Turning The Clock

          A book has to be unendurable for me not to read every page, but I am thinking of recalibrating my tolerance level, after having just spent too much time doggedly ‘getting through’ the last two sci-fi novels I chose. Time is short and, notwithstanding that I have recently managed to reclaim a little more of it, the sense of obligation to use my gain productively remains.

          Two questions arise from this revelation: how did I reclaim time and why do I bother reading sci-fi?

          Come to think of it, the ability to reclaim time does sound a bit sci-fi in itself. It might be better to employ the phrase “turned back the clock”. What’s happened is that I have broken the habit of drinking alcohol after dinner (mostly). It’s a behaviour I fell into when I no longer had to turn up for work in the mornings. But that was a very long time ago and the alcohol-based celebration of that release from responsibility should have ceased before now. Anyway, finally un-befuddled by booze, I feel more alert, not only in the mornings but also in the evenings – sufficiently compos mentis, at least, to read books rather than stare at the telly. It feels like rejuvenation.

          As to why I don’t give up on sci-fi, the accelerating development of tech makes me curious about what the future might look like, but with this proviso: that the humans in it be portrayed not as caricatures or extras on a hi-tech movie set, such as populate the books I have just read, but as convincingly drawn characters, people I can relate to – but who also wear their jetpacks with purpose and panache.

          Back on Earth, the rain held off for a day last week, so I took a walk through a wooded hillside that has lately been adopted by a Community Interest Company (CIC) established for the purpose of restoring the land. Their work involves removing invasive foreign species – mainly rhododendron bushes – so that the native plants can reclaim the territory. It’s a hard, physical task, digging out long-established roots on a steep and often muddy hillside, but the people I came across waved cheerfully and seemed happy in their labours.

           Later, it occurred to me that they were also ‘turning back the clock’, by seeking to reverse a process and reestablish a status ante for which they, presumably, have a preference. (It further occurred to me that there is a socio-political parallel to their agricultural mission: the language of rooting out foreign invaders and returning the land to native species is evocative of certain political dogma. Perhaps the next time I’m passing, I might put it to them – if I’m feeling up for an argument, that is.)

          Furthermore, where does restoration of the land end? If the purpose is to restore to a particular point in time, fair enough – as long as it is acknowledged not necessarily to be the ideal or ultimate state of being, just the preferred one. But it’s as well to remember, when you’re intent on recreating a situation, to be careful what you wish for. In our horticultural example – restoring the land prior to the arrival of aliens – would we uproot the potatoes that invaded the British Isles around 1580? And will the reintroduction of beavers, otters and their ilk lead inevitably to the return of scary bears in our CIC’s cherished woods?

          Having gained an hour or two of reading time in the evenings, the question now is which book to pick up (and which to put down). In taking a break from sci-fi and turning instead to history, it seems to me that a constant thread runs through the past, present and, predictably, the future: the consequences of human behaviour, regardless of whatever tech is to hand at any given time.

 

 

Gen V

          Back in my days as a callow, blissfully ignorant youth, I took very little interest in world affairs, but I do remember the much-reported phenomenon dubbed “the brain drain”. It was probably the catchy phrase that caught my attention, not the economics behind it, but it referred to the exodus of Britain’s finest scientists to the USA, where higher salaries were to be had.

          This memory was jogged by current reports that the drain is active once again, only this time in the opposite direction and for a different reason. Scientists are heading east across the Atlantic because the MAGA movement has taken against the inconvenient truths that evidence-based science presents. For example, the politically appointed head of the US Food & Drug Administration (FDA) this week overruled their team of scientists and refused, out of hand, to approve Moderna’s latest mRNA flu vaccine for trial. The decision was only reversed when Big Pharma flexed its money muscles and reminded the kleptocratic administration that it has other options when it comes to which jurisdiction it chooses to operate within.

          I consider myself fortunate to be of Generation V (for Vax) and never refuse the offer of protection against nasties such as the flu, but when my sister told me during a catch-up call that she and her husband had recently had a shingles jab, I was surprised and a little envious – surprised that I didn’t know there was such a thing and envious because I hadn’t been offered it. On looking into the matter, I find I’m in the last year of the qualifying age range but, unlike with flu, the invitation to get jabbed is not automatic. I could toddle up to the clinic and get done but what deters me is the knowledge, imparted by my sister, that the side-effects are rather painful for a couple of days. So, for now, I’m managing the risk – mainly by crossing my fingers.

          Besides, because I haven’t been ill for years, I’m lulled into a feeling of invincibility. Why, only last week, I spent a few enjoyable days in London, socialising, pottering and feeling tickety-boo all the while. I even made a new acquaintance, older than me and seemingly fit-as-a-fiddle. It was another of those situations whereby you share a small table with a stranger and decide whether or not to engage. I was unsure. He looked dapper, in an eccentric way, but then Eddy, as he was called, made the first move. He showed me his phone, on which was displayed a quotation by one of the ancient Greeks (I forget which), We have two ears and one tongue, so that we may listen more and speak less. Eddy chuckled and said, “The world needs more of that.” I found it hard to disagree, then listened to his life story for the next twenty minutes.

          The following day, we caught the train home. It’s a three-hour run and, on this occasion, the train was rammed. A young couple with babe-in-arms boarded late and had to take the only seats available, one in front of mine and the other across the aisle. Pretty soon, the person sitting next to the mother and child offered to switch places with the father, so that the family could be together. “How kind”, they said and settled in contentedly, but it wasn’t long before the real reason for the act of kindness became apparent; the mother had a stinking cold, the kind that you just know is contagious.

          Well, it turns out I’m not invincible. As I work my way through another box of balsam-infused Kleenex my hopes are pinned on the news I heard this morning that American scientists have developed an anti-cold vaccine. Let’s hope that either the FDA has learned its lesson, or that the brain drain hastens the heroic scientists eastwards.

 

Reuse, Repurpose, Recycle, Rethink

          Having read my last blog, in which I boast of my litter-picking exploits, an esteemed reader wrote to tell me that I am not alone. None other than the well-known author, David Sedaris, is an assiduous gatherer of discarded trash around his home in West Sussex, so much so that a local rubbish lorry has been named after him. His exploits surely add another dimension to the term ‘literati’.

          I don’t know the nature of Mr. Sedaris’ territory (perhaps we’ll get to compare notes someday), but mine is mostly urban green spaces, which means that the litter is dropped by pedestrians rather than thrown from vehicles. It also means that some items are lost, not tossed – the odd, slippery ten-pound note, a pair of gloves on a bench, a few unopened cans of beer that might have been more than were needed for the consumer(s) to attain total inebriation. But this week, I found a bicycle that seemingly had been deposited deliberately in bushes on an embankment. It was in good condition, apart from a missing pedal, so who would abandon a roadworthy bike for the sake of a simple, inexpensive repair? A thief, perhaps? Common sense told me that reporting to the police and/or the council would have been an unproductive hassle for all parties, so I decided to take the matter into my own hands.

          They say that my generation abhors waste (we remember post-war rationing) and that’s probably why I love our local Scrapstore. It’s full of bits and pieces that have been lying around, taking up space elsewhere, until the owners finally decide to reclaim the space but can’t bring themselves to throw the stuff away. The last thing I bought there was a small sample of marble, which I repurposed as a cheeseboard. The last thing I ‘donated’ was a big batch of envelopes we inherited but were never going to use. I thought I might take the bike there, as the friendly, casual helpers were unlikely to ask awkward questions about its provenance, but the shop was closed when I swung by, so I changed my plan.

          The Bikeshed is a Community Interest Company (CIC) that I patronise. They take unwanted bikes and fix them  up for sale. This would be right up their street – except that they might ask awkward questions about prior ownership, since they must surely be aware of whatever trade there is locally in stolen bikes. So, I gave them a tentative call before turning up. To my relief, they asked no questions and seemed pleased to take in my “unwanted” cycle, so I hastened to drop it off. The welcoming mechanic said it would be useful for the apprentices to train on and promptly wheeled it into the back of the workshop: for repurposing, if not recycling.

          I was myself a recent beneficiary of an unwanted item, when a friend offered me an air fryer. I had been fancying one by these new-fangled devices for some time, but my Other Half steadfastly refuses to fuel the ongoing conflagration of the planet by purchasing more manufactured gadgets. My argument that this miraculous new ‘oven’ was very fuel-efficient was rebuffed, but she could find no logical ground for refusing the offer of a cast-off contraption.

          The air fryer sat on the kitchen counter for several weeks, ignored by my Other Half, while I thought about how to adapt our customary cooking methods to the novelty of its operation. What cracked it, in the end, was the discovery that it’s ideal for crisping tofu cubes. Now, this might seem incidental but, with the Other Half’s enthusiasm for a vegan diet, the hand-me-down might well overcome the stigma that currently attaches to it and even acquire the status of indispensability.

 

 

 

Talking to Strangers

          Even though it can be considered a community-minded activity, litter-picking is something I like to do alone, as part of my exercise regime: a walk with a purpose. I don’t initiate conversations with people I encounter, since they end predictably in whinging about the culprits, the council or both, but older people sometimes thank me for doing a good job. (One man even suggested he pay his council tax directly to me. I offered him my bank account details, but he shied away with a chuckle.) Younger people never say anything to me. I reckon they think I’m a crazy old eccentric, though I do try consciously to avoid dressing like one.

          Whether or not to strike up conversation with a stranger is a conundrum. If you do, you might end up regretting it: some people are congenitally boring. If you don’t, you might miss out on making the acquaintance of someone with interesting things to say.

          I was on my way to an appointment and called in to a tiny café for a quick bite. The only place to sit was at an already occupied table. English reserve demands some delicacy in these situations. The seated incumbent could not reasonably object to my joining them, but neither of us would need to say anything beyond a brief acknowledgement of the awkward intimacy of sharing, in which case the situation thereafter would entail pretending that we were invisible to each other.

          In the time before mobile phones, this strategy could have been accomplished in one of two ways: steadfastly avoiding eye contact or hiding behind a newspaper. Now, we can all turn to our phones and focus our attention elsewhere in the universe. The last of these options was, I thought, to be my fall-back position as I made up my mind to take the vacant seat.

          But my table-mate-to-be was simply looking out of the window and, when I approached, he nodded and gave off friendly vibes. The waitress then arrived with his order and some brief banter, after which it seemed more natural for us to converse than to avoid doing so.

          I was in luck: although he was some thirty years younger than me, we had some common ground. Both of us had previously lived in the same places, at home and abroad, so there were reminiscences. He had become a keen campervanner and even had the same model as mine, so we compared notes. When I told him I was on my way to do a couple of hours volunteering at a local charity, he told me that he and his wife had decided to “give back” and that they had begun fostering children (a far more courageous commitment than mine). I said I had just heard a radio interview with an advocate for foster parents in which they argued for foster families to be given the services of a cleaner to assist with the household chores. He had heard the same interview and seconded the proposal enthusiastically.

          Half an hour later, I shook hands with Billy and headed for my voluntary stint in an unstructured, “make yourself useful” role. I was covering front-of-house at the charity’s hub, an open-plan space for informal meetings and social activities, which also serves as an incubator for nascent businesses, including an on-site restaurant. In keeping with its social mission, it welcomes people from the street who are curious, sociable, lonely, cold, hungry or mentally troubled, all of whom represent a cross section of the community that you might not encounter if you happen to be holed up in a particular lifestyle silo.

          I don’t know to what extent my efforts at the charity make a difference to anyone else, but mixing with other types, keeping engaged and talking to strangers may at least reduce the likelihood of my drifting, haplessly, towards crazy old eccentricity.

DIY BPM

           In the USA, shops are called stores. In the UK, shops are called shops, unless they are department shops, in which case they’re called stores. Not that it matters now. In our city centre, there used to be five department stores, but in a few weeks the last will be closing down. What to do with these massive buildings is a question that concerns most councils, though according to a study published in today’s news, there are easier options for the redundant smaller shops around them, many of which are becoming restaurants or gyms.

          Online shopping is one cause for the demise of retail. Last week, I went into town to purchase a blood pressure monitor – BPM – from a large pharmacy (one that still can be found on most high streets) and, although they had several models, there was nobody available to help me choose which would best suit my requirements. Can I be blamed, then, for resorting to the internet, where I readily found advice, easy purchase, keen prices and prompt delivery? It feels a lot like progress.

          Why would the ownership of a BPM occur to me as a good idea? Well, it all started with my reading a book titled Too Many Pills, in which the author, James Le Fanu, investigates the statistics behind certain mass medication programmes and concludes that the health risks are exaggerated for certain demographic populations, one of which includes myself. A critical indicator of risk is blood pressure and the author highlights the fact that occasional checks, such as we experience at our doctor’s behest, are not as meaningful as more frequent, regular measurements. Now, since clinically approved BPMs are inexpensive, you can have one at home and take daily readings. (I should add that, recently, I’ve been experiencing dizzy spells, defined – by NHS online – as postural hypotension, caused by a sudden drop in blood pressure when getting up from a sitting or lying position. So, the pressure was on for me to act.)

          The device is small, neat and clever. It remembers readings for two people, so you don’t have to write them down. It also works in tandem with an optional phone app, which produces useful charts and can send data to your doctor.

          The key to getting an accurate blood pressure reading is to be relaxed prior to and during the process. This is not as easy as it may seem – especially the first time you do it yourself. Having unpacked the device and eager to get monitoring, I was convinced that my readings would be normal. But what is ‘normal’? Well, back to the internet, where I found that it depends on whether you take the US or the European standard indicators as your guide. Anxiety began to surface and, what with having to read the instructions while the device was charging up, download the app and set up an account (another password!) and choose a time that I could schedule daily, which must be an hour before or after eating meals and imbibing caffeine and/or alcohol, it rose steadily.

          Even after a calming down period, by the time I had fitted the cuff correctly according to the diagram and instructions, the chances of my getting a reading that didn’t flash red and warn of hypertension were quite slim. Sure enough, my first reading was alarmingly high, which caused me to rise my seat too quickly, which made me dizzy, which caused me to sit down abruptly. Don’t panic, I told myself. Familiarity with the procedure will ease inherent tension and, over time, the averaged results will be more meaningful than any one-off.

          On reflection, perhaps the DIY approach is not for everyone. Come to think of it, one of those vacant shops in town would be ideal for conversion into a BPM Drop-In Centre. 

Stuck For Time

          On a bustling street in Naples, I saw a chap standing amidst the seething throng, having his nostril hair trimmed with an old-fashioned-looking clipper device. Was he the recipient of a service, like shoe-shining, for busy men-on-the-go who need to smarten up their appearance or primp some aspect of their personal grooming at the last minute? I couldn’t stop to check, as I was navigating the crowded pavement, trying not to lose sight of my Other Half, who was already some distance ahead and disappearing fast.

          Nevertheless, I was intrigued by the public execution of what I have always considered a private, bathroom-based procedure and, subsequently, recalled when I first became aware of the necessity for it. At the age of five or so, I watched with awe as my father wielded a small pair of scissors up his nostrils while making a funny face in the mirror. It was, perhaps, three decades later that I purchased my own, dedicated tool for the same purpose.

          I have never enquired whether this is a singularly male phenomenon, by the way, but one thing is for sure: it is a symptom of ageing. As the years go by, hair thins out on the scalp and sprouts more prolifically elsewhere, a bioprocess for which there must be a scientific explanation, if only I had time to seek it out. But the allocation of one’s time within a diminishing lifespan becomes more critical the closer one gets to its conclusion – which is one reason why I should have given up reading that last novel after chapter one.

          There were warning signs in both the title – There Is No Antimemetics Division – and the author’s name – qntm (sic) – that should have caused me to by-pass this work of fiction and opt instead for something more mainstream, but I was swayed by the opinion of a stranger (a published critic) and the nagging feeling that it was time to step out of my novel-reading comfort zone and try something unfamiliar while my mind is still sufficiently flexible to accommodate the shock of the new.

          Not that it’s a bad novel. It’s well written, has a plot and relatable characters. It’s just that I couldn’t grasp the premise of the story and that’s a problem that makes page-turning a bit of a chore. For those who might be intrigued, there is an explanation of sorts, halfway through: “If something can cross over from conceptual space into reality, taking physical form, then something can cross in the opposite direction “. If only that had been inserted into the first chapter, I might have made the decision to cut my losses and quit earlier but, by then, I had developed a dogged determination to get to the bottom of things. Besides, I had paid good money for the publication.  

          Not that I relish dwelling at length on the subject of aging, but the past few weeks have been somewhat loaded with incidents of friends and relatives coming face-to-face with the deterioration of physical health that comes with it. It does make one conscious that life and its pleasures – should one be fortunate enough to enjoy some – are time-limited and ought to be made the most of. So, the dilemma, as illustrated above, is whether to be adventurous and plunge into the unfamiliar, or to stick with the “I know what I like and I like what I know” principle. Perhaps it’s a sensible compromise to combine a little of each, dipping a toe in from the safety of dry land, so to speak?

          There are some things, however, that I would leave off my 'bucket list': bungee jumping is one and public nostril-hair trimming another.

 

 

Expect the Unexpected

         I hadn’t expected to spend New Year’s Eve on my own, yet there I was, dodging rockets on the terrace of our Airbnb in Naples, while my other half languished nearby in l’Ospedale dei Pellegrini. Having that morning complained that she was experiencing a mini firework display of her own, in her left eye, we had sought an examination from a high street optometrist, who duly diagnosed a detached retina and sent us off to an appropriate medical facility for urgent treatment.

          Prompt and effective medical intervention (a retinopexy) saw to it that no lasting damage ensued, so high anxiety ebbed away and relief washed in. Though there were moments during the next few days of recovery when doubts about the efficacy of the treatment did surface, they turned out to be unfounded. In fact, we were even able to see a positive side to the experience. Our engagement with the Italian public health service* had brought us into contact with real people, who were friendly, caring and helpful – interactions you don’t necessarily get as a run-of-the-mill tourist on the regular circuit.  

          Of course, we had laid plans for our final week in Naples, but the patient’s recuperation involved a lot of lying down and the avoidance of strenuous physical activities (both of which restrictions are unnatural to her) so we tempered our programme accordingly. The last few days were the ideal time to poke our noses into some of the huge churches in the neighbourhood, since we had hitherto prioritised attractions more appealing to us.

          Places of worship are of interest to the atheist insofar as they reflect art, architecture and the phenomenon of the enduring need for religion. Occasionally, they can inspire a semblance of spirituality or, more likely, contemplation, as when I find myself alone in some simple, remote chapel in a quiet, rural setting. But the ultra-lavishly decorated churches typical of Italian cities have the opposite effect. All the wealth and resources spent on these buildings to glorify a fairytale deity smell to me of corruption and the inequities of social oppression.

          The infrastructure of religion dominates the centre of Naples. L’Ospedale dei Pellegrini (the Pilgrim’s Hospital) has a massive church at its heart and, as its name suggests, was founded to assist religious pilgrims. Even now, years after being absorbed into the public health system, the waiting area outside the ward features an altar, complete with statue of Mary. And, in the doctor’s consulting room, I counted three crucifixes on the walls. So, we atheists must take a practical view if we are to overcome the bitter taste of religion. It has shaped the world we live in, but our hope is that its days are numbered. Those numbers, unfortunately, are not in my favour, so I take solace in the aforementioned interests of art, architecture and history.

          More to my liking is the Palazzo Venezia, an ancient relic of a building constructed in 1396. Although it is set in a courtyard, directly off the very narrow, crowded tourist drag of Via Benedetti Croce, it is easily missed as you inch your way past the trinket shops and cafes. But, when I did spot the unassuming entrance, I was immediately intrigued. It is one of the earliest examples in the world of a foreign ambassador’s residence and, although it’s modest in scale and decoration, beaten up and bashed around a bit, an aura of its former charm lingers – not least in its hidden garden, a rarity in this part of the city.

          Had I found it earlier in our sojourn (a word that surely has origins in common with soggiorno, Italian for living room, or lounge) I would have visited every day, just to inhale its history. There was just enough time before we left to introduce my Other Half, by then more active, to the crumbling palazzo. Her enthusiasm matched mine but, with our departure imminent, we talked of returning to Naples for a re-immersion in its charms.

*There is an arrangement for reciprocal public health services between the UK and many other countries, Italy among them.

 

 

 

Palazzi Centrale

          In 1549 William Thomas, some-time official at the court of Edward VI, published the earliest description in English of Naples. He praised the city for its “goodly streets and beautiful buildings” and its “fair women”, musing that “Naples contendeth with Venice whether (it) should be preferred for sumptuous dames”. It sounds as though he at least had some fun before he was hanged, drawn and quartered five years later.

          Notwithstanding that genetic augmentation must have had its effect during the centuries since Thomas’ report, the ideal of the Neapolitan beauty lives on – in my imagination, at least – and occasionally manifests itself, in passing, on the streets. More often, however, I am disappointed to see Botox-filled lips – more akin to Donald Duck’s bill than Sofia Loren’s pout.

          Global fashions prevail here, as they will in any other modern city, yet there is still much about Naples that is unique and seemingly baked into its collective psyche. The same can be said of any other place but, for now, I am here and keen to experience whatever is special about the place.

           Another historical observation, this from 1779 by the Irish singer Michael Kelly, is that “despite the cheapness of wine in Naples, I never, during my sojourn there, witnessed a single instance of intoxication”. Nor have I (though it has been only two weeks and I am off the streets much earlier these days). At around the same time, Henry Swinburne noted that violent behaviour was rare in the populace and attributed this to two factors: lack of drunkenness and the ‘safety valve’ of loud and uninhibited verbal disagreement that dissipates the energy that drives physical violence. Only statistics can prove the former, but any Brit can tell that this place is noisy.

          The extent to which the characteristics of a city’s people are shaped and endure over time must have something to do with its buildings and historic institutions. When one or other of the kings* of Naples took his throne, he devised a cunning plan to keep an eye on his various dukes etc by requiring them to maintain residences in the city, away from their country seats, where they could get up to no good and form sneaky alliances against the monarchy. The result of this strategy was the stuff of estate agents’ dreams: urban plots shot up in value. Naples became the first city to build tenements over three stories high, into which poor people were squeezed, while the aristocracy built vast palazzi in all the best spots. All that architecture remains in the centre of Naples, which is famous for its picturesque, laundry-strung, narrow streets squashed between royal palaces and churches so vast they could accommodate half the population were they to be converted into apartments.

          But the churches stand, some empty and derelict, others still used for worship. The palaces also remain, though these are now undergoing perpetual restoration, as the state rooms in all their decadent magnificence are opened up to the public (for a fee) and the remainder of the spaces hung with the city’s trove of art. On a visit to the Palazzo Capodimonte, for example, we trudged through room after room full of religious paintings (not one of which conveyed an iota of joy) and were quite relieved that only one of the two floors was currently open to visitors.

          Despite the city’s adaptations to modernity, it is easy to conjure the 16^th century when so much of the ethos of the time is hard wired into the “goodly streets and beautiful buildings” that remain. What other explanation is there for the unique vibe of the place?

*I forget which of the many.