Next, Please!

          There are two artisan bakeries down at the Barbican. They are close together, which is handy for me because I patronise both. My Other Half (OH) favours the loaves from the vegan bakery and I would be content to follow suit, but for the fact that they don’t produce what I need – a tin loaf, one that is shaped to be cut into regular slices for toasters (or sandwiches).

          For reasons long since forgotten (conveniently for my OH) it has become my responsibility to do the bakery run. Not that it’s a hardship, really. On a fine day, like today, it’s a pleasure to cycle across town (there’s only one slight hill on the way), pick up the goods and dawdle back, stopping, perhaps, for coffee and contemplation at a café with a sea view. And, since I’m a fair-weather cyclist, on a rainy day I drive.

          Both bakeries are family-owned and operated. They bake, visibly, at the back of the premises and sell at the front so, for regular customers, a certain intimacy is ‘baked in’ to transactions – charming but not necessarily welcome if you are in a hurry or feeling ill-tempered. But I suppose the same applies on the other side of the counter. The young couple who run the vegan operation sometimes look busy and harried but are mostly cheerful and inclined to talk to customers (which is how I know that we hold similar ethical and political views).

          At the tin loaf bakery, where the family is older and more extended, it is only the wife who interacts with customers and, I’ll admit, I have never established more than a polite rapport with her. I suspect she has favourites – people she knows locally or with whom she went to school. And, despite the often-lengthy queue at her counter, her demeanour seems constantly untroubled.

          The queue is a source of frustration for me, however. Its cause is the offer of coffee-to-go, which she, being the sole server, prepares and dispenses. So, while she makes two lattes (with soya) and an espresso, anybody wanting simply to pay for a loaf must wait their turn, patiently or otherwise, in a line that can sometimes extend onto the pavement and into the rain. Occasionally, there is light relief to be had in overhearing conversations, but mostly, tight-lipped endurance is the order.

          Oft have I studied this situation with a view to improving the efficiency of the operation. The conclusion seems obvious – a self-service machine – but I don’t feel confident of putting the suggestion to her, given that I didn’t go to school with her. Nor do I believe she even sees the problem in the first place.

          This morning, I arrived early for my tin loaf. There were just two people ahead of me, so I was not in for a long wait. The first customer didn’t order coffee, but I suspected that the next one would. She had walked in without even looking at the goodies and she didn’t have a shopping bag, so I reckoned she had no other purpose than to delay my transaction.

          Now, I realised at that point, that I was obsessing unnecessarily and that I ought to subdue my rising anxiety – especially as I was next in line. Still, what else is there to do in a queue but be critical of those in front of you? I was at the point of guessing what she would order – would she go for milk, a plant-based alternative or black, as it comes – when she surprised both me and Mrs baker by proffering a five-pound-note and saying, “Would you please put this behind the counter and use it to fund someone in need who has no money?” Whereupon she walked serenely out of the shop, leaving us both open-mouthed.

          I was tempted, briefly, to ask for a black Americano, on the philanthropist’s tab, but I’ve yet to get a handle on Mrs baker’s sense of humour.

 

Half and Half

          Being home alone presents an opportunity to indulge one’s own preferences. So it was that, on day two of my Other Half’s absence, I took unilateral action on a particular dilemma. For several months, there have been blank spaces on the walls and a small stack of framed pictures in a corner, awaiting joint decisions on the aesthetics of positioning them. I was, myself, due to leave for a visit to relatives but, before I did, I made the decision, on impulse, to hang three of the pictures. It was a daredevil move that may or may not break the deadlock.

          Afterwards, as I boarded a train to Lincolnshire, I received a text from the NHS about booking my next covid vaccination. I’ll do that next week, when I get back, I thought. I was going to spend a few days with my sister, Claudette, who is recovering from major spinal surgery, and her husband, David, who, in the process of caring for her at home, suffered a recurrence of a dislocated kneecap. My planned visit, born of sympathy for Claudette, had thereby acquired a more practical purpose.

          And so I find myself in Ruskington, Lincolnshire’s largest village – or smallest town. Whichever you choose, it’s a settlement typical of the county in appearance and ambience: architecturally unsophisticated and never far from agriculture. While David rested his knee, I walked, slowly and carefully, with my sister to a house on the edge of a field, from which an organic egg-distribution business is run and a self-serve honesty box arrangement is provided for local customers. Country living has its ruddy-cheeked benefits.

          The next day brought good news and bad. First, the good: the USA mid-term election result signalled an apparent return to decency and civility in American politics. If it represented also a repudiation of corrupt, autocratic and plutocratic state control, then it was affirmation of a trend seen a week or two earlier in Bosnia, where Vucic was ousted, and in Brazil, where Bolsonaro was binned. If there is a bad-news aspect to these outcomes, it is that Trump might prove to be more wounded beast than lame duck during his last two years in office.

          But there was actual bad news in the fact that David went down with covid – a virus that I thought had mostly disappeared from everyday life (though I understand it is not as life-threatening as it once was, having mutated to a form that affects mainly the upper respiratory tract). Nevertheless, while David could be heard making alarming coughing sounds in the bedroom, Claudette and I fretted over the best course of action.

          She phoned every known NHS facility, got passed round in a big circle and was offered nothing but advice. We had both been vaccinated (she because of a compromised immune system, I because of my age) and were due for boosters in the coming days. Would our immunity hold out, or would the three of us soon be coughing and spluttering in unison, trapped in an NHS nightmare of automated telephone chatbots?

          Good news prevailed. By the next day, David’s condition had stabilised and neither Claudette nor I was displaying symptoms. Meanwhile, we had both made our appointments for booster jabs the next week. It was timely, therefore, to read in the paper that day, in an article about Historic England’s concern over its extensive register of sites at-risk, that one of those recently saved is the world’s first vaccination clinic (according to western historians, at any rate). In 1796, in his garden summer house, Edward Jenner successfully vaccinated an eight-year-old boy, thereby initiating a procedure that led to the eventual eradication of smallpox worldwide. Thank you, E. Jenner.

          Now that our situation here in Ruskington appears stable, I plan to return to Plymouth tomorrow, my Other Half having preceded me. I’m certain she will be pleased to know that, despite their woes, Claudette and David are in good spirits and that I have dodged the covid bullet, apparently. What I’m not so sure of is whether my bold attempt at picture-hanging without consultation will be embraced or vetoed. After all, Other Halves do wield a degree of power: one half of it, to be exact.

 

 

 

 

The Rivals

          There’s a certain rivalry between the Devonshire cities of Exeter and Plymouth, the nature of which might be akin to that of Edinburgh versus Glasgow, where the former is considered more genteel than the latter.

          Atop a hill, some seven miles southwest of the city, sits Exeter Racecourse, in the middle of which is a campsite, where I stayed one night last week, buffeted by the departing storm Austen – or Polystyrene, as it was named by us after it washed up loads of the stuff on our local beach in Plymouth. I was en route to poke around our rival city and see what it has to be snooty about.

          Well, a racecourse, for one – though such a facility seems, to me, superfluous, elitist and not without the taint of cruelty to animals. I know nothing about the lives of horse owners, breeders, trainers or jockeys but, on the face of it, not even the economics of a racecourse make much sense. It must be hard to make a profit with huge, fixed costs and a short season of races. I suppose the campsite is a clue to the possibility of ancillary activities that boost the revenue column.

          A few days previously, I had been to The Box, Plymouth’s award-winning municipal archive/gallery, for the opening of an exhibition, The Way We Live Now. It’s an exploration of ideas and attitudes relating to planning for community in the light of anticipated new investment to meet the challenges of housing shortage, High Street decay and other related issues.

          Plymouth has particular experience of urban reconstruction, as we are reminded by the showing of Jill Craigie’s 1946 film, The Way We Live*. The centre of the city was so badly damaged by the Luftwaffe that it was decided subsequently to raze what was left and build anew. A visionary scheme incorporating modern planning and architecture was developed and executed over the next few years. Jill Craigie’s film dramatizes the planning process with local people acting alongside professionals. Plymouth’s city centre is now a protected conservation area.

         Well, says the proud Exonian, most of our city centre is also protected by conservation orders – and so it is, though the criteria differ. Exeter is a not untypical mish mash of medieval and later historic buildings – including a cathedral – that elicit nostalgia and lend it the feel of a place with hidden depth and historic heft. Such centres, these days, are regarded as deserving protection, if only for the venal reason of being popular with tourists.

          The proud Plymothian (known locally as a ‘Janner’) may point to the distinction of being native of a city that also has medieval roots (the Barbican) but embraced modernity with its ambitious, post-war reconstruction and, whilst I cannot claim to be a Janner myself, I am uplifted daily by the optimistic, expansive architecture of their city centre.

          In Exeter, I sought out the municipal archive/gallery, the equivalent of Plymouth’s The Box (which was renovated, remodelled, retitled and reopened in 2022) and was unsurprised to find it housed in a Victorian structure named, prosaically, the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. There is a modern extension at the back, a glazed and elevated platform from which remnants of the city’s Roman wall may be observed, but it was closed for repairs. Otherwise, the displays within are top class and the contents reflect the city’s mercantile heritage.

          As to why John Lewis, Ikea and a host of posh retail outlets chose to do business in Exeter rather than more populous Plymouth: this can be explained, no doubt, by marketeers with demographic statistics to hand. An everyday clue might be found in the fact of Exeter University’s high status in the national rankings. But when it comes to native pride of place, ‘Janner’ says a lot. Why does Exeter have no equivalent demonym?

Face Time

          But for the smile, I would have walked past them without realising. Joy and Tony live nearby. They walk everywhere and always stop for a chat when we encounter each other in passing. This time, however, they were standing still and talking to someone, which is, perhaps, why I didn’t recognise them. Even when Joy turned and smiled as I approached, I saw only a friendly gesture, not a face I know. Not until Tony looked up and said hello did I twig our connection.

          I was embarrassed, of course, but also a bit concerned. It is far from the first time I’ve failed to recognise a face – and it’s not always feasible to claim the cause as contextual, as I did in this case. Nor can I be convinced that it’s due to ageing brain cells, since I can recall an example from thirty years ago, when I sat next to someone for hours at a dinner, then failed to recognise them a few weeks later at a party in the same house. Could it be that I have a mild form of prosopagnosia, or is that just reaching for a medical diagnosis as an excuse for what others might see as rude or insulting behaviour?

          In the local Scrapstore – a treasure trove of abandoned stuff that may find a second life and make some cash for charity – I bought an old LCD projector. I don’t actually have a use for it, but I do have a penchant for vintage, analogue tech and, since the price tag was £3 (made up, on the spot, by the friendly volunteer shop assistant), I stumped up.

           The power cable was missing, but I reckoned I might have one in my stash at home. I had forgotten that just a few weeks previously, in an attempt to cull my collection, I had taken a boxful of vintage analogue tech, along with a great tangle of leads and cables, to be recycled at the council’s specialist facility. In that box had been the cable I now required.

          The next day, I went back to the Scrapstore and rummaged through the tubs full of likely looking ‘electricals’, but to no avail. The volunteer who had served me the day before came by and, to my surprise, said, “I recognise you from yesterday” – I only wish I could have returned the compliment – and offered to go look “in the back” for a three-pin clover leaf connector.

          She emerged empty handed but promised to keep an eye out for one, an unlikely eventuality and one that leaves me with the following dilemma: should I spend five quid on eBay for a power cable, only then to find that the projector lamp has expired and a new one – if available – must be sourced and at a likely cost of £60? While I make up my mind, should I start a new box for treasured vintage tech that has no practical use in my digitised life? Or maybe I should put it all on display in a glass-fronted cabinet – as if I had nothing more pressing to occupy my time.

          Despite my nostalgic fondness for the cassette recorders, radios and cameras of yesteryear, I do accept their obsolescence and have no expectation of their revival. Who nowadays could be bothered with a camera that requires expertise to get good results?

          Last week, I was at a block of flats where the entry system had been changed from analogue pushbuttons to facial recognition cameras. I know it’s a controversial form of technology, beloved of authoritarian governments and despised by freedom fighters, but it’s very convenient when you have your arms full of shopping and want to get into your apartment.

          The cameras are amazingly efficient at recognising faces. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before people like me can have them implanted – on the NHS – as a treatment for prosopagnosia.

Finca Factors

         The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. It’s a memorable little phrase used, I believe, in the teaching of enunciation but, as it’s been lodged in my brain since childhood, I’ve always imagined it to be true of Spanish weather systems. This latest sojourn in Spain may have cured me of that misconception.

         After a few days in Valencia, we are spending some time with our friend who lives, off grid, on a finca halfway up the coast towards Barcelona. It’s situated a kilometre or two from the coast, in foothills, so it gets a cooling breeze in summer. But the night we arrived, all our phones lit up with alarms warning of imminent torrential rain. It was noon the next day before the downpour – dramatically accompanied by thunder and lightning – ceased as abruptly as it had started.

          Our first morning was spent bailing out a flooded room on the ground floor, carrying buckets across the yard to lower-lying ground. The biblical downpour made a mockery of waterproof clothing, so my swimming trunks, which I almost didn’t bother to pack, came in handy after all.

          The experience, however brief, of living on farmed land serves as a reminder that we are all at the mercy of the elements and that the food we consume does not originate in the supermarket. In this corner of the world, the combination of soil and climate, when in balance, is productive of olives, carobs and almonds.

          This finca and several others around it are no longer owned and operated by native farming families: they have been bought by foreigners whose living is not dependent on selling produce but whose interest in continuing some of the traditions is passionate, nevertheless. This seems to apply particularly to the production of olive oil. Specifically, to attaining the highest quality, organic, virgin, first-pressing, small batch variety that can’t be sold (unless certification is obtained) but can be consumed by themselves and appreciative friends, especially those who have reached aficionado level. We are here just as the olives are due to be harvested and have become involved in the process.

          Harvesting times are fraught with concern. The weather plays a crucial role in determining the outcome, so timing is critical. The process is also communal – neighbours help each other with the work – so we have observed the discussions and rising levels of anxiety among our friends here.

          In order to get their desired result, the olives must be picked and pressed without delay. Furthermore, the pressing has to be done at a certified organic mill, preferably before the equipment has been tainted by someone else’s batch, which means a timeslot must be booked in advance, which in turn puts pressure on ensuring an efficient (some would say frantic) harvesting session. In the days running up to this, we had three people frequently consulting several different weather forecasting apps, before agreement was finally reached on a schedule that could work – so long as the weather window held open.

          I lent a hand, stripping the olives from the branches with a stubby rake, but any notion I harboured of a romantic, bucolic peasant experience – cheerfully working together in the autumn sunshine, occasionally slaking one’s thirst with sangria and fuelling one’s belly with tasty tapas – was immediately quashed by the no-nonsense urgency of gathering and transporting the fruits of our labours. Yes, there was a good lunch at the end but, by then, arguments were simmering over whether the process might have been better planned and expedited.

          All that will be forgotten, I hope, when the golden oil finally flows at the dinner tables of friends and neighbours and the taste buds yield their verdict. Eventually, talk will turn to whether the weather will be kind to the crops next year. Another useful phrase for the perfection of enunciation is ‘the anticipation of undue precipitation causes much consternation in an Iberian nation’.