Cashless Capers

          During the two weeks I spent recently in Wapping, I noticed that the extent of littering there is similar to that in my part of Plymouth. (Once you start, it becomes an obsession.) On returning home, I expected to find that my patch was in sore need of clearing up, but on my first outing the pickings were thin. Had someone else been on the case? I struck only one rich seam, by the bench in an overgrown corner of the park, where I found, amongst the cans, bottles and food wrappings, four discarded bras. It’s not unusual to come across abandoned underwear, but one can usually deduce a chain of events that preceded the act of disposal. In this case, however, I was stumped, though I continue to mull over a possible backstory that might be turned into a blockbuster movie script.

          Meanwhile, with life settling into back-at-home routine, I awoke one fine morning and, all my chores and duties having been previously dispatched, looked forward to my reward – a day of self-indulgence. I was free to spend time – not money, for time is the ultimate luxury – on myself. What to do? Well, I have rather lost enthusiasm for kayaking since the unfortunate capsizing incident, so I turned to my trusty bike instead and tootled around town with no other aim in mind than to explore The Tool Shed, a shop that I had only ever admired from the pavement. I was not disappointed. This is an Aladdin’s cave of a manshop, comprehensively stocked with all things indispensable and staffed by blokes with a store of knowledge to match. My only disappointment was that I needed nothing, other than a couple of door-wedges at £1.99, for which I was not sure they would accept G-pay. They did, of course. Who carries cash these days?

          It was time for coffee, so I went to a café-cum-gallery, an ex-industrial space that is roughly furnished with odd stools, benches and tables that are cool for young people with Apple Macs but essentially uncomfortable. Still, they do a good flat white, with oat ‘milk’, to which I have lately taken a liking. An elderly couple came in, he with a crutch supporting an injured foot. They seemed out of place as they looked in vain for an unoccupied table, then asked if they could share mine. “Of course,” I said, smiling to put them at ease. Still, they were unsettled until we started polite conversation. This was not their café of choice, but they had been invited to see the art. “What is ‘artisan bread’ anyway?” he said, nodding towards the counter where loaves were on offer. And so I told him. He was sceptical at first, but eventually decided to buy some and try it. “That’s good” said his wife. “I’ve got a pot of soup at home.” I may have won a convert.

          The day was still young and, flushed with this small triumph in my lifelong campaign to discredit the industrial Chorleywood Bread Process, I tapped the pad to pay the £2.90 for my coffee, adjusted my trouser clips, donned my helmet and cycled to the newly re-built museum for a deeper look into Plymouth’s long history. A couple of hours later and a few facts wiser, it was time to leave and, as I passed one of the big perspex boxes of cash (which must have been planted) and notices asking for a £5 donation “to enable us to keep admission free”, I felt a rush of generosity. I presented my phone magnanimously to the conveniently positioned electronic payment pad, but did not hear the familiar payment ping. I tried again, but with no success. On the third try there was still no ping, but I noticed the display said, “payment successful”. When I checked my account it showed three payments of £5, ping or no ping. I am now torn between feeling obliged to make two more visits or simply relishing my magnanimity.

Jazz on a Summer's day

          They say that you can determine your distance from the eye of a storm by the time-lapse you experience between lightning and thunder. If so, then yesterday morning, by my estimation, the eye passed about three feet above my head. A particularly ferocious crack of thunder caused me to duck and instinctively raise my arm for protection, before diving into the vegan café for shelter. The streets flooded, briefly, but the storm moved east to smite Dartmoor and beyond, leaving us with a tolerably sunny afternoon and no harm done. The stormy aftermath of an early September heatwave is a reminder that summer is coming to an end, even though it seems to have been quite brief. But that is probably the effect of time seeming to accelerate as you get older.

          The summer may not have been marked with consistently fine weather, but at least it saw the reintroduction of something that has been sorely missed – live music. It seems that wherever I went, musicians were on the scene, raring to go. I’m not talking about big commercial festivals, but modest, free local events: a weekend of blues and jazz on the quayside of Plymouth’s Barbican; gentle, Sunday afternoon performances in Bermondsey Square; a jazz trio elevating the mood of Wapping’s Saturday market; and the Thames Youth Jazz Orchestra adding pzazz to the festival of classic boats at St. Katherine Dock. In all cases, I hope that the musicians were as pleased to be there as I was. But it was at St. Katherine Dock I lingered longest. Drawn initially by a warm and sunny afternoon and the spectacle of lovingly restored old boats, it was the orchestra that clinched it. The opening number, Witchcraft, was as tightly arranged and performed as you could have wished. And it was sung by a talented young man whose Frank Sinatra knock-off was near perfect. Smitten, I grabbed a deckchair and pulled it closer to the improvised stage.

          In between songs, the man in an adjacent chair and I got talking about the band, then about how we came both to be there. It’s a curious thing how much strangers will tell you about themselves in just a brief encounter. I suppose I must have revealed something about myself, but my recollection is all about what he told me. Although originally from Lancashire, he had spent his career in London, in the Metropolitan Police, from which he had recently retired on an Inspector’s pension. When I say recently, I mean two years ago, at the age of 50. At that point I wished our ‘Frank Sinatra’ would strike up Nice Work If You Can Get It, but he chose Fly Me To The Moon, after which the ex-Inspector went on to tell me that he was temporarily in London, tying up a few loose ends. He had just sold his house, divorced his wife and was about to move permanently, with his girlfriend, to his holiday home near Biarritz. I listened politely until he paused the narrative. Then, seeking to advance the conversation, I thought to ask his opinion on the past two weeks of climate emergency protests. But I was too slow: he had stopped talking merely to rummage through his phone and show me photos of the Pyrenees, taken from his terrace. Unlike me, he was not present to relish the late summer treat. He was marking time before his flight to France, where his expat dream of a sunnier clime awaits. He seemed disengaged from all else entirely, but I hope that in years to come he will recall the fleeting pleasure of jazz on an English summer’s day.

          Soon after that, the orchestra played out the last notes of That’s Life and we said our goodbyes. He has no idea who I am.

Passive Agressive

           Here, in London, a fortnight of XR street protests is drawing to a close. My OH has been on the front line daily, while I sit tight, assiduously playing my part as her anchor in matters both practical and emotional. This entails mostly housework – laundry, shopping, cooking etc – and a sympathetic ear at the end of the day, but I have received calls from her in the field, one expressing distress and frustration at being prevented by the police from assisting a fellow rebel in need, the other recounting, in an astonished tone, how she was picked up and tossed to one side by a (quite small) policewoman. She suffered a bruised knee, a tear in her trousers and a dent in her ego but remains undaunted and on mission.

          Meanwhile, I have been left with time (between chores) to catch up on some reading. Nicola Barker has long been on my wish list, so I read her novella, I Am Sovereign and enjoyed it so much I downloaded her longer, quirkily titled H(A)PPY, though my experience of ploughing through that was a bit of a ch(o)re, unfortunately. Next, for light relief, I tried Cormack McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men. I have seen the Coen brothers’ film adaptation and, therefore, am familiar with the story, but I was curious to experience the author’s telling of it: “compelling”, is how I would summarise it. I finished the book in one avid sitting – though it should be borne in mind that I do have skin in the game in so far as I can identify with the sentiment suggested by the title.

          But it hasn’t been all housework and reading. I have ventured out a couple of times to where the action is, taking care, of course, not to get involved and thereby compromise my role as anchor. In so far as I have experienced it, a good deal of protesting is quite boring – hanging about, waiting for people to muster, standing around holding banners, listening to speakers who are preaching to the converted – but that may be because I am observing rather than actively participating. Meanwhile, I am impressed by the diversity of the crowds, the inventiveness of the slogans, the colourful banners and, in the case of XR, the imaginative and often amusing tableaux that appear. All these things considered and my espousal of the cause a fait accompli, the thought of joining in becomes alluring.

          But there is the other side of demonstrating to consider. XR supporters are unified in their cause and committed to non-violent protest but marching with banners to the accompaniment of drummers is too placid a form of demonstration to satisfy some more vehement proponents, those who are driven to opt for more spectacular actions that are physically challenging and/or illegal. From the perspective of the bystander, this adds spice to the spectacle of streets full of colourful marchers. However, for police charged with enforcing the law, it is probably more than just a nuisance and they have been turning up in huge numbers, deploying tactics that may not be violent, but are certainly menacing – especially if, like me, you are unaccustomed to facing a rank of steadily advancing officers intent on clearing a street.

          I have watched – in person and on screen – as protestors have put themselves into dangerous or uncomfortable situations, deliberately defaced buildings and otherwise invited arrest in order to make their point. I think of them not as foolhardy, headstrong extremists, but as brave, passionate individuals fully committed to the public good. Would I do the same? I’m not sure that I am either passionate or brave enough to join them. In fact, rather than put that to the test, for the time being I’m proffering the excuse that it’s no country for old men.