Coffee in Kolonaki

          As is our preference, we opted-out of Christmas (easy to do if you don’t have children). Having posted greeting cards to distant friends and relatives, we left town. So, we’re in Athens, where we don’t know anyone and are under no social obligation to celebrate the birth of a religious figurehead or to join the orgy of consumption for the sake of tradition. Mind you, even here people wear Santa caps and plastic antlers – waiters, shop-assistants, children etc. – and, for the sake of politeness, we did learn to say kala Christougenna (to which the invariable reply was “merry Christmas”). Nor are we the only escapees: there are plenty of other foreigners here, though it would be a mistake to assume they are all Christmas-averse: the few that I did speak to had the temerity to wish me “merry Christmas” on parting company.

          Still, being an outsider makes it easier not to participate in the big event. It also affords opportunities to observe differences. The institutions, businesses and big shops are closed for a couple of days, but it seems not to impact daily life. This is a low-rise city where, even at its core, whole families dwell in the five-storey apartment blocks that line almost every street. This, I surmise, explains the myriad cafes, bakeries and corner shops that seem never to close. It also explains why some cafes are equipped with card tables and frequented by old men. Where else would they go to escape when they have neither gardens nor allotments? Our apartment overlooks an active church in a modest square fringed with cafes, each of which claims a patch of outside space – essential not only for cooling-off in summer but also for smoking at any time. The rest of the space is used by children kicking footballs, teenagers hanging out and neighbours stopping to chat. Life here – as everywhere – is influenced by the built environment and by the climate.

          This is a relatively ‘nice’ neighbourhood – stable, family-friendly and law-abiding – but, like any densely populated city, there are people of different means living cheek-by-jowl. A twenty-minute walk from here, where two coffees cost €3.50, exposes a typical cross-section of urban life. Three blocks away, at Platea Omoneia, the traffic gets serious, the shops and cafes bigger and the hustle palpable. A couple more blocks and you are confronted with the fallout from Greece’s recent economic woes: ornate 19^th century villas are abandoned and crumbling – only recently have hipsters moved in to save some of them by establishing trendy bars and modern restaurants. One particular square forms an oasis of cool, stylish entertaining, but ignore Lonely Planet’s advice and turn up the wrong way and the streets belong to drug addicts who do not trouble to avoid scrutiny. I saw one young woman, sitting on the kerb with her chin uplifted, while a man injected something into her neck and three policemen drove by on motorcycles. Yet, a few more blocks away, set on a wide boulevard, are the magnificent neo-classical buildings of the National Library and Athens University, beyond which is the posh residential district of Kolonaki, where corner shops are replaced with boutiques. Here, two coffees cost €7.

          I am no expert but, in the end, the Greek economy may recover its balance. It does not rely on manufacturing or high-tech exports, both of which can be vulnerable to competition. Instead, like professional football clubs, it has a loyal customer base that keeps coming back for more – tourists. And I have read that the Athens authorities welcome the latest influx of immigrants. Disruptive they may be, but by dint of their commercial activities and entrepreneurial drive, they are bringing life back to derelict districts.

          So, the spirit of Christmas does pervade Athens and we didn’t get off scot-free – I did hear Noddy Holder at the supermarket – but the filter of foreign-ness has diluted the seasonal frenzy to an acceptable level. There’s just New Year’s Eve to dodge now.

Greek Oddity

          Because we’re staying in Athens for a month, I thought it a good idea to decipher the Greek alphabet and to master at least a few phrases, if only to show willing. But, even after a few days here, I remain tongue-tied, fearing that if I say so much as kalimera, I will be overwhelmed by an unintelligible response and the exchange will fizzle out. So, I keep shtum. Speaking Greek seems futile, anyway, as the locals can sense a foreign presence from a hundred paces and are quicker to slip into English than I am to muster my meagre vocabulary.

          We left the dis-United Kingdom two days after the election of a new government and the die was cast for Brexit. So, now that battle is lost, I am showing early symptoms of a Remainer-coming-to-terms-with-the-inevitable. Whilst I am still convinced that the EU makes sense as a powerful bloc for the purpose of global trade agreements (withstanding the bullying tactics of USA and China), I have begun to ponder the validity of oft-quoted negative aspects of the EU. I observe the Athenians smoking in cafes, riding around without helmets and seatbelts and I reflect on the futility of Europe-wide rules that some member-nations regard as optional. Then there are all those stories of corruption and waste to which I gave so little credence, not to mention the expensive layers of bureaucracy, the finest expression of which is the regular, unnecessary migration between Brussels and Strasbourg of council members and their entourages. Last, but not least – and the reason I am here – is the case for vive les differences.

          To make the most of this experience, we have rented someone’s apartment via Airbnb. We chose a neighbourhood away from Tourist Central, where we hope to get a fix of living somewhere different from our home. This is a recurring behaviour that stems from a desire to avoid getting stuck in habitudes that can lead us into intolerant mindsets: in other words, not getting too mired in comfortable complacency.

Our landlady met us at the door and remarked how little luggage we had, which, as it turned out, was just as well. Her apartment is as charming and homely as it appears in the online photos but there is a snag: it is so homely that there is no room for visitors and their gear. Although she had let the place to us, she had not troubled to move her toothbrushes from the bathroom shelf, nor her vast collection of cosmetics, shampoos and medication from the cabinets. She had cleared two feet of hanger space in the wardrobe for our use, but every drawer elsewhere overflows with stuff too personal to bear scrutiny. In the lounge, there are so many ornaments and knick-knacks that useable surface is hard to come by. On the walls is a photograph collection that tells her family history. She has enough stuff to set up a small bric-a-brac shop.  Considering that all she knows of us comes from a skimpy profile on Facebook, she is remarkably trusting of us not to ransack her personal life.

          When she left us, we cleared out the fridge so that we could jam a bottle of wine into it and photographed the lounge before rearranging her things so that we could spread out – both actions being symptomatic of our need to superimpose our familiar routines on our new environment, counterproductive to the purpose of our being here as it may be.

          Tomorrow, I shall try at the baker’s to order bread without pointing at it, though it occurs to me that Greeks don’t really want outsiders poking their noses into their language: we tourists have intruded so much into their lives already, it may be the last bastion of dignified privacy they have.

Feel the Pain

          The UN Climate Change Conference (COP 25) in Madrid seems to rumble on – as conferences do – without the sense of emergency upon which Greta Thunberg, George Monbiot, Extinction Rebellion and others are insistent. “Glacially slow” is the description applied to the progress being made though, given the current rate of temperature rise, the metaphor will soon be out of date. Governments are inclined to do business as usual, until they feel obliged to adopt minimal measures to address environmental concerns – despite the scientific certainty that such minimal measures ensure that we are set on a course for doom and destruction. Still, it should be no surprise that people are prepared to ignore, deny or rebuff the facts, since this peculiarly illogical human trait is one that that populist politicians have always appreciated and exploited. It is, as has been said, “difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on his not understanding it”. So, if it is desirable to motivate people to save themselves from destruction, other means must be employed. One of those might be to encourage empathy.

          Ever since stories have been told – orally, written or acted out in plays and films – they have afforded us the opportunity to put ourselves in others’ shoes. Such a shift in perspective enables us, without being persuaded by argument, to see and feel beyond our own tight circle of preoccupations and to perceive a common humanity in spite of differing circumstances.  I was at the cinema this week and I saw a couple of films that did that trick for me. So Long, My Son brought a few tears to my eyes, even though the setting is far from my own life and experiences. A Chinese couple whose only son drowns before reaching teenage, suffer the torments of bereavement and loss – as parents will. The fact that China’s official “one child” policy was promoted as a solution to its economic dilemma is well known, but its sometimes tragic personal consequences are not so apparent seen from overseas. What a skilfully told story such as this can do is make you feel the consequences, not just nod your head in comprehension.

          The other film I saw that offered a similar insight is Blue Story, a tell-it-like-it-is portrayal of what it is like to be a black youth caught up in the warfare between South London’s “postcode gangs”. This was never my experience, any more than was life in communist China, but the film engaged both my brain and my sympathies – something that news media struggle to achieve with even the best, unbiased reportage of news, statistics and related commentary. The difference that distinguishes them is the dramatised story’s ability to make an audience engage with the characters as real people and, consequently, identify with their human dilemmas.

          Even though we might accept the fact that ecological disaster looms, it does so – conveniently for many of us – either somewhere else or sometime in the future, which makes it relatively easy to ignore. David Attenborough, with his nature-under-threat films, has done a good job of rousing people’s passions for the subject, but the visceral effect of observing the sufferings of other species does not necessarily transfer through to our own. To motivate us to save ourselves from destruction, we need more exposure to personalised, dramatised stories of climate-change crisis and ecological disaster that make us feel the pain. These stories may exist in parts of the world that have already been affected, in which case, let them be translated and set before us, since all the factual presentations thus far have not been enough to provoke us to significant action.

Lincoln as Reminder

          I was left open-mouthed recently by the Trump supporter who, in a brief interview, said that she was “terrified” by socialism. An extreme reaction, surely? But then she lives in America, where the media deliberately conflates social democracy with Stalinism. On this side of the pond, meanwhile, millions of us are thankful for having been beneficiaries of Britain’s post-1945 socialist reforms. Our differing political views are not surprising: as Claude Levi-Strauss observed, “One must be very naïve or dishonest to imagine that men choose their beliefs independently of their situation” *.

          Everything I perceive lately is coloured by the imminent general election, in which the principal contestants present extremely opposed theories of governance. But why extreme? Whatever happened to consensus? Was that, in Joni Mitchell’s phrase, “just a dream some of us had”? Utopian or not, the idea of a society in which wealth is more evenly distributed need be neither the end of capitalism nor the beginning of Stalinism. In the past twenty years or so the rate of disparity between rich and poor in both the USA and the UK has accelerated and this seems to be at odds with the principles of our democratic systems, which, supposedly, guard the majority against the minority of would-be plutocrats, kleptocrats and autocrats. Either democracy is not working well for the benefit of the masses, or the masses are failing to ensure that democracy works in their favour.

          We should be thankful that, compared with previous times, we do have considerable political freedom. The thoroughness with which authority was forcibly imposed, historically, was brought home to me this week as I wandered through the centre of the City of Lincoln, where the layers of history run deep and, here and there, resurface to tell their stories. The Romans established themselves militarily at Lindum, as they named it. Later, as they conquered more northerly realms, it became a colonia, or administrative hub. Not much remains of their infrastructure, but the essential layout of the city, based on fortification, endures. The city’s north entrance arch still stands and traffic passes through it on what was Ermine street, the Romans’ main route to the Humber estuary. (Ironically, there is a photo in the museum of a lorry, painted in the livery of ‘Humber Transport’ circa 1950, which became stuck fast under the stone arch.) The medieval southern gate to the city stands on the foundations of the Roman original that marked the end of the road from Exeter, the famed Fosse Way. The Romans brought unification, order, stability and the rule of law to their colonies, but the improvement of the lot of the masses was not on their agenda.

          The Romans left, abruptly, to look after their own back yard and the ‘Dark Ages’ set in. Uncertainty became the norm until, in medieval times, the power vacuum was filled by monarchs and priests, sometimes working together, sometimes at odds, to control the wealth produced by the country and its people. Lincoln, again, reflects this story, since it is dominated by the massive castle and magnificent cathedral standing side-by-side at its highest point. Less prominent, but just as significant, is the Guildhall, where the city council has met since 1520 and where ancient symbols of power are kept, such as swords representing fealty to the Crown and royal charters granting ‘favours’ such as the right to hold markets.

          By the end of the day, reacquainted with our long history of subjugation, I had strengthened my resolve to exercise my vote in the rejection of any politician whose words and deeds smell of the recurring themes of the past – plutocracy, kleptocracy and autocracy. Surely, faced with these, a little socialist compassion is not such a terrifying proposition?

* Claude Levi-Strauss, anthropologist (28 Nov 1908-2009)

Need to Know?

          There’s a bus stop at the end of our street that I have walked past hundreds of times, without noticing that there is something very odd about it. Then, one day, a companion pointed out that, although it is an “alighting only” stop, it has a shelter fully furnished with seating – for what purpose, one can only guess. Perhaps it is so that passengers can have a nice sit-down after a stressful journey, though it is more likely that ownership of the bus company is in the portfolio of a hedge fund too remote from its customers to either know or care about it. I was disappointed in my powers of observation not to have noticed the anomaly, though the failure may be explained by the fact that I have never used that bus stop and, consequently, have no interest in it. If so, this is a symptom of a tendency to limit one’s curiosity to a selfish agenda, which is regrettable since it leads to a ‘need-to-know’ mindset, which, taken to its logical conclusion, results in unsocial behaviour.

          Nevertheless, there are small but worrying signs that this where I am heading, as age and experience prevail over the open curiosity of youth or, as one wag put it, “when one’s broad mind and narrow waist begin to exchange places”. Take podcasting as an example: when the technology first became popular, I did take the trouble to learn how to use it but that was as far as it went. Some years later, having forgotten quite how to access and play podcasts (because I never made time to listen to them – rather like all those ancient VCR recordings that I never viewed) but prompted by the desire to listen to the latest BBC radio adaptation of Middlemarch, I looked into it again, only to find that hundreds of un-listened-to episodes of Melvyn Bragg’s In Our Time had taken up residence somewhere inside my phone. (I also discovered, in the process, that Middlemarch is not actually a podcast, but may be downloaded from the BBC ‘Sounds’ app. Keep up!)

          So now I am developing a form of ‘need-to-know anxiety’ that manifests itself in fretting over how best to allocate my time – especially as it is diminishing fast – to learning about what may or may not turn out to be important. Lately, this anxiety is compounded by the forthcoming election, the outcome of which will have serious socio-economic consequences. The problem is how to cut through the boasts and promises so as to evaluate and decide which policies to support, some of which encompass complex, specialised areas of governance that require any concerned voter to acquire a degree of understanding and factual knowledge before making an enlightened choice. Take hospital numbers as an example: building more hospitals is good policy, right? Well, not necessarily. It depends. Changing demographics, advances in medical treatments, robotic surgery and the integration of social and health care systems are all factors to be taken into account when totting up how many hospitals will be required. You could take the time and trouble to work it out: or you could take the word of a trusted expert; or you could just cast your vote on the basis that your local hospital is a) too far away, b) under threat of closure, c) not very good, or d) excellent, thank you very much.

          The latter choice of decision-making technique is, of course, the least challenging and, therefore, the least stressful, which means that it will be the most popular. Nevertheless, I do aspire to know the policies of the political parties and evaluate them as best I can – though, perhaps, I am spending too much time on the subject of the ownership of bus companies.      

Exercising Curiously

          The Anglophile Bill Bryson, in his book Mother Tongue, describes the origins, complexity and triumph of the English language, along with some examples of the absurd, illogical quirks it has acquired in the course of its development. The resulting language is “full of booby traps for foreigners”, yet millions of them succeed in mastering it nonetheless. This fact has strengthened my resolve to learn the rudiments of Greek (despite being advised by an Athenian acquaintance not to bother because “we all speak English”). Besides, according to Bill, Greek is augmented by no fewer than seventy body gestures, some of which comprise whole sentences, that I can employ when words fail me.

          Elsewhere in his writings, Bryson describes the Damascene moment of his conversion to “walking”, by which is meant hiking among the hills and dales of the British countryside, a pursuit that I, too, have enjoyed for many years. But, like Bill, I also see value in urban walking: what it lacks in adventurousness, vis-à-vis the vagaries of weather, the challenges of orienteering and one’s state of fitness, it makes up for in points of interest – especially when in one’s own city, where change and developments are of particular concern. And let’s not forget the eco-friendly proposition of not having to drive to a start or end point. Leaving aside the issue of polluted air (something that goes with the territory of city-dwelling anyway), there are days when the brightness of the sky is irresistible and an observant circuit around the city is as rewarding as any bracing stroll along the shore or aerobic haul up a hillside. Straightforward walking is acknowledged to be as much exercise as any body requires to maintain health and wellbeing so, without the bother and distraction of kit, equipment and logistics, a brisk, city-perambulation provides nourishment for both body and mind.

          A recent outing with an old friend and neighbour proved to be just so: we took pleasure in comparing the architectural styles, old and new; we expressed opinions on the viability of new buildings; we discussed urban planning policies; we identified and compared notes on pubs, restaurants and the establishments that identify as “bar & kitchen”; we lingered over coffee at a roastery and devised dreadful punishments for cyclists who ride on pavements. And we like knowing that, by the time we go again, there will be changes to observe.

          Not all change is progress, of course, and what is sometimes called progress is really only greed: the over-development of property for investors at the expense of local housing being an example. It is one of the oddities of England that pubs can hold out against developers longer than other buildings – something to do with the income they generate, perhaps – and there are many small, ancient, pubs crouching between cliffs of modern office blocks, where they thrive, apparently. Elsewhere, others cling on, awaiting the custom that might ensue from the encroaching tide of gentrification. One such is the Jolly Angler, which is trapped in a neglected, run-down corner between canal and railway. Its offering of beer and whisky is as basic as its facilities, but the regular gathering there of Irish musicians brings it to life in a way that fancy cocktails never could. Two minutes’ walk away, but out of sight, is Cultureplex, a multi-million-pound warehouse conversion, which is packed with bright young things consuming sophisticated food and drink to the accompaniment of DJs and with an optional side-offering of discussions, talks and film in adjoining rooms. I like to hope that there is room for both to thrive.

          But, between all this walking and pubbing, there is admin to be done – my online tax return, for example. I left it incomplete, noting HMRC’s deadpan assurance that it is possible to “return to your return” at any time. So, that’s a verb and a noun and respect to all those who TEFL.

Saving Faces

          I once met a woman at a dinner party – a friend of our hosts – and, although we talked, on and off, for over three hours, when we met again, some months later, I did not recognise her face. Nor did I recognise her when we met on a subsequent occasion. It was embarrassing for me and, I am sure, insulting to her. It wasn’t that I found her uninteresting – if I had, it might explain my blindness. So, what happened there? Well, I have just discovered that I have a condition called prosopagnosia, a cognitive disorder which impairs the ability to recognise faces. It is not uncommon, though it can range from mild to extreme (as in not recognising even your own face). There are people who have the opposite condition – an enhanced ability to recall faces but theirs, apparently, is not a medical condition, since they are simply referred to as super-recognisers by the security services who employ them to identify ‘persons of interest’.

          But knowing there is a pathological term for one’s foible can be useful: it means that your condition is officially recognised and can be excused. You can even have a calling-card printed up, so that when offended parties look at you accusingly and say “You don’t remember me, do you?” you could present it to them, in the hope that its apologetic explanation will take the resentment out of the encounter and gain you a pardon for the supposed slight. And, even if that’s not wholly successful, it is comforting to know that the unique name means that someone, somewhere is likely to be doing research, studying its causes and, perhaps, working towards a cure. Of course, the process of attributing names does leave us with a lot of unfamiliar, scientifically-derived words to get our heads around and, sometimes, when an unfamiliar term crops up, one is inclined to question whether it is even “a thing”. Take, for example, ‘eustress’. Fortunately, with access to reference sources only a few keystrokes away, eustress is soon identified as ‘beneficial stress’ – something that is and always was very much a thing, even though it took a scientist to name it.

          But bestowing a scientific name on a subject is no guarantee that there will ever be closure on it. I came across one recently – ‘cliodynamics’ – which, though it took more than a few mouse clicks to research adequately, merits investigation because of its potential to explain so much. Its contention is that mathematical analysis can be applied to historical patterns of social development to produce two outcomes: a more accurate, less biased account of history and, using the results as a basis for modelling, prediction of likely future societal scenarios and ways in which we might influence them. Proponents contend that there is so much data and so much computing power available that it is now possible to make equations – rather like meteorologists do – that attempt to predict the outcomes of cyclical patterns observed in societies and social development. Others demur on the basis that there is too much unpredictability in human affairs.

          Meanwhile, I understand that the Chinese Communist Party is working on its very own solution to societal development by way of prosopagnosia-related research. Its solution, however, is unlikely to benefit anyone other than the Party itself, since it involves the development of facial recognition via AI to a level that will make super-recognisers redundant. Supposing (as I do) that its aim is to monitor and control every single one of its citizens more tightly, then the CCP will have cracked cliodynamics by the simple application of tyranny – though I expect the CCP will come up with a more face-saving euphemism than that.

Parking In Olde Englande

          Artificial Intelligence is a wonderful thing and I am using it to learn tourist-level Greek. The computer ‘speaks’ to me and I repeat the words. If I get the pronunciation right, it rewards me with a pleasing noise, rather like the cheerful ring of a till, but if I get it wrong I must try again. I was doing quite well until we came to “beer” which, unsurprisingly (even for Greek, where “yes” is “ne”), sounds like “beer” but has an “a” on the end. The machine could not understand me, which was especially worrying since it had the same issue with “krasi” (wine). It might be something to do with my inability to roll an “r” in which case I may have to rely on my hosts to speak English, something I am keen to avoid lest they mistake me for an EU-hating Brexiter.

          But the Athens excursion is some way off and there is time yet to practise my pronunciation. Meanwhile, I have been off in the campervan in search of “mists and mellow fruitfulness”, which is to say cider and apples, in the unspoilt rural backwoods of South Shropshire. If there is a Heart of Olde Englande, this region could lay claim to it. Ruined castles and abbeys dot the landscape, their names preserved in the present-day settlements. Towns and villages still have 16^th century buildings in their high streets, intact and inhabited. Quiet, single-track lanes wind through a landscape shaped by centuries of farming. Driving them is a calming therapy, since they roll along naturally and without the urgency of a Roman road or the supercharged haste of a modern highway. I kept to them for preference and, when obliged to make use of an ‘A’ road, winced at its brutal insensitivity to nature.

          I passed a signpost – “Wig Wig, 1 mile” – and, though it seemed to me an oddly antipodean-sounding name, I did not go to investigate: I was on a mission to reach Mahorall cider farm before closing time. I made it, but only just and, judging by the advanced age of the farmer and the dilapidated state of his set-up, it may be that closing time will soon be permanent. I made off with as much dry, still cider as I could sensibly consume before its expiry date – though, I hope, not that of its producer – and made my way to a campsite that is set in an old, unkempt orchard not far away. The couple who run this farm don’t make cider but sell their apples to those who do. They are also very old. I watched them as they went about their outdoor tasks – two barrel-shaped figures, rolling along on worn-out hip-joints, seemingly oblivious to the inevitability of retirement.

          On my last morning, I stopped at Much Wenlock to see the Abbey ruins. The site was closed, so I went in search of coffee. I was already feeling comparatively youthful but that feeling was amplified when I peered into the windows of the several Olde Tea Shoppes in the hope of seeing an espresso machine somewhere among the clusters of retirees and other antiques. Tearooms are among the relics of our rural heritage whose passing I will not mourn.

           Anyway, progress cannot be held at bay, even in Shropshire, where municipal car parks have just been fitted with electronic pay-stations that accept all kinds of payment (though not yet Bitcoin). I fed my card to one of them on a Sunday, not noticing in the small print that Sundays are free. It took my payment regardless. Where’s the fairness in that? My computer can speak to me in Greek so, surely, meters can be programmed to behave decently. Meet the new tech – just like the old tech – built to serve the interests of those who own it. AI is clearly WIP.

How Will Scottee Vote?

          In the film Monos a group of rebel guerrilla fighters holds a hostage captive somewhere in the hills of an unspecified South American country. It could be Columbia, but we don’t need to know that. For us, habitués of western liberal democracies, this is standard political conflict all over South America.

          In the film, Joker, a fictitious character becomes overwhelmed by society’s unpitying animosity towards his personal predicament and turns against it with a vengeance. As a parable for the effects of society’s failure to take care of its own, Joker is OTT but within it lies the seed of authenticity: and the power of a parable lies in simplistic message-delivery.

          In the film Official Secrets we are told a (true) story of why governments lie and how they employ the institutions and agencies of the state to facilitate and disguise their perfidy. Nor are we considering some notoriously corrupt foreign regime: the government in question is our very own.

          Yes, I’ve had a bit of a film-fest over the last week and the theme has been socio-political. And, in addition to three cinema visits, I made a rare trip to the theatre, where a character called Scottee performed a one-hander, Class, which is about his experience of being a “working class” person. Scottee’s piece is witty and heartfelt but it is somewhat limited by his simplistic definitions of the “middle” and “working” classes and his refusal to accept any gradation (“it doesn’t count if your parents were working class, if you went to university you are middle-class”).

          But it is surely time to ditch class-terminology that was appropriate in the manufacturing-based economies of yesteryear: blue or white-collar job demarcations are not as overwhelmingly present as they were. Something more than ‘job’ now determines where we sit in our social strata: it is possible to be highly educated yet unemployed. It is possible to have several jobs but still be in poverty. It is more possible than ever before to be self-employed, i.e. to make an income independently of any employer, and not just as a rentier: there is eBay, YouTube, gaming and all those internet-enabled opportunities that are open to everyone.

          These societal changes will be an important factor in the coming General Election. Talk of “traditional” Labour, Tory or Liberal heartlands has become a discussion about how loyalties to the main political parties have been affected by change and, more topically, the issue of Brexit. Will Scottee vote Labour because he is from a working-class family, or will he choose Tory because he wants the UK to leave the EU? The choices are more complex than simply voting for one’s perceived class. And, for those who might be inclined to give up out of frustration and abstain from voting altogether, consider this: “There is no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some diehard's vote”.*

          Assuming people are persuaded to vote, what set of social policies will they vote for? Well, for some at least, it is more a question of who they will vote for. The elevation of personality over principles has always impeded the ideal of democracy and, as politicians well know, it would be naïve of them not to play that card. Nevertheless, my heart sank when I heard a vox-pop piece in which a woman said she would vote for Boris Johnson because “He’s a bit of a naughty boy but I like his energy.” I dread to think what damage to society would ensue from having an energetic naughty boy in charge. Maybe the time is at hand when we should be considering taking hostages and heading for the hills.

*David Foster Wallace, novelist, essayist, and short-story writer (21 Feb 1962-2008)

Upper Respiratory Tract Infection?

          There are two things about the ‘common cold’ that puzzle me, the first being its name. How did the cumulative symptoms of snuffling, dripping, sneezing and nasal congestion – viral infection of the upper respiratory tract – come to be called ‘a cold’? If we were starting afresh, I’m sure we could find a more appropriate name for it – one that does not confusingly associate the illness with ambient temperature. At school, we used to call it ‘the lurgi’ and, although that was a term we applied to any unpleasant medical condition, it did usefully imply that avoidance of contact with the afflicted person was essential. By comparison, to say that you “have a cold” does not sound sufficiently off-putting, given the real risk of contagion you pose to others.

          Which brings me to the other puzzling thing: you can catch a cold no matter how many oranges you eat. One per day is my target and, although my self-imposed ‘air-miles’ rule, whereby only European produce is acceptable, has made me fall short of late due to seasonal unavailability, I felt nonetheless that I did not deserve to catch a cold last week. I had imagined myself to be at the unassailable peak of health so, when I detected the first symptom – a soreness at the back of the nasal passage – my spirits drooped, even though, considering my partner had already succumbed, it was probably inevitable. She “gave” me her cold, despite knowing full well that we men suffer the symptoms much worse than women. She apologised, of course, but deep sympathy was hard to discern in her brisk, business-as-usual manner.

          I stocked up on tissues and ‘remedies’ (cures are not available) and prepared for the worst. Fortunately, I was far from bed-ridden, so my activities were not entirely curtailed. Except for, in the early, feverish phase, declining an offer to attend a jazz gig and opting instead for an early night with a mug of Lemsip, I kept up a fairly active programme. At the British Museum I saw the exhibition demonstrating the influence that Eastern art and culture had on Western artists and designers. In one example, a ceramic bowl produced in 19^th century Persia mimicked designs from 18^th century Europe which had, originally, been based on 17^th century Middle Eastern originals. It reminded me of how 1960s British pop music had taken black American music, repackaged it and returned it to America, where it found a white audience for the first time.

          I also made my way to Tate Modern, lured by the hype for the Olafur Eliasson exhibition. Now, it is a fact that one’s appetites and senses are dulled by the common cold, which may be why I was not moved by his work; or it may be that I would not enjoy it much, even in the bloom of health and vitality. I will look to test the argument in future. Likewise, Mona Hatoum’s sculptures at White Cube in Bermondsey aroused in me more curiosity than emotion. I hesitate to pronounce on art because – technique aside – its manifestations are observed subjectively. However, if pressed, I like Paul Klee’s explanation: “Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.” More to my liking, at the Barbican, was an exhibition of the various cabarets and clubs that were inspired by the modern art movement. In those establishments, the expression of art was brought to life by incorporation into décor, acts and philosophies, all of which were consumed socially and irreverently.

          I would like to make clear that, during my snuffling peregrination, I had tissues at the ready and kept a decent distance from others. I know what it’s like to have the lurgi, and I wouldn’t want to spread it around.

Dinner Date

          Two men in their seventies walked into a trendy Shoreditch restaurant on a Tuesday evening. “Hi Guys,” said the hipster meeter/greeter in the spirit of modern, casual dining that makes no distinction between gender or age. The guys in question (my companion and I) did not bridle – such places are not novel to us (though we are not yet entirely comfortable with the lack of respectful address to which we feel entitled). Therefore, knowing what to expect, we set about the task of fitting in as best we could with a room full of people still racking up the second of their three score and ten.

          “How can young people afford these prices?” I said with a touch of resentment as we scanned the menu. “I thought we boomers were supposed to have all the money.” Apparently, the popular story of millennials’ straitened circumstances is exaggerated – or at least does not apply around here. So, it’s enlightening to get out and about, mingle with other social groups and expose oneself to a few myth-busting experiences. We, the older generation, can benefit from shunning the same old places with the same old faces from time-to-time. Exposure to change is a chance to broaden horizons and challenge beliefs and entrenched preconceptions, for, in the end, modernity will have its way – though we do have choices: resist change unto the end, absorb the shock of the new, or adopt a conciliatory position somewhere between the two extremes. So it was that evening; we could either have turned curmudgeonly or decided to go with the flow. We did our best to take the latter route, but with age comes experience and so we did have a few set ways to overcome.

          The menu was explained to us (hackles rose but restraint prevailed) and we listened politely to the suggestion that we should share the selection of “small plates” that were on offer. But experienced diners like us know what we want and don’t want to share it, so we ignored the (very) young waitress’s advice. Besides, diminutive portions can lead to awkwardness when it comes to allotting fair shares and awkwardness is the last thing you want to intrude on an evening of camaraderie. But we continued to keep our minds open, notwithstanding the filters of experience firmly embedded in our systems. The important thing to remember about filters, however, is that they can get clogged up and, like those on my Dyson, need periodic cleaning if they are to remain effective and prevent motor seizure.  

          Actually, the food was excellent, the wine, such as we could afford, was pretty decent and the service was attentive and the very opposite of casual. The only fault we could find was the choice of background music which, considering the majority of the clientele, was unsurprising. Yet we refrained from complaining and we had a good time – thanks in part to our open attitude. But, before I get carried away with self-congratulation, here is a stanza of verse:

When I can look life in the eyes, / Grown calm and very coldly wise, / Life will have given me the Truth, / And taken in exchange…my youth*

          They say that youth is wasted on the young and, looking around the restaurant, slightly nostalgic for my own formative years, I could only agree. Yet, having wasted my own, I bear no grudge.

          As we left the restaurant, we got a cheery “Goodnight, gents,” from the desk and were chuffed with the promotion from regular guys to revered customers. On reflection, however, the salutation might just have been code for “You’re not really our target market, guys.”

*Sara Teasdale, poet. 1884-1933.  

Citizens or Crusties?

          Last Monday was a busier day than usual in Westminster, where Extinction Rebellion (XR) had started its campaign to bring disruption to the seat of power in order to emphasise the “emergency” part of the Government’s declaration of a Climate Emergency. I was there in the capacity of camp-follower/bag-carrier and I experienced, vicariously, the frisson of a crowd assembling in anticipation of deterrent action by the police, whose mission was and is to keep the traffic flowing – the irony of which may be lost on those who are unsympathetic to the cause.

          There is a deal of harrumphing over the inconvenience caused by these demonstrations but emergencies, by their nature, are inconvenient. Besides, the broad cross-section of participants makes it difficult for those who feel aggrieved to get too nasty in their objection. The face of the XR crowd is the face of their own society: mothers with babies at the breast parading in support; clergy leading a singing crowd carrying a symbolic Noah’s ark; professional people – teachers, lawyers, medics et cetera – all joining in, some lending their skills; grey-haired retirees sitting defiantly in the road, while exuberant youths drum enthusiastically in samba percussion bands. But this great, varied assembly of citizens was described by our Prime Minister as a group of “importunate nose-ringed protesters” and “uncooperative crusties” with “hemp-smelling bivouacs.” Sure, some of the activists fit these descriptions, but most do not. This is our Prime Minister, in Trumpish mode, setting up scapegoats for his fan-base to scorn, rather than addressing the issue with which the populace is concerned.

          As well as XR, the permanent campaigners for and against Brexit are in their positions outside Parliament, though their flags and symbols have been temporarily overshadowed. Two XR grannies walked past the pro-Brexit lobbyists and admonished them with a curt “There are more pressing issues to be addressed, you know.” They took no notice. I am anti-Brexit but refused the offer of a “Bollocks to Brexit” badge on the grounds that the phrase obliterates the argument in favour of a slogan. Show me your arguments, I say, not your hatred.

          By the end of day two, the police had succeeded in ‘persuading’ some of the XR people to abandon their sites and move to a designated protest area (Trafalgar Square) where they would present less of an obstacle to traffic flows. The story is by no means over but, on day three, with cat-and-mouse being played all over the city, I took time to go to the William Blake exhibition at Tate Britain. My route took me via several XR sites that were still clinging to the tarmac but, off a side street, I came across a tiny, tranquil, tree-lined park with a statue at its centre, around which a dozen costumed figures slowly processed. The sun was glinting off their silver, hooded, floor-length cloaks and their heads bore silver crowns in the form of the XR symbol. They were followed by two people carrying a banner. I thought it a vision that Blake himself might have dreamt up but, as I got closer, I saw that the banner read “Aged Agitators” and, when I spoke to them, the ethereal figures were very down to earth. “Wrinkly, but not crusty,” said one as they set off to join the other demonstrators.

          Later, on the way back to Westminster tube station, I passed a chap selling toilet rolls imprinted with the face of Donald Trump. He was at risk of alienating at least half of the American tourists but doing brisk trade, nonetheless. “It’s a smear campaign,” he hollered, and I could not help smiling. I almost stopped to buy a couple but remembered my principles just in time. How easy it is to bypass argument and resort to insult instead.

United? Kingdom?

          Our solitary campervan lords it over a remote field overlooking the sea on Dorset’s Jurassic Coast. It is dusk, suppertime and daddy-long-legs (if there is a ‘grown-up’ name for these elegant, fragile creatures, I don’t know it) come to visit, attracted by our lamp. For a brief period, we have turned off the background noise of furious political debate raging through the media – the angst of Brexit, the rise of populism and its threat to democracy, in short, the division of our society under a curiously self-supposed “one nation” Conservative government. But we are only semi-detached from events: the field is a respite, a change of scenery. When we turn on the radio, the turmoil burbles forth again.

          We had been poking around Dorset for a couple of days and poking around Dorset, or any other part of Britain, is, for me, essentially about rummaging through the remains of social history for clues as to who we are and why we are the way we are. History provides a context to our lives, without which we flounder in the sea of here-and-now, without landmarks to lend perspective or guidance. Who, for instance, can pass a road sign for Tolpuddle and not consider the importance of the Trade Union movement? Each region of Britain, small though it is, possesses its distinctive characteristics – topographical, geographical and geological – which have determined the ways in which its population developed; and these are the starting points – and sometimes the ending points – by which they are defined. Regional histories somehow add up to more than the sum of their parts when they come to define national history and, even in that process, never quite lose the traces of their individuality. Blandford Forum, a Georgian market town with a Roman-influenced double-barrelled name typical of the region, is an example.

          I first went there in 1968 and, though I was then ignorant of its provenance, I could feel history seeping from its stones. Progress, as manifest in high street uniformity and the decline of traditional markets, has diminished its uniqueness since then but the buildings in the centre have survived to provide a framework for whatever comes next: tourism, most likely. There is certainly a thriving local history museum, which occupies a stable building in a courtyard off the main square, though it is staffed by volunteers so ancient that I fear for its future. Outside the door were wooden boxes of apples, “windfalls, help yourself”, and so I did – to a delicious James Grieve, a variety not available in shops, alas. Inside, I became acquainted with not just the Great Fire of 1731 but also the intertwined histories of the nearby army training camps.

          Twelve miles away, at Shaftesbury, I admired the quintessentially English view from the top of Gold Hill (made famous by the Hovis TV ad which pretended it was in the north of England) then enjoyed the modern luxury of a decent cappuccino on High Street. But the old ways linger in the lifestyles of the locals. In the market hall, gardeners and smallholders offered their fruit and veg for sale, ladies stood behind tables full of home-baked cakes and a communal pay-by-chitty system was in operation. On the street, among the professional market stalls, a ruddy-faced, posh-spoken gentleman farmer sold meat exclusively from his herd of Red Poll cattle and a cheerful-chappie baker offered wholemeal and sourdough to the discerning. Is this the tail-end or the vanguard of the fight against globalism?

          Being back in Manchester a day later was like waking from a dream infused with genteel county-town vibes. The Conservative Party conference was in full swing behind high security fencing, guarded by more police resources than we even knew existed. But, if they had come to convince this staunchly Labour-voting populace of their “one nation” bona fides, they had a lot of reputational damage to repair. Labour and Conservative, like Remain Manchester and Brexit Dorset, though they are both British, remain worlds apart.

Domestic Efficacy

          Mealtimes at our home had settled into an unadventurous routine of repetitive menus – again! We felt trapped in a cycle of reproducing familiar recipes just because it is easier than trying new ones and, by so doing, that we were narrowing our life experiences instead of expanding them. So, in a burst of enthusiasm for adventurous diversification, we decided to reboot our diet. I suggested we start by taking the spices out of the cupboard (out of sight, out of mind) and placing them on display next to the hob to encourage their use and inspire new ideas. However, the plan fell apart when, seeing our newly acquired spice rack on display, we concluded that it looked and felt messy, reminiscent of student accommodation, and that we were happier with our previously uncluttered theme, which we apply not just to visual aesthetics, but to life in general.

          So, with the now redundant spice rack destined for the charity shop and our resolve to vary the menu having suffered a setback, it seems to me there is a wider issue to address. By not wanting the kitchen (or any other room, for that matter) to look untidy, are we being too restrictive? Are we on course for an inevitable funnelling down of ideas, thoughts and activities? Will we end up refining our lifestyle to the point where change is shunned, habits become entrenched and creativity becomes impossibly stifled? I wouldn’t say that I lie awake worrying about all this, but I don’t want to end up with a mind that has closed its door to novelty for the sake of convenience. I do aspire to leave the door ajar.

          So, should I be leading a leading a messier life as, it is said, creative people characteristically do? Would it be a good idea to cultivate an untidy workstation, a disorganised household, chaotic admin and erratic personal relationships? Cliché has it that these are prerequisites for freeing the imagination from locked-in behavioural patterns that constrict the association of ideas and reduce the likelihood of any serendipitous spark. It’s an enticing stereotype but I don’t know of any statistical proof to support it.

          Besides, habitual behaviour has its benefits. Knowing precisely where to find your socks, outfit and breakfast stuff helps to streamline your activities. Routines help you save time and make the most of the day, enabling you to stick to the tight schedule you drew up in your head, or jotted on post-its. It’s efficient, in the same way that just-in-time manufacturing is. Surely one benefit of this is that you can free up space for experimentation and creative activity by efficiently taking care of all the other stuff. Unless, that is, you are the kind of person who bothers more about the other stuff than what the other stuff serves.

          Recently, while taking an habitual short-cut through a department store, I was accosted by a Japanese lady who offered me a sample from her newly established, in-store sushi bar. I saw it as an opportunity to rekindle a long extinct familiarity with Japanese cuisine and it fitted well with my resolution. She proffered a choice of sushi and I asked what they were. I could not follow her answers, as her accent was heavy and the ingredients were not all identifiable, but I chose one and enjoyed it anyway. “Delicious,” I said and looked around for a napkin for my sticky fingers (no chopsticks had been made available). There were none, so I dipped my fingers into what I assumed was a finger bowl – a black dish next to the sushi. The lady looked horrified as she said, in words that I did understand – “That soy sauce!”

          This business of diversifying is not without hazard.

The Long Game

          The number of Chinese people in town has been increasing noticeably and here is why: the University’s Chinese student business has been growing at a rate of 30% year-on-year since 2012-13. Many of the students attend mandatory English courses prior to admission, so they are here during the summer as well. My barber is delighted to be benefitting from the extra business (his shop is surrounded by university buildings). He also told me that one of his clients, a teacher on their English course, has a theory that all those polite, uncomplaining Chinese students are long-term sleeper agents. Their mission is not to absorb western culture but to undermine it and hasten the eventual dominion of China.

          I am inclined to give some credence to this. The teacher’s evidence is anecdotal, but it is backed up elsewhere: Chinese expansionism is evident in the Belt and Road initiative, the acquisition of foreign assets world-wide and the protectionist slant of China’s monetary and economic policies. Furthermore, President Xi Jinping has hinted that because of its 5,000-year-old culture, China deserves to have more influence in world affairs. I don’t mean to sound alarmist, but the signs are ominous. I have lived in ‘China Town’ long enough to realise that it should really have been called ‘Hong Kong Town’: the difference has recently come home to roost as news reports show us the westernised Hong Kongers resisting the repressive control of Beijing. How long will it be before we see that same culture-clash outside the Kwok Man restaurant on St. James Street?

          But it is not just China’s ambitions I worry about. The other contender for world domination, the USA, is just as dangerous. It may have a familiar, western face but its record of wreaking international havoc to further its own economic and military interests is far from friendly and is unrivalled since the British Empire’s own. Surely, its ambitions have become more transparent since its avuncular, public-facing mask has been discarded to reveal the amoral, brash reality of its populist nationalism.

          Which brings me to my fears for “the Mother of Democracy”, aka Britain/UK/England, currently under attack, not from abroad, but from within. Our Prime Minister holds office by default because of a constitution that turns out not to be as democratic as was supposed. The complex arguments over whether sovereignty lies with the people or with parliament rage, while actual power has been seized by a cadre that is hell-bent on a course of action that has not been endorsed by a majority in the electorate. We seem surprised to realise that smug complacency is no defence against the onslaughts of would-be tyrants.

          These events have brought into focus the weaknesses of our constitution and, combined with the need to modernise a party-political system that has not kept pace with changes brought about by de-industrialisation and demographic shifts over the years, demand action if we are to ensure the survival of consensual democracy. One suggestion is to extend the use of citizens’ assemblies to deliberate on issues that politicians are reluctant to tackle for fear of alienating their constituents. If this were to happen, it might become apparent to everyone that the nation’s long-term interests are not best served by a parliament whose focus is inevitably short-term i.e. from one election campaign to the next. It might even become obvious that leaving the European Union, far from strengthening our hand in international trade, will render Britain as small fry waiting to be gobbled up by the incumbent bullies, America and China, both of whom have deep pockets and are playing the long game.

          P.S. Having finished writing this piece, I sat down for lunch, looked out of the window and saw that a bi-lingual street sign has been fixed to the wall of the building opposite. It wasn’t there at breakfast. For all I know, it says “Property of the People’s Republic of China”.

Subtly Saving the Planet

          Extinction Rebellion (XR) occupied a street in central Manchester for four days last week. My partner and her best mate were deeply involved in the organising and implementation of the proceedings, while I played only a supporting role, a pot-carrier, literally, in that I helped to put together the temporary street garden by transporting some of the potted plants to site in the campervan.

          It’s not that I am unsympathetic to the cause: on the contrary, I agree wholeheartedly that action is needed now to save the planet from eco-disaster. And I concur with JS Mill’s argument that a person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury. But there are different forms of action and people have diverse temperaments so, when it comes to the various ways in which influence can be brought to bear on authority, it is perhaps  more effective for each of us to utilise our particular talents. Evidently, I am not comfortable with group activities, committee meetings, communal singing and such. I prefer to act independently. However, having said that, I was so moved by the marching drummers who led the way to the occupation site at the ‘taking of the streets’ (I now appreciate why drummers led soldiers into battle in days of yore) that I am considering applying to join them – as long as the practice sessions are not too onerous. Music is a chink in my emotional armour.

          Any organisation wishing to reach out to a maximum audience has to take careful account of how its image or message is perceived and XR is aware of this. Some have commented that its logo, for example, is sinister and that the tone of its communication can sometimes sound too shrill for waverers. Certainly, there is an element of proselytising and a residual image of the crusty eco-warrior-cum-hippie that might put off some potential sympathisers and here there are opportunities for me to be effective.

          One afternoon, I strolled around the XR encampment in order to gauge how things were going. There were reports of one or two ranting dissenters, angry about the disruption, but, on the whole, the atmosphere was jolly, relaxed and positive. Parents had brought their children along to the family-activity marquees, while musicians performed on the portable stage and the police presence was palpably sympathetic. I bumped into an old friend and we retired, as we often do, to the terrace of a bar nearby for a beer where, after a while, I got into conversation with a couple of middle-aged women sitting next to us. One of them asked me if I knew what the “festival” was about. Therein lay a clue as to the potential pitfalls of careless terminology. I wanted to inform her but was unsure whether to use words like protest, demonstration or occupation so, in order not to alienate her, I fudged the vocabulary  and explained that they were ordinary citizens showing their concern for the environment. I was amazed that, even with the Amazon on fire, the Barrier Reef dying, deluges, droughts and hurricanes afflicting huge parts of the planet, this woman seemed unaware that there was actually a problem. Of course, in Cheshire, at least for the time being, there isn’t one, but she did show a glimmer of understanding when I mentioned children and grandchildren.

          And so I rest my case. I was not manning the barricades but did exercise a quantum of soft influence at a watering hole for the well-to-do. Oh, and I am currently doing a lot of online research into the availability of electric-powered campervans.

Back to Nature

          Seagulls have lately been congregating, noisily, on top of a building in the city centre – which is fifty miles inland. Could it be that they were driven here by some calamitous change to their coastal environment? It is, of course, possible that they might just have lost their way, but I am now so convinced that eco-disaster is upon us that I cannot help but take the more pessimistic view.

          The Bank Holiday weekend approached and, with it, the city’s annual LGBT Pride festival. My partner had committed to spreading the message of Extinction Rebellion among the Pride revellers, while I, still hovering on the XR sidelines, was determined to follow our customary routine of escape from the impending three-day party on our doorstep. We agreed to differ, and I fled solo in the campervan to the west coast, which I imagined to be populated by seagulls moping around looking for something to eat other than plastic litter. I am pleased to report, however, that of the many seagulls I did observe, none looked bereft and very few squawked, leading me to conclude that they were relatively content. Mind you, it could be that they were all feasting on chips and ice cream, since the rare conjunction of a Bank Holiday with a heatwave had brought millions of us humans to their habitat. If I had thought to find solitude from the city streets thronged with revellers, I had landed in the middle of another kind of party – one which binged on sun, sea, sand and watersports. I drove to Abersoch, intending to sip a beer at the picturesque harbour, but there was nowhere to park. I drove on to Aberdaron, where the story was the same.

          In the end, I found a different kind of picturesque haven for peaceful contemplation (though I had to forego the beer). I had come across Plas yn Rhiw, a modest but charming old dwelling set in generous grounds high above the sparkling sea. It is now in the care of the National Trust but, in 1938, it was saved from ruin by three spinsters from Nottingham, the Keating sisters (aided by the architect, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis). The sisters lived quietly creative lives, gardening, painting, reading and campaigning for rural conservation. They were fulfilled, apparently, though their child-sized single beds upstairs spoke of a deep solitude – different from the kind of quiet I was seeking.

          It is not difficult to avoid seaside crowds: just hop onto the coastal path and, anywhere more than half a mile from a car park, you are pretty much alone. On a stretch of the Llyn Peninsula there is – again, thanks to the National Trust – a tenanted farm that is run on conservational principles designed to encourage biodiversity. I found myself alone there, nodding approvingly at the information panels that describe the work being done. The farm makes the case for rolling back the ill-effects of monoculture and gives a glimpse of the past – and possible future – of farmland. Afterwards, back on the cliff path, I shook my head disapprovingly at the sight and sound of high-powered, gas-guzzling boats and ‘boatercycles’ charging across the formerly placid sea in a fury of pointless, fossil-fuel burning.

          Early next morning, before the motorboats had been refuelled and dragged into the sea, I walked the cliff tops in near silence and with only butterflies accompanying me. In the distance, I saw another walker, peering through binoculars and, as I approached, decided to greet him. “All quiet on the Western Front,” I said, cheerily. He looked at me, uncomprehending. “Have you spotted anything interesting?” I continued. Then, as he reeled off a list – curlews, seals, a gannet – I noticed his foreign accent. It turned out that he was German. If he had picked up on the reference to the Great War that I had just unthinkingly made, he was gracious enough not to let on. We talked politely about how pleasing it was to see more than just seagulls, then set off in opposite directions in search of more biodiversity.

Person Power

          The City of Bradford, once the wealthy, global hub of the worsted industry, is now a spent shell of a place, with no apparent purpose and no money. It is still a populous metropolis and its leaders are looking for solutions to its economic plight, but progress is patchy. The city holds little appeal for visitors: the evidence of poverty, decay and vandalism (the council demolished the handsome Victorian core in 1971 to build a road) is plain to see. Yet, for those who look closer, there is much to admire. There is some impressive surviving architecture and a rich seam of history, comprising stories of individuals and their achievements.

          One of these, Titus Salt, in the 1850s built the suburb of Saltaire, an enormous mill surrounded by a model village, incorporating schools, a church, a park and social, cultural and medical facilities for its workers. The business eventually collapsed in the 1960s, but the infrastructure, which survived intact, is now a designated World Heritage Site and the mill houses a gallery devoted to another famous Bradfordian, David Hockney. Everyone knows Hockney, but who, apart from those of us who were boys in the 1950s, has heard of the Jowett brothers? They were local engineers, whose legacy includes sleek, futuristic-looking cars, the Javelin and the Jupiter (as well as the more prosaic Bradford delivery van). The marvel is that they had the vision and the wherewithal to create such glamorous machines from the grim ruins of post-war austerity. Were they inspired by the fearless, evocatively-named Titus?

          I speak of Bradford because I have just been there, but examples of individuals whose ambition, vision and determination have helped move history along are to be found everywhere. Of course, the list includes people like Pol Pot, Hitler, Stalin, Ghengis Khan, Donald Trump etc, but I want to concentrate on those whose intentions could be construed as benign and whose achievements as beneficial to society or humankind. Not all of them are well known. For example, there was Ada Salter who, at the turn of the 20^th century, was the instigator of the Bermondsey Beautification Society. It may not sound much, but she planted flowers on the derelict plots around the borough – thereby pioneering urban guerrilla gardening – and, later, lined the streets with trees and improved the local parks. Ada’s vision did not catch on universally: for example, one hundred years later, trees were being planted on Manchester’s city streets for the first time. (Though, to be fair to Manchester, its lady visionaries of the time – the Pankhursts – were pretty much tied up with their Suffragette movement, another and arguably even more important social advance.)

          However, the quality of our environment is now at the forefront of urban planning – in principle, if not in practice – and, as usual, we have individuals to thank for driving the initiative, for it is evident that our health and welfare cannot be entrusted to politicians who are lobbied and funded by fossil-fuel and agro-chemical industries, whose concern for environmental protection and eco-sustainability is, at best, marginal.

          The names of our eco-warrior pioneers may not trip off our tongues as easily as the movements they founded – Greenpeace or Green Party – but the latest one to capture the limelight, Greta Thunberg, is likely to rectify that. She has several advantages in her favour: as well as being a schoolchild – guileless, straight-talking and au fait with the facts – her name is easy to spell and she has social media at her disposal. There are, inevitably, some people who dismiss her and, in doing so, dismiss the scientific prognosis of pending eco-catastrophe. Just how their minds work is a mystery to me, though Ogden Nash* may have nailed it when he wrote “The door of a bigoted mind opens outwards so that the only result of the pressure of facts upon it is to close it more snugly.”

*Poet, 1902-1971.

Summer Weather Report

          British summers are like life itself: unpredictable. You can plan everything down to the last detail, but we all know that picnics and BBQs are better regarded as aspirations than as fixtures and that, when anticipating any summer entertainment, it is prudent not to pin all your hopes on fair weather. Always have a backup contingency, like an awning, for instance.

          Mind you, this very unpredictability can add joie de vivre to proceedings if, and when, it works in your favour. I’m sure that’s why I so enjoyed last week’s Welsh jaunt, which took us, with friends, to the Mawddach estuary for a couple of days. We walked quite a lot, along the estuary’s disused railway track, through the hilly hinterland and across the bridge to the seaside resort of Barmouth. The terrain is famously attractive, and it certainly looked splendid in its sun-soaked summer colours. But the extra bonus was the retro-experience of being in Barmouth when its staycationing population was out in force, enjoying the beach, lapping up the ice cream, scoffing the fish and chips and thronging the novelty shops. It was as though the place had been in hibernation and nothing had changed since the advent of continental package holidays left it stranded, though there was one notably contemporary addition to its attractions – a coffee shop offering artisanal brews for city-folk like us, desperate for our preferred caffeine concoction.

          We were glamping nearby – that is to say our friends were – and, despite my enthusiasm for campervanning, I did envy their spacious and exotically furnished tent, their outdoor, covered kitchen/diner, their boy-scout firepit and their composting loo (though I did not make use of it) which was set, modestly, some distance away. The rain and winds that had been forecast arrived, conveniently, at bedtime on our last night so, when we decamped the next day, it was with the satisfaction of having snatched so much summertime pleasure from the jaws of a nasty-looking, approaching weather front.

          Life goes on whatever the weather – and so does death. We were attending a funeral service (or stone-setting, since it was a Jewish ceremony) one afternoon last week and everyone had come expecting to get drenched by rain. But the sun shone down on us and, afterwards, the official in charge of the cemetery told us that, in all his 25 years there, it had never once rained during a stone-setting. If he did consider it miraculous, his faith was not sufficiently robust to have told us in advance that brollies would not be required. More likely, his memory is selective, as is mine.

          Our lucky streak continued when we had lunch to mark a friend’s birthday. We took a table on the pavement terrace of a Didsbury restaurant (under the awning, ‘just in case’) and, in due course, hailed several friends who were passing on errands. We persuaded them to join us for a drink and thus augmented the jollity of the occasion. Serendipity, yes – but weather-enhanced.

          Even a daytrip to Liverpool coincided with a cloud-free afternoon, though it was an indoor event that took me there. I went, with friends, to see an exhibition at the Walker Gallery of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s life and works. His work I was already familiar with: his life, not at all. I learned, among other things, that he created a public image deliberately, changing his name from McIntosh and posing, artistically dressed, for a publicity photo. I’m sure he would have made an avid, successful and very stylish Instagrammer.

          We walked back to the station in warm sunshine and I reckoned that I have enjoyed many a fair-weather spell this summer. But, even if I hadn’t, I would not complain. Variable weather keeps me on my toes and enhances my appreciation of the difference. That’s life.

The Stuff of Nightmares

          I woke up this morning (cue classic blues riff) in a bad mood because of a nightmare. I had dreamt I was changing a lightbulb, but what should have been a simple task turned into an excruciatingly complex and frustrating one, a saga of flickering lights, tangled wires, mislaid tools and total bewilderment. This may not qualify as nightmarish for most but, for someone who prides himself on having a degree of competence in matters practical, it felt like a painful puncturing of self-confidence that left me feeling superfluous, anxious and angry all through breakfast. Now, nobody is really interested in other peoples’ dreams (except professional psychoanalysts, gypsy fortune-tellers and, perhaps, acquaintances who feature in them), but I’ll tell you anyway. My dream had been a re-working of an actual event earlier in the week, when I had spent hours trying to fix a fault in the heat-exchanging ventilation system in our apartment. I admit that, in doing so, I was pushing the limits of my competence, but curiosity sometimes gets the better of me.

          A dream is unique to the dreamer. No one else is involved in the experience. It is ephemeral and vanishes in the full awakening of consciousness. But, when the residual effect is to set your mood for the day, your dream does impinge on others. So, I duly apologised for my grumpiness and resolved to put it behind me. After all, a sour mood induced by nothing more than a dream must surely not be allowed to set the tone for the day: there is much to be done and much to enjoy. Carpe diem and all that.

          Just one of the things that must be done – and which is currently occupying some of my time – is to convince the Establishment to act to prevent the climate emergency developing further. The declarations, intentions and targets so far extracted from governing bodies represent recognition that the problem exists, but do not carry much conviction. Actions, as ever, will speak louder than words. Inevitably, there are obstacles in the way of effective legislation, the obvious one being the reluctance of vested economic interests to let go of their profits. Less obvious is the distance effect, i.e. the further away is the threat, the less is the urgency. We all know how that works, but here is a climate-change related example. Last week it was so hot that train services were disrupted by buckling rails: this week it is so wet that services are disrupted by flooding. I didn’t mind so much about last week because I wasn’t travelling by train, but this week I was and therefore had to admit that the inconvenience caused by severe weather was not just someone else’s problem.

          My journey was neither critical nor urgent in the context of the world’s troubles, though there may have been other passengers who felt differently. I was going to Heaton Moor for a session of the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society – my reward for having worked during the day at tasks, such as fixing things and saving the planet, that can be quite tiresome. A balance of work and play is a reasonable aspiration for those of us who are lucky enough to have a place in a prosperous society, yet even this simple aspiration could be beyond the reach of future generations if we do not prevent the eco-disaster that is unfolding.

          I wake up most mornings torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard enough to plan the day, but it’s even harder when the trains don’t run on time. A bit of a nightmare for some.