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. 

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.