The Hidden Costs Of Campervanning

          For more than thirty years, campervans have loomed large in my life, satisfying both my wanderlust and my fantasy of self-sufficiency. Today, however, the van is looming rather larger than I would like. I just opened the post, a solitary envelope, addressed to me. It contained a demand for £70 as a penalty for outstaying my welcome in Aldi’s car park, as detected by Automatic Number Plate Recognition. My first reaction was outrage, though I had to concede that, since I had never bothered to read the notice outlining the terms and conditions, it was a fair cop. Still, resentment lingers. Am I not a frequent customer? True, I have lately switched allegiance to Lidl down the road, but do they have ways of knowing that?

          I put the letter on my desk, next to the one I received last month from the police demanding £100 for exceeding the speed limit in a built-up area. Proof of my misdemeanour was provided by ANPR and my speed awareness training session is scheduled for Monday.

          Before the post arrived, I had taken the van to be fixed – again. The electric window on the driver’s side won’t open so, earlier in the week, I had dropped in on Frank – he of the Richmond Exhaust and M.O.T. Centre – to see if he could fix it. “No,” he said, “I don’t get involved in electrics”, but named a couple of places nearby that do. I drove to one of them (next door to Tommy’s junk shop, as it happened) and found myself in a 1960s time-warp. The building is, like Frank’s, a scruffy-looking, post-war, light-industrial shed, with an office that appears still to contain the original desk and carpet, both of which are covered with the accumulated paperwork of the last fifty years. The proprietor, Derek, is, like Frank, a man of about seventy, yellowed by nicotine and clinging to old-fashioned business methods. He assured me that he would come up with the most cost-effective solution. We agreed I should bring the van in the next day, then he asked my first name, wrote down my phone number and shook my hand by way of sealing the deal. And so, this morning, I left the van with Frank and his operative, both of them smoking in a highly flammable environment. Should I be concerned?

          Actually, I feel quite the opposite, though there are grounds here to be wary of transacting with an outfit that, outwardly, does not conform to modern practices of safety and efficiency. Yet there is something irrationally reassuring about dealing face-to-face with a man who has been in the game for a long time and who wants to shake your hand (he was wearing latex gloves, a concession to the 21^st century). Perhaps it has to do with that feeling of community and the unspoken pact that it would be counter-productive to cheat or short-change someone you know, however slightly. And I admit to more irrationality, in the form of nostalgia. In my youth, it seems to me, all the back-street mechanics I encountered operated informally, hands-on, in filthy overalls and with cigarettes dangling from their lips. These were their marks of competence, not certificates on the wall, such as we see nowadays in corporate, branded workshops.

          But I hope they have made their retirement arrangements, as I see a limited future for the likes of Frank and Derek. Technology is overtaking their competences and whittling away their customers. Soon we will all be leasing electric cars, by the hour, day, month or year, and the responsibility for maintenance will not be ours. It will be contracted out to ‘proper’ companies. We can be certain, however, that one thing will not change: ANPR will still be tracking us down and punishing us for every transgression of the rules.

Right Of Passage

          I had imagined the train journey to Bristol would be a comfortable, relaxed two hours of uninterrupted reading, but I hadn’t factored-in bumping into a couple of fellow protestors at the station. They were friends of my Other Half, dressed for the event – labelled and stickered – and they carried partly-assembled banners. There was no mistaking their intent, whereas I had taken care to look anonymous and had concealed my cunningly devised banners in a rucksack. On the train, we chose a table for four, but I excused myself to sit apart and read when it became evident that the sole topic of conversation, loud and uninhibited, was to be the business of protest past, present and future. Compared with these seasoned demonstrators, I am a rookie with little to add. I hid behind my book and behind my tactic (naïve, as it turned out) to keep my powder dry for the big event.

          I’m still not sure who ‘organised’ the demonstration – a loose coalition of loosely convened bodies it seems – but I had determined that, in any case, I would swell the ranks of the outraged in the common cause of defending the right to protest against proposed legislation to curtail it. This, I argued (to whoever would listen), is the mother of all causes: even standing in front of your local library to save it from closure could land you in jail if the government’s proposed, deliberately ill-defined constraints should become law. Perhaps my recent reading of How Democracies Die* had alerted me to be wary of governments such as ours, that camouflage their tyrannical leanings with populist slogans, patriotic jingoism and sly, incremental legislation designed to cancel opposition. Martin Niemöller’s words still ring true: First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out – because I was not a socialist….

          I had been advised to wear warm clothing as there is a lot of hanging around at street protests (the TV footage we see of turmoil and activity being the edited highlights) and so it turned out. We arrived at noon, early for the advertised one p.m. start, but timely for a spot of lunch. But we need not have arrived until three p.m. (which is when the two p.m. speeches began) or later, if we had chosen, since the speeches were inaudible to all but those at the front of the crowd and we, being of the opinion that preaching to the converted is unnecessary, chose to hover beyond the range of the loudspeakers, comparing banners and engaging with passers-by instead. This part of the proceedings may well have been my most impactful. My banners, witty and succinct though they were, proved to be unwieldy (just as my OH had predicted) so I found myself a park bench, where I could sit and comfortably display them. Here, I was photographed innumerable times, complimented on my slogans several times and interviewed twice – once by two anonymous blokes with recording equipment, then by a young woman from HITS radio.

          Eventually, just as my feet were turning to ice, the drummers started up and the crowd formed a disorderly line behind them and began to move towards the road. Our moment of glory had come. We disrupted the traffic along the high street for a while. Now, it is not easy to explain to disgruntled drivers – or anyone else who feels inconvenienced or outraged – that temporary loss of freedom-of-passage on the streets is preferable to permanent loss of freedom to take to the streets: it’s a lot to fit on a banner, for one thing. On reflection, I should have used that train journey to better effect, arguing the case vociferously and at length for the benefit of fellow passengers, whether or not they were looking forward to a quiet read.

*Levitsky & Ziblatt

Civic Duties

         At last, our garage is de-cluttered. The BHF charity came and took away the redundant furniture and furnishings. They wouldn’t touch anything electrical, so I took it to that well-known health-and-safety-exempt-zone, Tommy’s junk shop. I did keep a small bookcase, which I fettled up and installed in the block’s communal entrance, ousting the cardboard box perched on a chair that, since time immemorial, has served as our book-exchange facility. This action was, admittedly, more than a manifestation of my commitment to civic duty: the misappropriated chair offended my aesthetic sensibility. Whether my fellow residents agree remains to be seen, as I took unilateral direct action on the matter.

          I cherish the book-exchange, despite the concierge’s pessimistic view that it’s just a dumping ground for unwanted volumes. I dip in frequently but, having migrated some time ago from print to e-books, I feel bad about not being much of a contributor. (E-books are more convenient for those of us who wish to travel light and leave a smaller carbon footprint, though on this latter point I am uncertain as to how the figures stack up. But it does seem likely to me that physical resources + the energy used in production and distribution for print exceeds that used for digitised books.) Whatever the medium of choice, nothing will stop me reading. By saying so, however, I am exercising privilege and assuming freedom.

          Until modern times, literacy for the masses was discouraged – education was for elites – and even when reading became widespread, texts were routinely censored by church and state. Even as they lost their grip on this control, other sinister forces emerged: the ‘free press’, for example, being dominated by private interests and used for wealth-extraction and political influence. Even now, the government is seeking to appoint its own candidate as head of the broadcasting regulator, Ofcom, so that it can control the stories. To quote Jerry Rubin, “The power to define the situation is the ultimate power”.

          It is with this in mind that I have decided, belatedly, to take to the streets of Bristol on Saturday (before they are all privatised) and protest with others at the incipient curtailment of citizen freedoms proposed in the government’s Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts bill, currently with the House of Lords. And since the garage is now properly equipped as a workspace, I have made a start on the all-important banners. They are designed to roll up and fit into a small rucksack, so as not to be an encumbrance on journeys to and from demos and, thinking ahead, to be undetectable to the police who, under the proposed new legislation, would have the power to confiscate them before they are even unfurled. The resulting banners are a triumph of ingenuity and workmanship, though my OH demurs, saying that they look too “professional”. Her preference is for the makeshift, folksy style – a legacy of her time on the streets with XR and its creative, free-form evocation of Nature. Yes, I say, but these banners need to speak legalese and, therefore, ought to look respectable, like a defendant in a suit.

          Meanwhile, a debate rages concerning the effectiveness, or otherwise, of protests that ‘disrupt’ public affairs. But consider the fact that quiet, peaceful marches failed to gain votes for women, get the bomb banned or stop our government invading Iraq at the behest of the USA. And consider the fact that the incumbent controlling party seeks to own the definition of ‘disruptive’.

          In all this, I have yet to write any slogans on the banners. I understand that they need to be short and pithy – PM Johnson has taught us that, at least – but this is not my forte and, so far, my best attempt is DON’T CRIMINALISE PROTESTORS (PRITI PLEASE). Whether my fellow citizens agree, remains to be seen.

 

My Local

          Last Sunday, we took a walk around Portland, a chunk of the south coast surrounded by sea, except for the connecting Chesil Beach and the causeway built in its lee. It is essentially one big quarry, the southern tip of which is littered with abandoned blocks of roughly hewn stone and disused derricks. We sought refreshment in the old urban settlement of Castletown, but without success. Everything was closed and its dreary, deserted streets put me in mind of a film set on which some bleak, dark drama series might be shot.

          I was glad to get back to Plymouth, an altogether more uplifting place where, even though I have been here for just one year, I feel as if I now belong: I have made a few friends, know where to get things fixed, where to get coffee and where to buy the things I need. So, when driving back from Portland, I noticed the wheels of the van were wobbling slightly and instantly formed a plan of action. Of course, it had to wait until Tuesday, when everyone was back at work, but I took the van to the local specialist and wandered off to Cawfee round the corner. It appeared closed, despite it being late morning. However, the door was ajar, so I pushed in and found the apologetic owner, Matthew, finishing off his breakfast. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m still recovering from new year celebrations.” I grabbed a takeout, left him to his hangover and walked around the next corner to Tommy’s, my favourite junk shop. Now, I’m a big fan of junk shops, thrift stores, charity shops, bric-a-brac markets et cetera. This might be explained by the fact that I was raised in the aftermath of wartime rationing, or it may be that I have a frugal predisposition, but the throwaway economy has always seemed to me improvident. And, though I did fall briefly under the spell of wanton consumerism during the Thatcher years, I have seen the error of my ways and now subscribe to the idea that capitalism is a rapacious beast that needs reining in. Recycle, repurpose, make-do and mend are my watchwords and second-hand shops my hunting ground.

          Tommy is a large, ramshackle bloke of about forty, I guess, and his typically glum expression matches his languid manner. But he is friendly, always greets me by name and likes to share his thoughts on business and life in general. He presides over two cavernous rooms full of stuff that looks like junk, partly because he makes very little attempt at window dressing. The few items he deems valuable are locked in a glass display cabinet by his counter, while all the rest appear to have been recently ‘delivered’ by a tipper-truck. I have never seen him make any attempt to sort his stock and, on this occasion, he was positively avoiding doing so, sitting amid the jumbled heaps of house-clearances, painting pictures. “I didn’t know you had an artistic streak,” I said. “More like autistic,” he quipped. I asked to see the pictures – lurid, fanciful landscapes – and he explained that his mum had given him a painting kit for Christmas, in the hope that he would find it therapeutic to resume what had been a childhood interest. It seemed not to have cheered him up much, as he told me that his Christmas had been marred by his worries concerning his four children.

          I can’t help thinking that Tommy’s mood is adversely affected by his disordered surroundings. There’s nothing I can suggest concerning his family life, but he might benefit from the services of a retail professional, someone who can sort the wheat from the chaff. But I doubt he could find the enthusiasm for such a gentrifying, upselling project. Perhaps his destiny is to continue to inhabit a place that looks like a film set in which some bleak, dark drama series might be shot.