Bell Wringing

          Soon after returning from our month-long road trip, my Other Half took herself off to London for a week. Having spent all that time together in the close confines of the campervan, being alone in our modest flat made it feel almost like a mansion. What’s more, the same effect applied to time. With nobody but myself to consider, time became more fluid. I resolved that neither of these luxuries was to be squandered and set about drawing up a to-do list biased heavily in favour of self-indulgence.

          Not that my indulgences are extravagant (though I did get quite drunk with our friendly neighbour on the first evening). It’s just that they can be a little obsessive and, sometimes, too obscure to be of interest to others, my OH included. For instance, I love the Chinese shop (so-called after the ones in Spain, where they are known as such). Our home version is actually run by an Asian family but, like the Spanish ones, it is chock-full of what looks like a cross section of the entire output of China’s factories.

          I was looking for a replacement bell for my bike, the original having been smashed when a gust of Scottish wind flung the parked bike against a Caledonian boulder. I was certain that I would find a cheap replacement there, but I scoured the tightly packed shelves in vain. Still, the forty minutes I spent browsing were productive, as I came out with a new pump, some work gloves and two carabiners, all of which items I had been in need of for some time.

          Anyway, there was a specialist cycle shop on the next street and, though I anticipated the quality and specifications of their bells would exceed my needs and that the price, accordingly, would be higher than my expectations, I walked in and asked for one. They didn’t have any. I’m not sure who was more surprised by this stocking oversight – me or the staff – but they shamefacedly directed me to Wilko’s, the well-known, cut-price, all-purpose store, where I obtained what I needed at the very satisfactory price of 99p.

          None of this would have been of the slightest interest to my OH, but she was the one responsible for the elevation of my agenda by bringing to my attention a documentary film, Sudan, Remember Us, which was showing at the local Arts Cinema. The film is about the popular demonstration for a return to democracy in Sudan in 2021 and the military’s brutal response, quashing it and burying all hopes of any humane form of governance.

          This grimly depressing story is not unique to Sudan, of course, but my particular interest and subsequent sorrow stems from the fact that, long ago, a dozen years after the country gained independence from Anglo-Egyptian rule, I lived there for a spell and acquired a fondness for the people I got to know. It so often seems that it takes some degree of personal connection to feel empathy for other people’s tragedies. Can this self-centredness be explained as a naturally evolved defence against emotional overload?

          Questions such as this are debatable and, probably, unanswerable. It’s not surprising that we shy away from them and busy ourselves with other things – either what is most pressing in our daily lives or what is most enjoyable to us. This morning, as it happened, I had nothing pressing, so I pumped up my tyres, fitted my new bell and rolled the bike out for a sedate pedal around the neighbourhood.

          It was then a question occurred to me. What is the use of a bell? If you sound it as a courtesy to pedestrians unaware of your approach, your politeness is likely to be mistaken for an arrogant warning to get out of the way. If you need to ring as a warning, then a yell will serve as well. And you can’t ring it in anger – as motorists are inclined to honk their horns – for fear of ridicule. Need I have bothered?