered it and was in full proselytising mode. It would have been unkind to steal her thunder. We passed the rest of the evening in alcohol-fuelled babble.

          My earlier tactical retirement from the table had been possible because nobody was offended. In fact, they probably recognised that I had done us all a favour by absenting myself. Perhaps I should do it more often. I recall the era of dinner parties with contemporaries when, having just established ourselves as adults with ‘permanent’ partners and mortgages, we used to entertain each other at our respective homes. This was a lot of fun, though there was a rocky patch during the period when cute little offspring came of school age. At that time, we childless couples had to feign interest in what often felt like an eternity of talk about child development and schooling. Leaving early was an option, of course, but thinking of a plausible reason to do so was tricky. It’s not as if we had to go and relieve our baby-sitters. You will have gathered by now that when it comes to prolonged conversation, I prefer an exchange of ideas, not a litany of anecdotes.

          But entertaining guests needn’t be all about sitting around eating, drinking and spouting off. Going for a walk together is another way, one that includes the bonus of physical stimulation. It so happens that there are plenty of good walking routes from our doorstep so, weather permitting, guests are easily persuaded to take a stroll. And those of our visitors who are not familiar with the vicinity soon discover that I am eager to tell them all about it. As an aspiring Blue Badge guide, unqualified and with only a modicum of knowledge, I like nevertheless to point out the historical marks left on the surroundings – most of which are the legacy of the Royal Navy, from its founding as a state-sponsored pirate fleet to its latter-day glorified role in the defence of the realm. Some listeners find the subject just as interesting as I do: some, less so; and others, I suspect, don’t give a toss. So, I need to remember to change the subject from time to time, lest I become the walking equivalent of a dinner-party bore.

Real Life Fantasies

          The acrid stench of charred paper was in the air when I walked through our communal garden one evening last week. It was dark, but flames burst suddenly into life at the edge of a thicket of bushes, illuminating a man fanning them. I didn’t recognise him but, assuming him to be a resident of our block and, therefore, a neighbour, I addressed him in passing with a jocular, “Burning the evidence?” I think he realised that his activity might appear to be shifty, since he offered an explanation. “Gotta get rid of some old bank statements and I don’t have a shredder anymore,” he said. “Sorry about the smoke.” It seemed a feasible story – and he was using the barbecue hearth sensibly to contain the fire – so I left him to it.

          I was on my way to meet up with some pals for an evening of jazz recordings. Our nascent jazz appreciation group had met a couple of times in each other’s homes but, with ambitions to grow, we had sought – and found – a public venue. I had approached the proprietor of a local establishment who, being an enthusiastic proponent of the arts, music and community, had recently created a unique café-bar with an adjoining gallery-cum-performance-room. True to his ethos, he offered us carte blanche, including use of his sound system, free of charge, on a Tuesday evening. He was as hopeful as us that by holding our sessions there, we could attract outsiders to join our group and, eventually, get musicians to come and perform.

          The evening might have been reckoned a great success but for the dashed hope of swelling our number. Tuesday evenings are pretty quiet. In fact, apart from our group of seven, only two other people entered the premises all evening – a young couple who left after buying one drink. But the proprietor and his lady-friend stuck with us, playing Scrabble at a table nearby and getting up to serve us at the bar as and when required. At the beginning, however, there had been a moment of anxiety. I can’t say that it is universally true, of course, but my experience of jazz evenings in the company of retired, middle-class white males is that a great deal of red wine gets consumed. So, when I ordered a bottle at the bar, I was alarmed to be told that it was the only one remaining. The barmaid explained that there had been a good crowd in at the weekend and that they had almost drunk the place dry. New stock was due on Thursday. However, sensing my dismay, she cheerfully pledged to go out (to the local supermarket, I guessed) and get more. Which she did – along with dishes of nibbles which she brought to our table, gratis. Now that’s what I call a friendly, community-focused approach to commerce. We shall certainly reconvene there next time – after making more of an effort to publicise the event beforehand.

          But the week wasn’t all about jazz. I also saw a couple of films, good examples of the excellence of French cinema. The premise of the first one, Incredible but True, really is incredible – as in beyond belief – so how could it also be true? Well, after a good deal of thought, I found a possible explanation for the title: the true part is the laughable plausibility of the reactions of the characters to the situation. Actually, the other film might just as well have had the same title, given its outcome. The Origin of Evil is a devilishly convoluted story of a crime in which the actions of the perpetrator seem innocent at first. As the plot is revealed, however, it becomes clear that what seems incredible is, in fact true: people really are capable of doing such evil.

           It might be coincidental but, since then, I’ve been getting flashbacks to the bloke burning ‘evidence’ in the garden. His story seemed feasible but…

More Stuff

          I don’t recall when it was that charity shops began opening for business on the high streets of our towns. What I do remember is that they smelled of old things and unwashed clothes. Or maybe they didn’t. Perhaps I imagined it because of the stigma of poverty with which I associated them.

          Years later, the altered circumstances of traditional high streets (and of many of us who frequent them) have allowed such shops to proliferate and prosper. And, if they ever were as dowdy as I recall, good old capitalist competition has obliged them to smarten up. A sprinkling of retail fairy dust has been applied and many of them boast professional-looking window displays. The larger ones even mimic mini department stores, some of which have specialist ‘vintage’ clothes sections, with goods priced up accordingly. I interpret this as evidence of a budding alternative economy.

          It seems to me that there is at least one major flaw in the creed of capitalism – the assumption that there can be limitless growth of an economy based on extraction. Such a concept is plainly at odds with the fact that resources are finite, yet the main political parties seem oblivious to this conundrum, promising voters that they will deliver growth without limit, thereby implying more of everything for everyone. The younger me did not question this, preoccupied as I was with getting a living but, having eventually secured a comfortable situation, I also acquired the luxury of taking a different view. I don’t really need much more stuff but, if and when I feel that old acquisitive urge, I make a point of recycling: I go to the charity shops.

          This week, I visited my sister who lives in rural Lincolnshire, close to where I was dragged kicking and screaming into a classroom for the first time. Our family moved from there six years after that unseemly incident, but I do remember the place in some detail. Our nearest town was Sleaford which, with its cafes, shops and bus station, was the most exciting place in my little world. This week, my sister and I, along with our partners, went there for lunch and a mooch around and I was interested to note the ways in which it is trying to adapt to modern times. Like so many other towns whose main economic purpose has disappeared, Sleaford has had to change tack and, twenty years ago, made a bold start by converting Hubbard’s old seed warehouse into a craft and design centre. It thrived and is now nationally recognised as The Hub. We admired its showcases full of exquisite hand-made items, none of which I was inclined to buy, not only because I have all the stuff I need but also because it is so expensive!

          The bones of the old market-town are intact insofar as the banks, hotels and pubs dating back to the Georgian period remain in situ. Though most of them are occupied by other types of business, they remain a potentially valuable heritage asset. As for the shops, I have no interest in tattoo parlours, nail bars or vape stores, but they seem to do good business and keep the economy staggering along. It’s the charity shops I like. I’ve acknowledged that I don’t need any more stuff, but still I can’t resist browsing for a bargain while marvelling at all the items that are being recycled: all the odds and sods, ornaments, unused gadgets and superfluous neckties – the story of my life reflected and multiplied by the lives of so many others.

           But there was something that I couldn’t resist, something I didn’t know existed – a microwave omelette maker! My companions looked sceptical as I forked out the £2 asking price, but I was convinced that this gadget would enhance my life in the kitchen. On reflection, however, I feel this may prove yet another plastic artefact the world doesn’t need. Why else was it unused and still in its original packaging?

Picture This

          As I write, a storm is blowing in from the west. I’m glad it didn’t arrive a couple of days ago, when there was a springtide and the sea washed over the road without so much as a breeze to drive it. As I watched, I felt anxious and awestruck in the face of the unstoppable force of nature. But I’m one of the lucky ones not to have been flooded or washed away: so many millions have. Does it take this kind of close encounter to feel a degree of empathy for them?

          Meanwhile, despite the impending doom of its eventual submersion, I’ve been converting the extra bedroom into a study. It’s a process that involves more than simply replacing a bed with a desk – we had already done that, but the sleeping ambience lingered somehow, making the space feel half-baked and unresolved. So, I replaced the flooring with hard cork boards that are office-chair friendly but warm to the touch. The pictures we had hung on the walls never did convincingly conceal the soporific magnolia paint behind them, so we decided on a textured cork wall-covering, coloured, to make the room a bit quirky, hopefully banishing all trace of sleep-inducing blandness and replacing it with something more stimulating to the imagination. Ever practical, I took the precaution of photographing the picture arrangement beforehand, so that all could be restored ‘as was’ afterwards.

          This process took months to come to fruition, during which there was plenty of time to reflect on the point of the exercise. Given the fact that the polar ice caps are melting and our home is a mere half-metre above sea-level, a fixation on interior decoration or home improvements seems indulgent and irrelevant. Besides that, the news media have been full of images of bombed apartment blocks and reports of millions of homeless refugees fleeing war, drought, floods and starvation. We feel privileged to even have an extra bedroom. It’s ‘first-world’ angst, I know and, although it drives many a philanthropist to try to make a difference, it’s apparent that my philanthropic urge is more intellectual than practical. My hair shirt remains in the wardrobe, as I press on with my project.

          I would like to think that there is hope for the world, despite the selfishness of geopolitics that sees every nation-state fight for its own advantage rather than co-operate for mutual benefit. Surely there will come a point where, as in my questioning the point of re-decorating a room, governments will realise the end is nigh, their ambitions are futile and it’s time for us all to pull together to tackle existential threats? But the evidence suggests that this is mere wishful thinking. It’s more probable that there will be a fight between the most powerful states to coral what’s left of the world’s resources, possibly while throwing a few crumbs of charity to the losers.

          I picked up a book recently that I hoped might offer deeper understanding of how nations are governed and whether progress is being made towards a more humane world order. Political Thought from Plato to NATO * is a potted history of philosophical notions of statehood – its origins, purpose and validity – and what’s clear from reading it is that whatever intellectuals may have conceived of over the past 2,000 years, the overarching tendency is for the powers of state to be captured – in ascending order of selfishness and ruthlessness – by interest groups, dictators and tyrants.

          Nevertheless, I cling to the hope that things can change. When it came time to hang all the pictures back on the walls, the new décor did indeed stimulate the imagination and it struck me that I didn’t have to reinstate them ‘as was’. It also struck me that I ought to put them a little higher up.

*A series of essays, introduced by Brian Redhead. Published 1984.