Rubbish and Recycling

           There are some words, phrases and expressions, the use/misuse of which I actively dislike. For example: “shortly” instead of “soon”; “hopefully”, when not used as an adverb; “on a daily basis”, when “daily” will suffice; and “obviously”, when no fact has been established. But I have learned not to rant pedantically on the subject. It is a fact that language evolves over time, regardless of those who may be wound-up by its transitions. Besides, if ever objection is made to a perpetrator, the usual response is, “Well, you know what I mean,” which is hard to argue with outside of a court of law. Anyway, I don’t identify as the Canute of linguistics.

          Not that I have many face-to-face conversations in these lockdown days. Most of my time is spent in solo pursuits and it is my good fortune to have acquired an asset that makes this more enjoyable: a garage. Now, to some, a garage is a place to keep cars, while to others it is an overflow storage facility. To me, however, it is a workshop/mancave, something I have been without for 25 years and which I had not realised I missed, having found other, more cerebral ways of coping in the interim. Now, my brain is taking a break, while I concentrate on DIY jobs, some of which could not be fulfilled without a workshop of some sort. For example, the restoration of a G-Plan sideboard, made by E. Gomme of High Wycombe circa 1958. Originally finished in West African tola veneer, its last owner had painted it, inexpertly but imaginatively, the carcase in battleship grey, some of the doors/drawer fronts in turquoise and others in tangerine. The handles are missing, presumed stolen, but I was happy to pay £30 for it, with the intention not to reinstate the veneer finish – tola is not an outstandingly attractive wood – but to cut back and repaint it in the previous owner’s scheme. It’s quite a project, but my enthusiasm is undimmed (though I am having second thoughts about the tangerine).

          Seeing that I am spending perhaps too much time in the garage, my partner found a new way to lure me out of it. She has enrolled us in Clear my Patch, an umbrella organisation for voluntary litter-pickers. Given that I am, in principle at least, civic-minded, I could find no grounds for objection, especially as she presented it as a way of adding purpose to those impromptu recreational strolls around the shoreline and green spaces of our new locality. Besides, hadn’t we already developed a litter-picking habit over the years as we hiked around the countryside? Yes, but the quantities involved – the odd can, bottle or wrapper which you can stuff into your rucksack – do not compare with the accumulated debris consigned to the dead corners of an urban landscape. Our first expedition, which lasted less than an hour, netted two bags full of rubbish, some of it quite off-putting (dog walkers, please take note).

          I went solo the next time, venturing only as far as the marine slipway overlooked by our terrace. Low tide had deposited some plastic debris among the clumps of seaweed – a more appealing proposition, since it had been thoroughly rinsed in seawater. Besides, on the shoreline, there is always the romantic, if remote, prospect of finding a message in a bottle. Of course, I found no such thing – just plastic and two metres of old rope, which I briefly considered keeping (in the garage) in case it should come in handy. I picked up a lot of plastic, but my satisfaction was dulled by the thought that there would be more with the next tide. Obviously, I could find myself there on a daily basis, Canute-like, deluding myself that I can stem the flow of debris. Hopefully, this will not become another obsession, but we shall see, shortly.

What I Learned From My Bicycle

           As covid-19 raged like wildfire through the UK earlier this year it was clear that the NHS was struggling to cope, for a variety of reasons, one being that its crisis response systems had been honed to deal efficiently with what was, by common consent, the most likely future emergency, an influenza epidemic. It might have been better prepared if it had focussed its planning on resilience rather than a specific threat, thereby taking into account unpredictability.

          The virus still rages and the NHS remains under pressure, so people with non-urgent conditions stay away – voluntarily or otherwise. So it’s just as well that, when I took a tumble from my bike this week, I had no need of medical attention. Mind, I was fortunate: there was no motor traffic and I was wearing a helmet plus several layers of thick, winter clothing. Nor did the bike suffer any damage, it being a sturdy, general-purpose machine of no particular distinction, not a specialist mount such as a pared-down, lightweight racer, or a techno-bike, loaded up with costly electronic gadgetry. It is a model of resilience.

          I was cycling around Plymouth, reacquainting myself with my childhood realm, noting what had changed, as well as what I had never even noticed at the time. As for the physical environment, I have so far encountered very few surprises, nasty or otherwise. It is in the cultural field that I am aware of obvious difference. The hazy remembrance from my schooldays is of a monocultural community of extended family networks, Devonian in origin and staunchly protective of their heritage – though against whom, I am not sure. The neighbouring Cornish, whom they distrusted, certainly, but other UK inhabitants posed no threat, as they only came here to holiday, precisely to enjoy the quaintly attractive elements of that heritage. Foreigners came and went also, I suppose – though I never met any. But now, multiculturalism has come to town, imported by foreign immigrants and youngsters studying at the university, which has expanded in the last twenty years. It may seem odd but, in returning to live in a place that is no longer quite the same as I remember, I am happy to find it changed. Notwithstanding the relative decline of the extended family networks that provided succour and support (now a common factor in the underlying social structure of Western societies generally) the dynamic feels progressive.

          There are still plenty of pasty shops, but they compete for custom with vegan, vegetarian and ethnic outlets. And, while it is still possible to sit down to a cup of instant coffee and a sickly-sweet custard tart at a ‘greasy spoon’, my preference is an espresso with home-made pastel de nata at the Portuguese café, made possible by an enterprising family of incomers. And, while supermarkets provide all the things we want (and more than we need) their monolithic corporate structures make little contribution towards innovations such as sustainability and local production, unlike the independent shops run by youthful idealists whose future depends upon those values. Small enterprises may not be ‘efficient’ if measured by the standards of corporate profitability, but their strengths lie elsewhere, in the need to succeed economically by finding the niche in which they can thrive. Resilience, innovation and staying close to customers all play their part and, when they succeed, they strengthen the fabric of community by adding diversity. Monoculture may be comforting but it is dull – and not even dependable: when the mainstay collapses – say, the major industry, for example – there is no economic back-up; or when the population simply ages and fades away, there is no regeneration. Since we know that such events will happen (even if we cannot predict their exact nature), maybe we should plan for them by building in some diversity, some alternatives, some…resilience.

  

Headspace

           As I walked past a “Dry Riser” sign I realised that, in all the years of seeing those words, I still don’t know what they mean. Of course, I could whip out my phone and google it, but curiosity has its limits – even for the curious. Right now, being preoccupied with getting to know my new environs, my brain-capacity feels stretched by inputs on all fronts and I feel the need to regulate its intake.

          One way of achieving this is to imbibe small, daily doses of my new physical and cultural environment so as to assimilate what is there, balance my perception and get the most out of the new situation. I’ve made a start on the physical by walking and cycling a good deal (a method of exploration which has the added benefit of avoiding membership of the local gym, with its associated expense and tedium) and, in the process, begun to read some history from the built environment. For instance, there is a plaque on a house nearby noting that Admiral Hardy – he of “Kiss me, Hardy” fame – “reputedly lived here”. Though not all buildings or ruins are so informatively labelled, it is obvious that Plymouth’s heritage is naval and rooted in the early years of sea-borne adventuring, piracy and, ultimately, colonisation. 2020 is the 400^th anniversary of the sailing from Plymouth to America by the Mayflower and it is marked by an art installation on the Mountbatten breakwater (pictured) that challenges the way we view this history. The so-called “New World” of the pilgrims was, in fact, inhabited by its indigenous people and, to quote one wag, “The American who first discovered Columbus made a bad discovery”. *

           But that’s all history. What’s happening now? To get an idea, I have bought local papers and learned that the home of the Royal Marines, the nearby Stonehouse Barracks, is a subject of controversy. Having been earmarked by the MoD for disposal a few years ago, it remains in use but with a question mark over its future and that of the marine unit itself. The local MP is keeping an ear to the ground for any hint that the Government might commit the outrage of moving them out of Plymouth, their rightful home. Meanwhile, deeper into Devon, the Farming section of the Western Morning News speculates about the post-Brexit future of agriculture, while reporting in detail on livestock market activity and prices, as well as up-coming auctions of tractors and the like. I need not take a deep interest in these, but it is as well to know that it matters to some.

          Meanwhile, on a practical level, lockdown has left us all in need of personal grooming so, on the day it was lifted, I went in search of a barber’s shop. I was lucky enough to find one at which there was neither a queue nor a requirement to book so, despite its snazzy, hipster frontage and the youthful, foreign (Turkish?) appearance of the staff, I took a chance and went in. Back in Manchester, I always had the same barber, so I never had to answer the dreaded question, “How would you like it, sir?”, to which the only answer I can think of is, “Same but shorter, please” but the new chap was not too demanding. Nor was he Turkish, but “British-Kurdish” and we had an interesting conversation about the displaced Kurdish community in the UK and the plight of the forty million Kurds constantly denied the right to nationhood, despite – among other things – their having done everyone the favour of disposing of the forces of ISIL.

          During all this, he did an excellent job on the haircut – and charged a mere £8! I gave him a tenner in the hope that he will remember how I like it next time. And now that my head feels lighter, it's possible that dry risers might get a look-in.

*Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, scientist and philosopher (1 Jul 1742-1799)