Contentment Versus Complacency

          Now that I have managed to get out and about in the campervan at last, the change of scene has led to a reassessment of my attitude to lockdown. Could it be that what I took to be contentment with my situation was really complacency? Except for not being allowed to travel, I did not feel 'confined' at home. In fact, I convinced myself that I was freer, with more scope for the mind to follow its fancies, and the mundane obligations of life dropping away or put on ice. I also convinced myself that I was enjoying the quiet-time bonus, though now I see that the novelty was wearing thin: TV was becoming tedious, reading routine and exercise unexciting. One can get used to any situation being ‘normal’ if it persists for long enough. And as for those practical projects that I was going to nail once and for all, I did eventually get the hat-pegs fixed to the wall but have made barely a dent in scanning all those old photos on to the computer.

          How different one’s priorities appear through the windows of a campervan. We haven’t covered many miles, but enough to remind me that travel is a perennial eye-opener. For instance, stopping briefly in the Yorkshire town of Ilkley (one can’t help but think of the song), with its smart, prosperous-looking high street, a boutique cinema and a hall for the Ilkley Amateur Operatic Society, I was sharply disabused of the dowdy image lodged in my mind from who-knows-when And, having come to rest for a few days in Northumberland’s Derwent valley, I am pleased to be reminded of the regional differences that run deep in England, despite its compact geography. Who, for example, could not be charmed by the lilting Geordie accent? It is a bonus to the other attractions of the region: a long, sweeping coastline; a beautiful hinterland of moors and lush valleys; historical attractions, including Emperor Hadrian’s Wall and the more recent relics of the Industrial Revolution; and its sparse population, a disincentive to predatory developers. Despite all this, it seems there is a low concentration of tourists. I suspect this might have something to do with the weather, which is influenced by the North Sea. Yesterday, while the South East of England sweltered under 25 degrees Celsius and there was a serious hazard of sun burn, we wandered about under a cloudy sky at a more comfortable 15 degrees. It occurred to me that, before the climate crisis finally makes a desert of the South East, now would be a good time to cash in your London pad and buy a reasonably priced retreat here, in a county that might retain a recognisably English climate.

          For the first time, we have come equipped with bikes (a legacy of lockdown, acquired for the purpose of open-air exercise), the better to explore the area via the railway lines closed in the 1960s. We are fair-weather cyclists, averse to speeding, changing gears and lycra, which means that we are often in the way of the more serious types who, I suspect, are on a mission to get from A to B rather than bimble around looking for historical remains. Yesterday we cycled to Ebchester which, like any place with “chester” in its name, boasts the remains of a Roman fort – in this case with no trace remaining above ground. Still, I maintained, you could feel the history and try to imagine what it must have been like to be a soldier in the North African Legion that, for a time, was stationed here. They must have been well pleased when they were ordered back to the sunnier climes of Rome in AD 450.

The Importance of Diarising

          Having arranged to meet a friend for coffee yesterday morning, I forgot to turn up! And this despite my looking forward to the occasion. I apologised of course and, by way of mitigation, offered the explanation that I am now so unused to having appointments of any kind that my diary has fallen into disuse and I am no longer in the habit of consulting it daily – nor it me, with it’s cheery “ping”.

          For those of us fortunate enough to be locked down in comfortable, leisurely circumstances, life has slipped into an unhurried tempo, a pace at which the sense of urgency arises only in respect of visits to the WC. Anything that interrupts this leisurely flow of non-events is a cause of undue anxiety, especially if it involves a deadline. When it was my turn to put together a presentation for a Zoomed meeting of the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society, the task dragged on for weeks and I would sometimes wake in the early hours, fretting over the playlist. It makes sense of the saying “If you want something doing, give it to a busy person”. People (like me) with time on their hands will worry it to death. But the pace of life is beginning to pick up: yesterday, I made an entry in the diary – the first since early March. It relates to taking the campervan to Northumberland, where we can get a fix of coast and countryside for a change – and I can regain a sense of momentum.

          Not that Nature has been completely absent from our lives these past few months. Last week, I got a bag of sweet, ripe gooseberries on my urban stroll. The Co-operative Society has planted the gardens around its new HQ building with apples, strawberries and other soft fruit, all of which are available to pick. There will never be enough to feed the city, but it’s a step in the right direction, demonstrating publicly that previously wasted corners of urban land can be given back to cultivation. And there is evidence elsewhere of a rising awareness of the importance of plants in the built environment. A patch of land that has escaped residential development around the canal basin at New Islington has been turned into a park, complete with picnic tables, swan nests, grass and a magnificent swathe of wildflowers. It’s the ideal place to sit with your coffee and croissant (obtained from the canal-side artisan bakery) and evaluate the latest trends in brownfield, inner-city development. These small steps towards reinstating nature’s place in our habitat may well be too little and too late but, by raising awareness, they could help to save the day.

          Of course, micro-interventions alone will not rescue our failing ecosystems. We need concerted, global political action of the kind that is currently out of fashion. A resurgence of liberal democratic governance would be our best hope of tackling the root causes of our self-destruction: rapacious capitalism may yet be tamed; the “finance curse”* inflicted on us by the banking sector may be lifted and the intensive mono-cultivation that is destroying the soil may be replaced by more localised, natural farming. And there is another hope. The latest scientific modelling of the world’s population predicts a peak, followed by a sharp fall in numbers by the end of this century. Of course, the end of the century may never actually come unless we act now. So, to help things along, let’s all make a daily note to save the planet in some way, however small. Especially those of us who don’t have much else in our diaries.

* The Finance Curse by Nicholas Shaxson

 

The Politics of Hairstyles

          Last week, during a small social gathering, conversation turned to the anticipated reopening of hairdressers. One of our company, a woman I had never met before, was especially keen to book her appointment. She apologised for the state of her hair, although it looked fine to me. “Ah,” she said, “but it doesn’t usually look like this.” I replied, “And mine doesn’t usually look like this,” to which she said, “Really? It looks fine to me!” and we agreed that we had become so used to our respective cultivated images that we are blind to what others see. Two days later, and despite the fact that I had been toying with the notion of reverting to the untamed locks and full beard I sported in 1972, I bottled it and went for a haircut. I came out looking like the person I want others to see – a conventional, liberal, white, male, educated, middle-class boomer.

          My 1970s look is over, for sure, but the decade lives on. In ‘74 I parted company (amicably) with my then close circle of friends. They all drifted from London to Sydney, while I opted for Manchester (it’s a long story). We kept in touch: at first there were airmail letters and a few rationed phone calls; later, there were occasional visits; then Facebook made frequent contact possible. Lockdown, however, has been an unexpected catalyst in strengthening the group bond. Zoom meetings have become a weekly fixture and occasion to marvel at the endurance of friendships formed so long ago. Inevitably, much of our time is spent reminiscing which, though heart-warming, can be problematic. One person’s memory is not like another’s so, when asked to recollect a significant moment during a concert, for example, one can’t even be sure of one’s presence at the time. Such moments can be embarrassing or even controversial.

          The current generation of youngsters, busily bonding away, will have no such problem fifty years hence. All their social interactions will be stored in the cloud in the form of photos, videos, blogs and Facebook posts – all date-stamped and geo-tagged for absolute accuracy of recall. There will be no arguments about who was where, when and why. All they will have to do is press ‘re-run’, relax and soak up the incontrovertible evidence of their meticulously documented youthful indiscretions. Meanwhile, we of a previous era hold up dog-eared, faded photos – often without so much as a date scrawled on the back – to the webcam for scrutiny.

          One such is a photo of me in my hirsute glory, sporting the authentically un-groomed style that marked us out as anti-establishment and served as a visual emblem of our liberal politics. What a dream that was. Fifty years on and it seems no longer attainable. We have failed to persuade the majority that their interests are not best served by minorities with a selfish agenda and we are lumbered with political leaders who reject socialism with a vengeance. Of late, I have engaged in a last-ditch attempt at political discourse with conservatives, giving it my best shot with rational, reasoned arguments aimed at changing their minds.

          But I’ve had a major setback to my hopes this week: a book by behavioural psychologist Antony Haidt undermines my approach. Haidt demonstrates why it is impossible to convert a conservative to a liberal by reasoned argument. Political views are founded in moral beliefs – what is considered fair or harmful. But fair or harmful to whom?  The rational moralist might incline towards inclusive socialism. But Haidt claims that morality is predominantly intuitive and socially ingrained. Such morality binds and blinds its adherents, so that they vote according to group loyalty. If I want to make headway against Trump and Johnson supporters, I must change my tactics. Perhaps a visit to the barbers to get a more fanciful hairstyle might be a good start.

 

Lockdown Slowdown

          Remember the panic buying all those months ago? I caught a mild case of it myself but, being slow off the starting blocks, came away with a pack of lentils in the absence of my preferred dietary staple, spaghetti. Of course, the shelves were soon re-stocked and the stampede subsided, but we may see another one on Saturday when England’s pubs are due to reopen.

          I shan’t be rushing to be served. I have become accustomed to the closure of pubs and all the other places we used to socialise in – restaurants, galleries and gigs. Rather than lament their absence, I have learned to live without them, taking a positive view and relishing the time freed up, putting it to use as a sort of secular, contemplative period of retreat. Those worthy tomes of social, economic and political theory that have lain in my study unopened for years have finally been read. Their once fresh theories may now be mainstream, but the reading served as a refresher course in recent history.

          Not that I have turned into a bookworm. Summer is here. Nature wears her party clothes and it is time to celebrate. Normally, we would be chasing the action in the campervan but this year we make the best of what the city can offer. And that is surprisingly rich. Last week, we picnicked with friends in the garden of their Victorian suburban house, an event that will linger in the subliminal as a rare concatenation of summer’s essences: the cycling to and from; the end of a long, hot, late-June day; the garden, bower-like and lush with colour; the food and wine savoured in relaxed company; and that feeling you sometimes get that bounteous summer is never-ending. Of course, it rained the next day, but gardens need the rain to make them lush. Meanwhile, at Wonderman Towers the courtyard has benefitted from a greater degree of attention than usual. Stay-at-home residents have augmented the number of pots, fought off the aphids and nurtured the plants to a produce a riot of foliage and flowering never before seen in Chinatown and that would – but for the health risk – have been a candidate for this year’s nationwide Open Gardens event. As it is, the main beneficiaries are the birds and bees, newcomers to the neighbourhood. This morning, I counted five species of bird, a 500% increase on last year. Mind you, that calculation does not take into account the fact that I spent most of last summer in the campervan.

          Still, other natural wonders are on the doorsteps of the city-bound. There is a large cherry tree, fully laden with fruit, that I noticed for the first time last week during my pedestrian wanderings. It’s not in a remote place but at the side of a highway, which means that most people would drive past it. Right now, stranded as it is between roadworks and a building site, it stands out as the only thing of beauty in the vicinity and, hence, a magnet for attention. Strangely though, only one other person joined me in the harvesting, despite the proximity of many newly-built apartment blocks. My theory is that the occupants are young urbanites who would recognise cherries only if they were packed, labelled and on the shelves at Tesco.

          I should qualify this little paean to lockdown slowdown with the reality that one’s choices are limited: those of us who are fortunate enough not to be suffering hardship, illness, grief or isolation ought not to grumble about the inconveniences imposed by efforts to contain the virus. We have the choice of enjoying what is available to us, developing skills, interests and learning to love lentils. On reflection, however, I do look forward to an eventual outing to the pub (one with a garden). After all, I’m not yet ready to hang that “Dunminglin” sign on the door.