A Suitable Bag

          At the bike rack in town where I went to lock up my ride, there was an old geezer who seemed to be admiring one of the cycles attached. I jokingly asked if he fancied it and he said no but went on to tell me the story of the last bike he had owned. It was a nifty little folding job, which he had retrieved from a skip, but it required only minimal fettling to make it roadworthy. He had ridden it until, at last, he no longer felt safe, whereupon he sold it for forty quid. It wasn’t a fascinating tale but, since I was not on urgent business, I heard him out and, when we parted, he shook my hand and thanked me for the “conversation”. At that point it crossed my mind that he might be lonely.

          I was on my way to scout around the shops for a new backpack – a simple task, you might think, but there are so many to choose from. In the old days, buyers were limited to rucksacks, a form of carry-all intended for outdoor hikes of varying sorts. Since then, the format has evolved into variations aimed at groups like commuters, day-trippers and women who eschew handbags. The particular niche product I sought was more like a hybrid, designed to accommodate all the things I would like at hand during several days of travelling on trains and ferries through Europe.

          Regular readers might know that I’ve undertaken such journeys several times before and assume, therefore, that I should have this aspect of personal admin sorted by now. But I’ve been making do with a small, basic backpack that I’ve had for ages. It has only one internal compartment and a very plain design that says, “urban chic circa 2000”. Nor is it big enough. So, to narrow down the choice for a replacement, I wrote a list of no-nos: not outdoorsy, i.e. featuring loads of dangling straps for attaching ice axes; neither black nor garish; and not priced at a premium on account of fashion-branding. Then, the list of must-haves: internal pockets for stashing tickets, keys, a passport, e-reader, phone and charging devices; external pockets for holding bottles or flasks; and an overall capacity sufficient for a sweater, umbrella and some snacks – lots of snacks.

          While I went from shop to shop, I reminisced about simpler times and the days of the duffel bag, that casual, over-the-shoulder, single compartment, cylindrical holdall that travelling-light, donkey-jacketed youngsters toted back in the hopeful 1960s. Inside them was a jumble of socks, T shirts and copies of On the Road , but on the outside they signalled the hopes and dreams of a generation bent on rebellious notions of anti-materialism. I had a pang of nostalgia for a duffel bag, but you don’t see them nowadays, which is as well, since the older me can’t pretend to be an idealistic youngster, never mind be doing with rummaging for stuff in a bag with just one compartment.

          Travel, or the prospect of it, has always excited me. Even though it sometimes doesn’t live up to expectations, the anticipation that it might is enough to get me motivated and, if the journey becomes torturous, one hopes the destination will be worth the hassle. Preparations such as buying new kit and clothing for the event are manifestations of anticipated pleasure. Travel feels like freedom because it is a form of escape (though I acknowledge that someone whose living depends on it might disagree).

          Anyway, I did find a suitable bag and went back for my bike. The old geezer had gone, but the memory of him lingered. I briefly imagined myself hanging around, waiting for someone to listen to my story – the evolution of backpacks, perhaps – but the idea of loneliness soon banished the thought. Best not tempt fate. 

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.