Compared with Beirut (where
I was this time last week) the traffic in London seems eerily quiet. Whereas Lebanese
drivers regard the sounding of horns to be as essential to their progress as the use of indicators is irrelevant, here the opposite applies: horns are rarely
sounded and, when they are, it is usually in anger at the tardiness of others
to use their indicators. One could become annoyed by the constant honking of
Beiruti drivers but I chose not to after I had a Damascene moment in a café,
where the oddly eclectic soundtrack included Bob Dylan’s Just Like a Woman and, just at the moment when the harmonica solo
came in, a passing car sounded its horn loudly but precisely on cue and
perfectly in pitch with Bob’s opening note. From then on I was all ears, listening
for tonal coincidences and accidental harmonies.
Nevertheless, I
adjusted straight away to being back in the UK (unlike my PC which, for the
first 24 hours, insisted on trying to connect to a wi-fi router in a Cypriot
airport) and re-engaged immediately with the preoccupations of the Western
world. Some of them, admittedly, do seem ludicrous on re-acquaintance: the
news, for example, that geeks have implanted sensors in a hairbrush so that
data transmitted to your smartphone will alert you to the possibility that you
might be brushing your hair “incorrectly”. Given that humans are biologically
equipped with sensors that do the same job, are they now supposed to be
redundant in the face of electronic substitutes? That would be gizmology for
the sake of it, surely? I was still thinking of this on a visit to the recently
re-located Design Museum in Kensington where I gazed nostalgically – and
covetously – at a stylishly designed music system of the late 1960s. It might
now be considered ludicrously lo-tech but it was – and is – gloriously hi-fi
nonetheless.
And I was further
convinced that older technology still has its uses when, the next day, my old
friend took me up for a spin in his newly-acquired helicopter. Nothing fancy:
in fact he describes it, in simple terms, as a vintage-design tractor engine
with two seats bolted on top, a perspex canopy enclosing them and a drive-chain
hitched to a couple of rotors. Perceived that way it could be a scary
proposition to venture into the skies, but it works – and it’s a lot more fun
than the series of rides I have recently experienced in Boeings and Airbuses.
And when we landed we had a slap-up ‘all-day-breakfast’ at Denham Airfield
cafe, personally prepared by the proprietor, Dave, former boxer and leading member
of a Hawkwind tribute band, who single-handedly provides an egalitarian service
for crew and passengers alike. England at its traditional best.
It was quite cold up in
the air though, and I was glad I had put on the winter-weight shirt I had
bought a few days previously, though the choosing of it was not
straightforward. I had previously read this mysterious line, the ring always believes that the finger
lives for it, and was unsure what it really meant. Now I know. Most shirts
appear to think the same way: they want your body to fit their conception of
what a shirt should be. Now I don’t consider myself to be an unusual shape or
size, but it is apparent that the garment industry has its own standards, so
finding a good fit is not easy. Perhaps, as a friend of mine once remarked, the
older you get the more you have to spend on tailoring.
Old as I am, however,
I do expect to experience the next really useful tech advance: driverless cars.
I have concluded that, since their horns will never be sounded in anger, they
might be programmed to play the first few notes of Just Like a Woman, which I would find very uplifting.
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