Stranded

           With an easing of lockdown imminent and a return to socialising on the horizon, I cycled out one sunny morn to scope out a few likely-looking hostelries, all of which have been closed for most of the time we have lived here in Plymouth and, therefore, remain untested against our rigorous standards. As in many an English fishing port, the restaurants around here offer mostly traditional fish and chips, but one positive outcome of Brexit is the sudden availability of a variety of locally caught seafood that is neither battered nor fried. It may catch on. Down by the harbour, where fishing boats still have priority over leisure vessels (despite being heavily outnumbered) a new fishmonger has opened up. It is called The Old Fishmongers after the premises it occupies and is run by a couple of enthusiastic young chaps with bushy beards and an approach to fishmongering akin to that of artisanal coffee baristas. They sell locally sourced wet fish plus takeaway seafood snacks concocted in-house.

          It was here that I met the stranded sailor. He was sitting at a tiny table on the pavement, supping a pint of Guinness, having just finished a plate of oysters. He was looking quite pleased with himself. “That’s what I call imaginative fishmongering,” I said, “I didn’t know they had an alcohol licence.” “They don’t,” he replied, “but I’ve been coming here for five days now, so they get me a pint from the pub across the road. I can’t eat oysters without Guinness.” It was a breakfast too hearty for my constitution, but I admired his. He told me that he was en route from Portsmouth to Istanbul but that a combination of family crises and covid-related travel restrictions had left him – and his son, the skipper – stranded here for the time being. He went on to tell me that circumstances, involving a bereavement, an inheritance and a mid-life adjustment, had precipitated the sailing jaunt and its temporary halt. “Well, you seem pretty relaxed about it,” I said eying his T-shirt, which sported a marijuana leaf above the words Breaking Habits. He saw me looking and explained: “It’s an advertisement for the film of the same name, which is based on the experiences of a friend of mine.”

          An encounter such as this, two years ago, might have stretched into a gregarious round or two of drinks but the effects of ‘social distancing’ are measured in more than mere metres. A few days later, some sanctions were eased and we were allowed to welcome our first houseguest since the start of the pandemic. We opened Champagne though, to be honest, we had got used to doing so on a Monday anyway, not knowing when it’s all going to end. That evening, we went to a restaurant, as in days of yore. I had forgotten how noisy they can be, but it is possible that some extra decibels were generated by the excitement of the diners at being allowed indoors at last. Two days later, I was able to book a table for two in a pub – not for a meal, but for a pint! My pal and I had been looking forward to the occasion (our last pint together had left us windblown and frostbitten) and, though we relished being inside a decent pub, a pub with social distancing feels, well, socially distant. Not that I am complaining: I will return, nevertheless.

          Somehow, we will adjust to our altered circumstances, holding on to what we can of that which we value from before and letting go of that which was simply habit or outmoded convention – like shaking hands, for example. Meanwhile, I picture the stranded sailor, making the best of the situation, while looking forward, still, to his final destination.

Party Like It's 1983

           Even now, six months after moving home, the disposal of redundant or unwanted items continues. During a clear-out session last week, I was ambushed by evidence of my dandyish tendency in the form of a pair of bright red, leather dancing shoes. I had bought them in the 80s, perhaps influenced by Bowie’s smash-hit Let’s Dance, but certainly with a view to cutting a dash in my social circle at that time. Judging by the very lightly worn soles, however, their novelty appeal must have soon faded. I put them away for ‘special occasions’, but by the time these came around fashions had shifted, leaving red shoes stranded in an irrecoverable past. As the years went by, the party invitations became less frequent and more formal, while the shoes rested, un-scuffed – but not un-loved – at the bottom of various wardrobes. Finally, it seemed, the time had come to face up to the fact that their services would never again be required. So, reluctantly, I took them off to a charity shop, hopeful that they might be discovered by some discerning young beau with an eye for good quality vintage footwear. A week later, an invitation arrived for a fancy-dress party and my decision became a source of some regret.

          Elsewhere, I have made a few quid selling larger items on Gumtree, the on-line community exchange-and-mart platform, which I have found useful both personally and as a contribution to the eco-campaign against throw-away consumerism. Some, however, see it as just another opportunity to scam – as I discovered. It went like this: I advertised an item for sale and, within a few minutes, got an enthusiastic response via WhatsApp. (Warning: do not include your phone number in the ad.) Flushed with excitement, I followed the links they sent me to a series of Gumtree web pages, the last of which asked for my credit card details so that the supposed buyer could credit funds to my account. Here, the penny dropped: nobody pays money into your credit card account. Sure enough, they turned out to be cleverly faked web pages. I am left marvelling at the deviousness which human intelligence is capable of and astonished by the lengths to which criminals will go in order to avoid earning an honest crust. On reflection, however, I should not be surprised. Our own government displays just such deceptions in the service of enriching its cohorts, as this week’s crop of policy declarations demonstrates: the commitment to lifetime learning so that the workforce can re-skill is just another way of packaging up the sale of more household debt (“student loans”) rather than investing public funds in the education system; and the plan to introduce unnecessary ID cards for voting is sleight-of-hand gerrymandering that will effectively disenfranchise poorer, less educated sections of the electorate. The government, it seems, is enthusiastically aping the agenda of American Republicans. Still, they did a good job on vaccination roll-out, eh? Excuse the cynical scorn, but it’s been the kind of week that tests one’s faith in honest dealings.

          There is a silver lining, however. It occurred to me to call in at the charity shop where my shoes had been donated – just on the off-chance that I might buy them back. There they were, perched on a shelf, high up and almost out of view, as if they were an embarrassment to the ladies running the shop. I was a little put out that the price tag was only £7 but the ladies, amused by my story, soothed my ego by saying the shoes would have sold quickly had the size matched that of the many would-be buyers thus far.

          Anyway, I bought them back, hopeful that a third wave of Covid does not jinx the party. If it does, I shall write it into my will that red shoes should be part of my final ensemble.

 

 

It's All About Lumens

           I’ve been staring at the new light fittings in the living room, trying to like them. They were bought from the internet months ago but, now that the electrician has finally made his way here to fit them, the anticipated glow of satisfaction at their installation has failed to materialise. The reality does not match my vision of stylish practicality: they dangle obtrusively from the low ceiling, inserting themselves into my line of sight – and my peripheral vision – which would be fine if they were intended as decorative features in an otherwise bland interior. But they do not enhance the space, they intrude on it. Moreover, they are unfit for purpose in that they are disappointingly dim. In themselves, they might be considered attractive, but they don’t belong here and, despite the fact that they are inanimate objects, they are beginning to annoy me. I am determined to replace them with discreet, un-showy fittings that illuminate the room without drawing attention to themselves. I know it’s a ‘first world’ problem, but I hope the electrician isn’t too busy to return pronto: I have praised his work and paid him promptly by way of inducement.

          But I must not sit here and obsess about such trivia: after all, I suppose I should count myself fortunate to be living in a time and place where there is even an option to have electric lights at all. Without them, it would mean a different sort of life, one regulated by the sun. It might be simpler and more biorhythmically beneficial to divide one’s activities into those that can be achieved during the hours of daylight and those that cannot, but it doesn’t suit everyone – and it does impose limits on ‘progress’. Let’s face it, the Dark Ages were aptly named, both figuratively and literally.

          Meanwhile, the days are getting longer and brighter, which means that outdoor pursuits begin to look alluring. So much so that, after prevaricating for a while, I have at last bought a kayak. Not just any kayak, but one that is made from recycled material – pieces of plastic that might otherwise be encountered in the very waters through which I intend to paddle. What swung it for me – apart from the sustainable production method – was the discovery that comfortable seats and backrests are available as optional extras. And, as if by magic, on the day the boat was delivered, there were wet suits for sale in Lidl for a mere £25. I snapped one up, though my OH disapproves of the fact that it is made of neoprene and so at odds with the recycled kayak and the whole sustainability tilt that our way of life has assumed of late. (She is awaiting delivery of her eco-friendly, plant-based wetsuit at ten times the cost of mine).

          But a garage full of water-sports gear does not mean an end to the joys of campervanning – at least, not yet. We spent the first couple of days of this week walking part of Offa’s Dyke just north of Chepstow, basing the van at a classically beautiful farm camping field. The nights were frosty, but the sun reasserted itself each morning, tricking us into thinking that summer had arrived, so warming were its rays. It remains to be seen whether a conflict of interest will arise between kayak and campervan, but it is more likely there will be a compromise in the form of a roof rack and a tendency to steer towards coastal campsites. Either way, being outdoors is a healthy way to counteract interior design anxiety syndrome. In the end, it’s good to bear in mind that how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.