From Micro to Macro

          Did Donald Trump tip-off his commodity-trading pals five minutes before making an announcement that he knew full well would influence the global price of oil? If he did, he was guilty of illegal insider trading. If he did not, then it was simply lucky timing for those few practitioners who made the bets that earned them billions of dollars. If I were to place a bet on the outcome of an investigation into the matter (in the unlikely event there will be one), I would not be giving Trump the benefit of the doubt.

          I was listening to this news item as I carried out a mundane task in the kitchen. My Other Half, who is a self-described “starter not finisher”, had prepared a sauerkraut mix of beetroot and red cabbage and left it to ferment in a cupboard, where I had come across it a few weeks later. Since she was away, it fell to me to find some jars, clean, sterilise and fill them, then mop up the purplish-stained aftermath.

          It’s not that I’m complaining (I’m used to being the finisher around here), it’s just that I want to illustrate a point. My OH, having recently joined the CND (yes, it’s still going) had gone off to join an annual peace camp outside RAF Lakenheath, where American bombers are stationed. If I were to place a bet on the outcome of CND’s seventy-year-long mission, it would not be on the abolition of nuclear weaponry. But that is beside the point: what counts is that alternative voices are heard and seen to be heard, for how else do we learn to question what is too easily taken for granted?

          Notwithstanding the old saying that “behind every woman out there trying to save the world is a man at home doing the laundry” *, it seems inevitable that the small, domestic matters of everyday life preoccupy us, often to the exclusion of wider issues. It wasn’t really necessary for Maslow ** to categorise our needs into a hierarchy, but his having done so makes it easier to articulate the instinctually obvious: that we need food, shelter and rude health before we can start to contemplate the ‘higher’ things in life, like education, art, science, sport, diplomacy and derivatives trading. It is, therefore, understandable that so many people lack knowledge of or interest in the geopolitics that really shape their lives, when those lives are so configured that the effort of simply fuelling their existence saps their energies.

          But, to her credit, my OH is doing her bit to save the world on the micro as well as the macro level. She has become involved in the rescue and renovation of a local community centre that, along with a school, is part of housing scheme built just 25 years ago. Sociologically speaking, the development made sense, insofar as it was designed to cultivate neighbourliness. But its designers could not foresee the impact of diminishing municipal budgets and the rise of social media. Starved of funding, it has fallen into disuse, its functions partly ceded to Facebook and the like, digital platforms that may supplement but do not replace physical proximity as a driver of social interaction. Its revival would be a significant correction to the tendency to live insular lives within densely populated neighbourhoods. Without solid, local foundations, how can we hope to build a wider, stable society? The hope is that micro adjustments will lead to macro improvements.

          I was talking this through with a friend over coffee one morning, when he drew my attention to the recently discovered archaeological evidence that coffee was being drunk in Britain 200 years before it had previously been documented. The habit was not widespread and was probably confined to a small clique of commodity futures traders, whose venture failed to gain ground and who died in relative poverty.

*Acknowledged: the subject is controversially binary.

**Abraham Maslow proposed his psychological theory, The Hierarchy of Needs in 1943

 

A Walk in the Park

          It seems that everywhere you go in urban Britain, you’re never far from Victoria Park. The ubiquity of recreational green spaces named after our late Queen reflects the history behind their establishment, rather than a fashionable name-trend. These eponymous parks were founded in an era of rapid urban expansion, when British pride and exceptionalism, fuelled by colonial expansion, were personified in the Monarch, to whom all credit was due and for whom lots of things were obsequiously named.

          Not everything. The very first publicly funded municipal park did not credit Her Majesty for its existence. Birkenhead Park, Merseyside, established in 1847, is proudly named after its pioneering community – and rightly so. Nor was it conceived as a scrap of grass surrounded by trees: the magnificence of Joseph Paxton’s design (which is said to have influenced Frederick Olmstead’s New York Central Park) retains the power to impress visitors to this day.

          But, back to Victoria’s legacy.  Our local VP, at Stonehouse in Plymouth, while certainly not magnificent, does serve the community well with its sports fields, dog-walking and picnic areas, all bordered by specimen trees. And there’s more to it than meets the eye, as was told to us by the local history buff who guided us through and around it last week.

          He showed us JMW Turner’s sketches and watercolours of the spot, made in the 1830s, when the now-infilled land was a tidal creek like so many others on the South Devon coast. His scenes are idyllically pastoral, depicting a steep, wooded bank and cultivated fields on the north side and grand houses on the south, with individual moorings at the ends of the gardens.

          What happened to change all that was population growth. The creek, into which the original spring still flows (albeit now through an underground pipe), became something of an open sewer and an inconvenient impediment to local transport. Moreover, the Royal Naval hospital on the north bank (whence derives the phrase, “up shit creek” – or so legend has it) and the nunnery on the facing south side both used adjacent land for burials, adding thereby to the unsavoury nature of the place as it developed in the years following Turner’s romantic depictions.

           All this is hard to visualise now, as you walk or cycle through the park. Although their historic, landmark buildings remain, the hospital has long been a Grammar School for boys, the nunnery was sold off and converted into flats and, though the tell-tale gravestones are not immediately apparent, bodies from the hospital and nunnery remain buried under the unconsecrated scrap of ground behind a high stone wall.

          Our guide pointed out the remains of the dogs’ drinking trough, replenished by an ornamental stone fountain, the shattered pieces of which can now be found in another local park. Back in its heyday, VP boasted a bandstand, but that too has fallen victim to the lack of funding for public spaces. The ornate, original park-keeper’s house has survived demolition by conversion into a viable café but, otherwise, upkeep depends on volunteers. If it weren’t for “friends of” various parks around the country, our public amenities would be woefully neglected. As ever more of our commonwealth is gobbled up by private ownership, ours becomes an increasingly poor country run for the benefit of a few very rich individuals.

          Still, one can dream. From one of Turner’s perspectives, the soft, rural landscape is identifiable as today’s urban location by the inclusion of Stoke Damerel church on a rise in the middle distance. Looked at this way, on a balmy, optimistic sort of day, it’s possible to imagine how the landscape used to be attractive enough for an artist to want to capture its harmony. A walk in the park can be so much more than a constitutional, don’t you think?

 

Over-specced?

          Is it commonplace to have three different sets of prescription spectacles – one for reading, one for screen work and one (varifocal) for general use? I have all of these plus another set of varifocals that are photochromic so that I don’t have to carry sunglasses around as well. I should also mention the several pairs of off-the-shelf readers that are strategically stashed around the flat, the campervan and even my wallet, where I keep a pince-nez the size and thickness of a credit card – just in case. For the first 45 years of my life, I didn’t need any of these. Is it payback time or something?

          Not that I should complain. Before the invention of optical lenses, people born with impaired vision just had to live with it. As for those whose sight deteriorated with age, things were more complicated. If, for example, you were apprenticed to make a living from a skill that required acute vision, you could find yourself prematurely redundant by middle-age. As for reading and writing, for most of history, most people were illiterate. In places like palaces and monasteries literacy was perpetuated by employing scribes – a renewable human resource. But the invention of lenses spawned the business of optometry. The eventual spread of literacy led to its growth into a vast and sophisticated industry.

          So much for the potted history; I was on my way to get new photochromic varifocals to replace the old, battered and scratched pair, when I passed the barber’s shop and saw a chance to get smartened up. There are two barbers working the chairs, one from Iraq, the other from London. I prefer the Iraqi, so I check through the window to see he is free before I go in. On this occasion, he was apparently applying the finishing touch to an almost bald client and there was no queue. I hopped in, hopefully. But, within minutes, I was followed through the door by the Londoner, who peeled off his coat, looked at me and said, “Next?”. I made my way, like a man condemned, to his chair.

          The Londoner was trained in the ‘bish-bash-bosh’ school of hairdressing, where he boasts of having been taught that it should take no more than 15 minutes to accomplish a “decent” haircut. He usually clocks in well under. The results are decent enough but, compared with the Iraqi’s more lavish attentions, one is left feeling short-changed.

          Then there is the conversation. The Iraqi (who owns the shop) is quite happy not to converse but to listen to the songs of his budgies, who live in a cage in the corner, while he attends meticulously to every individually misaligned hair. The Londoner expresses views, the most annoying of which is his theory – based entirely on anecdote – that thousands of young men died of heart attacks after being vaccinated for covid 19. He knew at least one of them, personally. I would have argued the case for statistical analysis but for fear of an even worse haircut – that and the limitations of time: I was out of the chair in about nine minutes.

          I went on to meet my Other Half at the opticians, where she was set to approve the style of frames I had previously scouted. “I’m the one who has to look at them when they’re on your face,” she had said, but it turned out my choice was acceptable to her – and modestly priced, to boot. Job done, she took off and I sat with the salesperson as he totted up the cost of the specified lenses and put forward a case for the more expensive, branded ones (who knew that lenses sold per prescription varied in quality according to brand?). I opted for the ones that cost the lesser of the two fortunes quoted.

          When I was on YouTube that evening, a prolonged advert popped up selling some wonderful German-made specs that, so they claimed, would suit everyone’s needs and eliminate the need to have different specs for different uses. I don’t know whether Alexa had been listening in but, if she had, her timing was unfortunate. What I would give for such a marvel!

 

Vox-Pop

          If we hang out only with people who share our views and values, stepping outside that circle from time-to-time might be seen as a form of shock therapy – unpleasant but good for us. To push the metaphor a little further, occasional exposure to opinions we find abhorrent might inoculate us against catching them.

          I was testing these half-baked theories on Tuesday morning, when I joined a group of fellow leafleteers outside our city’s Crown Court, where we were canvassing support for our cause – opposition to the Government’s proposed curtailment of citizens’ right to elect for a trial by jury. The bill was, that day, being presented to parliament by none other than a Prime Minister who had formerly been a human rights lawyer and his deputy, Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice, a politician who had previously defended the jury system as a “fundamental safeguard” of our justice system. Well, as we all know, political theory rarely survives contact with reality. Hence the need to leaflet.

          The venue we chose was more symbolic than practical. The footfall thereabouts comprises people working in the field of justice – many of whom will already be aware of the issue – and a trickle of passers-by who are otherwise engaged. The trick, as an activist, is to engage in conversation or, failing that, hand a leaflet to someone in a hurry, hoping they will not bin it without reading. This trick (non-threatening ways to approach strangers) can be learned, though some people have a natural talent for it. Alas, I am not in the latter category.

          After observing my fellows for a while, I decided to try my luck and detached myself from the pack to seek fresh hunting grounds. I chose a spot nearby, where a public sculpture had just been erected and people were lingering to view it. The Knife Angel is 27 feet high and made from knives that have been either confiscated or handed in to the police. It is toured around various towns, along with an educational and outreach programme centred around knife crime. Why it is in the form of an angel, I don’t know, but it commands attention, which is the main thing.

          My tactic was to wait until my targets had finished contemplating the sculpture before approaching them with a question that I had calculated to be neutral, non-intimidating and as close as possible to the kind of thing a professional vox-pop reporter (with a mic) might ask. “Excuse me, do you mind my asking whether you have a view on the proposed curtailment of your right to opt for trial by jury?” The clever part – in my opinion – was the inclusion of “your right”, by which I hoped to hand ownership of the subject to the interviewee.

          I’m pleased to report that I had some success. Two women expressed alarm at the advanced state of the bill in parliament and acted immediately to sign the petition via the QR code on the leaflet. I had a positive response from an elderly couple, but they were unable to get their phones to scan the QR code. Then there was a chap who wholeheartedly supported the petition, but when asked to sign it said he didn’t have time. Adhering to my training, I restrained myself from arguing and moved on. Unfortunately, next up was a man who told me, rudely, that I may not ask him the question, while his wife said nothing but adopted an expression like she’d just eaten something disgusting. Undaunted, I managed to hit it off with another couple, both of whom did the QR thing and seemed pleased with themselves.

          But things were about to take an ugly turn. All smiles, the man turned to me and said, “Now that’s sorted, let’s stop the boats!” I guess he didn’t pick up on my discomfort, as his next utterance was, “We should use them as target practice!” Needless to say, it was a bit of a shock for me, but whether it was therapeutic is questionable.

 

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.