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)