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.