What's it All About?

          Mortality featured prominently on my agenda last week, beginning on Monday, when my Other Half and I finally got around to consulting a solicitor about amending our wills. We want to gift funds to the likes of Liberty, Greenpeace and Amnesty, in the hopeful expectation that these organisations will continue to fight the good fight long after we are deceased, for there is no definitive victory currently in sight.

          Then, on Tuesday, at our regular philosophy discussion session, some of the Ancient Greeks’ ideas on life and death were explored. I was gratified to learn that there was little or no nonsense about an ‘afterlife’ – at least not as far as Leucippus and Democritus were concerned. They had proposed the theory that everything in the universe is made up of indivisible particles called atoms (yes, 2,000 years before the science of physics emerged), thereby establishing the case for the ultimate recycling of life: ‘dust-to-dust’.

          Unfortunately, one of our number revealed during our discussions that he had a terminal illness and was trying to face up to the prospect of palliative care. Whether our discussion had prompted his revelation I couldn’t be sure, but I fear ours was not the most sympathetic forum in which to raise the matter, since philosophy tends to focus on the logical, not the emotional. I, for one, was stuck for words. But, that same afternoon – and entirely by coincidence – I attended a family funeral, at which I experienced the opposite: the overwhelming of logical discourse by the tide of emotion.

          It seems to me sensible not to hasten one’s own demise, which is one reason why I avoid risk of physical injury and always* take the doctors’ advice about maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Hence, I was at the clinic this morning for a covid vaccination boost. I had also organised a routine blood test appointment ten minutes later, followed by a visit to the nearby shop so as to optimise use of time and effort.

          These days, a visit to our clinic is an eerie, non-contact experience. The two receptionists (who, on this occasion, outnumbered the waiting patient) are redundant, apparently: unless, perchance, you are unable to negotiate the self-check-in screen and subsequent directions to take off your shoes and step onto a machine that records your vital statistics and sends the results directly to your digital record. I have heard that there are doctors on the premises, but I have never seen one.

          There is, certainly, a woman, dressed like a nurse, who takes blood samples and sends them off for analysis. The last time I tried to engage with her about the whys and wherefores of the process, I discovered that she doesn’t do interpretation or explanation. She does excel, however, at small talk (the weather being a classic opener). When she asked me which arm I would like to proffer, I pointed to the left one and joked that it had already been stabbed once, so I would prefer to keep at least one uninjured limb. “Was it the covid vaccination?”, she asked. “Yes”, I said, “better safe than sorry.” I was expecting her to nod approvingly but, instead, she implied that it was a waste of time and, when pressed, hinted that she didn’t believe the science. “Well, you hear so many stories”, she said. I wouldn’t be surprised if, next time I go, they tell me she’s emigrated to Texas, where the wages for vampiric operatives are more generous, and patients don’t ask awkward medical questions.

          Assuming I survive the next two weeks, I shall propose at the next philosophy session that we discuss whether we are wasting our time, considering how some people appear to be regressing to beliefs held prior to the 5^th century BC.

*Reduction of red wine intake is work-in-progress.

 

 

 

 

Commoners?

          They were pretty good at recycling in olden times. When I went to Old Sarum last week, I was awed by the hilltop site, but disappointed by how little was left of the medieval castle and cathedral – just the rough, stony outlines of the excavated foundations were visible. All the good stuff had been taken away and used to build nearby Salisbury, the new town that grew to replace the ancient settlement. Fair enough, I suppose. Dressed stone was an expensive commodity and, besides, people back then weren’t to know that gawpers like me would come along centuries later, in our leisure time (in itself, an unimaginable concept), to try to extrapolate what their lives were like.

          Archaeologists trace continuous occupation of the site from 400 BC to around 1300 AD, so it has a layered history. Of those layers, the one that was on my mind that day (because I am halfway through Kazuo Ishiguru’s the Buried Giant) was the time of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. However, it was the subsequent legacy of the Norman conquest that had the dominant and lasting impact on modern society and, as I gazed down on Salisbury, some of the links came into focus.

          Ever since the Normans took all the land and left the populace to make a living, either in service to their conquerors or by foraging on licensed ‘commons’, we have been stuck with the same system, although it has become so normalised that we tend to forget its origins. It only got worse for the population at large: the commons were subsequently ‘enclosed’ (privatised, in today’s parlance) and people got accustomed to wage slavery as an alternative means of subsistence. It’s not a stretch to describe the present day oligarchs and their political enablers as the modern equivalent of the Normans, an elite that seeks to own everything and rent back to the rest of us that from which profit can be extracted, including hard-won ‘commons’ such as education and healthcare.

          Contemplating history from the heights of Old Sarum put me in a grumpy mood, but not for long. All things considered, I’d rather be a peasant in 2025 than in 1025: at least I have the benefit of some education and a degree of mobility, which means I can visit other historical sites, such as the town of Southport, established around the 1820s and now well past its heyday. I have been several times, accompanying my Other Half, who has business there. While she works, I wander and observe what has become of the place.

          It was once a prosperous and fashionable resort, offering hydrotherapy treatments and seaside frolics at fancy hotels. Its wealthiest scion funded a gallery and museum, the Atkinson, that is now run by the council and where I go to obtain background info on all the down-at-heel, grandiose buildings. While I was there last week, I saw a display about what is, as far as I’m aware, the only product of the town, potted shrimps, a delicacy to which I am partial. My appetite for lunch duly whetted, I went off in search of a retailer.

          But retail in this and many other towns is not what it used to be. There are too many shop premises – some shuttered because of the internet, some because of the presence of M&S and the like. If the town centre could be ‘tidied up’ by consolidating all the shops in one area instead of sprawling over the three that have developed over time, it would look a lot neater, even moderately prosperous. It would also make it easier to discover that nowhere in the town is there a shop that sells potted shrimps. I could have saved myself the trouble by googling. They are, of course, available online and might even have been delivered to me by a gig-economy worker on a bike, a form of subsistence employment not dissimilar to that which peasants endured in medieval Britain and, therefore, one in which I will endeavour not be complicit.

 

Enough Stuff?

          Some time ago, I adopted a deliberate policy of thinking twice before acquiring any more stuff. The change may have coincided with our downsizing to a smaller apartment, though I prefer to believe its origin was more loftily conceived, the result of ideological and moral contemplation. Certainly, I was influenced by William Morris’s advice to “…have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful…” and by the noble philosophy of asceticism, though less so by the latter, given that it requires considerable self-discipline and is tainted by association with religiosity. Most likely, the cause was a combination of pragmatism and idealism, but one thing’s for certain: the ticking clock of advancing age introduces a reality check to the rationale behind accumulating worldly goods.

          Decluttering has become a thing that people consciously do, whereas cluttering is not necessarily deliberate. Moreover, these terms apply not only to objects. Without due care and attention, one’s life can quickly become crowded with relationships and activities that complicate our days, obfuscate our priorities and eat up that most finite of commodities, our time. Of course, it’s not easy to divest oneself of relationships, since they are usually reciprocal. Activities, on the other hand, are easily terminated, as when I gave up gardening.

          One day, I woke up to the realisation that with both a garden and a share in an allotment, my weekends were spoken for well into the foreseeable future. Not long after this dawning, I relinquished both by moving into an apartment. I then bought a campervan, thereby gaining not only the time but also the means to pursue more varied leisure activities. It’s not that I find horticulture uninteresting. It’s just that I would rather someone else’s life were devoted to its execution. In return, I show my appreciation by subsidising the National Trust and visiting its gardens and orchards to admire – and sometimes harvest – the fruits of their labours. Last Sunday, for example, I went to Cothele, where a daffodil fest was in full swing. The gardens there are stocked with 320 varieties of the trumpet-like blooms, some of which date back to the 17^th century, though it was enough for me to pick out the half-dozen types that differ most obviously.

          The next day, I went to the re-opening of the leisure centre that closed for refurbishment a couple of years ago, thereby temporarily terminating my membership of its gym facility. I have to say that I have not missed the treadmill and, despite the shiny new upgrade and reasonably priced membership offer, I cannot work up sufficient enthusiasm to commit to re-joining. It’s not that I begrudge the time – one must exercise to stay well and, besides, music and podcasts are there to fill the mental void – but I’m inclined to postpone the decision ‘til winter, when recreational bike-rides and walks are less appealing options.

          I also spent a few days travelling up north, where I spent time with a few old friends that I don’t see from one year to another – long enough for visible changes to register. Everyone looks a degree or two older, something that might go unnoticed if we met more frequently, but that is to be expected. What I was looking for were changes of opinion, attitude or lifestyle. Of these I saw little. Set in our ways or committed to hard-fought-for values? My vote is for the latter.

          Conversely, I admit to a lapse in principles last week. I was browsing, somewhat scornfully, in a shop full of “collectors’ items”, when my eye was drawn to a framed print of a townscape, prettily done in muted colours and in a style reminiscent of the sixties. Perhaps I bought it for nostalgic reasons but, at only four quid (a mistake, surely?) it didn’t take me long to override my ‘no-acquisitions’ policy. Now, I have to find a space on the wall to justify its purchase.

 

 

 

The Power of Music

          Going to the cinema during the day still feels naughty, even though I’ve been doing it now for 18 years. The benefits are that it’s sometimes cheaper, often empty and always an enticing refuge when the weather is dull. So, it felt like an imposition when I was obliged to go on Wednesday evening to catch the final showing of Becoming Led Zeppelin.

          I’m not a big fan – I like some but not all of their music – but the appeal of the film is that it documents their backstory during an era through which I also lived. In the interviews, the four musicians come across as likeably modest, considering their international fame and their extrovert musical exploits. Acknowledging their musical debt to American soul and blues, they made it big in the USA before coming ‘home’ to consolidate their popularity in the UK, an unusual reversal of the norm in 1970.

          Those were the days! America, flush with the ethos of the summer of love and the hippy counterculture, was open to progressive rock bands from Britain. At the same time, however, the National Guard felt free to shoot and kill unarmed protesting students in Ohio. Two very different Americas asserted themselves. Will the States ever be truly united?

          Well, there is a concerted effort going on right now, though its methodology owes more to fascism than consensus. The Washington Post (WP) reports this week on the extent to which statistical data that provides evidence contrary to the current administration’s version of actuality is being removed from government websites. Much has disappeared already and, in its absence, the government is able to spin whatever story it chooses without the nuisance of contradictory voices. The WP dubs this ‘digital book-burning’, which is ominously reminiscent of Heinrich Heine’s observation, “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings”.

          I also managed a daytime cinema showing. I’m Still Here is another film about 1970, set this time in Brazil, where the military dictatorship was busy ‘disappearing’ those of its citizens who dared question its authority. One day later, I learned – from what still remains of the free American press – that a Green-Card-holding permanent resident* of the USA was taken from his home in an unmarked car and deposited in a migrant detention facility. No charges have been made against him at the time of writing. His pregnant wife, a citizen of the USA, awaits news of his fate.

          Understandably, you can get depressed by such bad news – if you’re anti-fascist, that is. But even fascists might feel a bit down after reading, as I did elsewhere, that if you measure your life in the number of weekends you likely have left, you might be surprised by how few there are to look forward to. In my case, there are very few so, to lighten things up, I chose to go for a long country and coastal walk on a day when the weather forecast was encouragingly vernal. For a few hours, my Other Half and I focussed our attention on varieties of daffodil and birdsongs (the latter, with the aid of a surprisingly efficacious app), while seeking the perfect bench-with-a-view on which to eat our picnic lunch. It was a classic two-in-one, relaxation for the mind and exercise for the body.

          But back to the everyday and, with all this going on, I forgot to prepare for last week’s choir session. Consequently, I was floundering with the melodies, confused by the four-part harmonies and distracted by the voice of the chap on my left, who sings strongly and confidently, even when missing the notes.

          However, there is one song in our repertoire that is relatively easy to sing, even though the lyrics are Italian. Bella Ciao! originally a folk song, was adopted during WWII as the call-to-arms of Italian partisans fighting fascism. I don’t know whether our musical director included it for political reasons but, when sung with gusto, it certainly seems to lift the spirits and offer some hope of resistance to whatever threat to freedom looms.

*Mahmoud Khalil

 

 

 

Party Time?

          I thought I was in good health, but then I got a worrying text from the NHS. It said that the blood test I had a month ago showed me “at risk of developing diabetes”. The degree of risk was not specified, nevertheless, the message urged me to sign up to attend an online ‘patient information session’, hosted by XYLA (part of Acacium Group) and ticketed by Eventbrite.

          Of course, I checked again on the possible causes of the disease. Lifestyle is a major factor but, in my case, an unlikely contributor, since my diet and exercise regimes have conformed, for most of my adult life, with those recommended by the medical profession. If, indeed, I am at risk of developing diabetes, then it is most likely due to ageing and/or having drawn the short straw in the heredity stakes, in which case there is not much point in worrying, since I can’t affect the outcome.

          What does concern me is the involvement of commercial companies in this process. Is it conceivable that there is a payment from the public purse to XYLA for every “patient” that signs up to a webinar to get advice that is readily available for free, either on the NHS website or through the internet more generally? The answer is “yes”.

          Every slight movement towards the American model of healthcare makes me nervous, especially since the takeover of its government by the far right. Fortunately I am not a citizen, but the protection that affords from being affected by its political direction is slender to the point of meaninglessness. The magnitude of its economic and military might is sufficient to influence everyone on the planet. And who is in charge of it? A handful of billionaires who have been working to this end for some time.

          I am inclined to the view that democracy is beyond being at risk in the USA: it has already been captured and is now being demolished by plutocrats who are busy consolidating their position by dismantling the state and selling its parts to oligarchs who will then offer services back to citizens at prices they determine. This is an attractive model of governance for those who stand to profit from it and, as history attests, it is both commonplace and relatively simple to achieve. All you need is great wealth. Feeling uneasy, I checked on the Acacium Group. It’s a Private Equity Investment Company, based – for now, at least – in London, where a modicum of democratic restraint still applies.

          And, despite holding a generally pessimistic view of the future for most of the planet’s populace, I take what opportunities I can to enjoy what is left of our civil society and our cultural and natural heritage. Life in Devonshire showed its bountiful face last week, with unbroken sunshine and a few days spent at the seaside in the jolly company of old friends.

          We stayed at Slapton, a ten-minute walk from the beach. It’s an officially ‘dark’ area, which means that the stars are spectacularly visible on cloudless nights such as we had. We walked through the village, where the vestiges of our feudal past remain in the layout and buildings. We mooched around the quaint old centre of Dartmouth, famous for its Roal Naval College (and, latterly, unaffordable housing stock) and visited the old market, interacting with the characterful fishmonger and genuinely French pâtissier. One of our party picked edible stems from the hedgerow and served them as an appetiser for supper. She identified them as Alexanders and told us the Romans ate them.

          We drank and laughed a lot, as friends will. After all, our party’s not over just yet.