Life Goes On

         This week, I occupied my time with nothing out of the ordinary. Though perhaps I had best come clean and admit that I allowed my time to be occupied by nothing out of the ordinary. For I feel that those of us who are fortunate enough to have freedom of choice ought not to take it for granted or squander the opportunities it affords for betterment.  As one author put it, “If we would only give, just once, the same amount of reflection to what we want to get out of life that we give to the question of what to do with a two weeks' vacation, we would be startled at our false standards and the aimless procession of our busy days.”

          I claim no distinction in this respect. Much of my time has been squandered on self-gratification and I find myself now contemplating Schopenhauer’s observation that “The first forty years of life give us the text; the next thirty supply the commentary on it”.  

          But this is not just about urging us all to improve ourselves or the world about us. It is also a reflection on our innate selfishness and disregard for the woes of others. And it seems to follow that the further away those others are, in status and/or geography, the less likely we are empathise with their plight. For example, the Jarrow hunger marchers arrived in London to be greeted by the profound unconcern of the ‘ruling class’. And, whenever fellow humans perish in natural or man-made disasters around the globe, our sympathy is always fleeting. Except for those who devote themselves to humanitarian causes, most of us carry on without interruption to our lives. The current situation in Europe – Russia’s invasion of Ukraine – seems to reinforce this point.

          A month ago, I would not have recognised the Ukrainian flag if it had been waved under my nose – which it never was. But now, widespread sympathy for the suffering of Ukrainians is expressed by frequent public display of its national colours. Two days ago, they appeared in a common part of our block of flats and, although this is against the terms of the lease, it is unlikely that they will be removed (unless there are Russian nationalists around). What is happening in Ukraine now has occurred before, notably in Chechnya, yet there was no such expression of popular support for the victims on that occasion. Could the difference be explained by the fact that Putin’s aggressive expansionism is getting too close to the comfortable complacency of our Western European heartland?

          The old-fashioned, bloody war that we thought would never happen again in Europe is being waged. Yet life goes on as normal for most of us. And it’s not the only outrage being perpetrated by tyrannical regimes: China, having colonised Tibet, is enslaving Uighurs and threatening Taiwan; the Taliban are refusing Afghan girls the chance of education; Moslems in India are being persecuted by Hindu nationalists; the Polish and Hungarian judicial systems have been politicised to bolster the powers of their autocratic regimes. Yet life goes on as normal for most of us.

          Comparatively speaking, citizens of the UK lead a charmed life – for the time being! Our own government distracts us with jingoistic nonsense, while steadily eroding our freedoms by curtailing our rights to protest, packing public bodies with political appointees, removing itself from the scope of judicial review, privatising any remaining public institutions and otherwise deploying the tactics of wannabe dictatorships. These are evidential threats to our freedoms that we ought to be resisting. Yet life goes on as normal for most of us.

          And, if that were not enough, the planet’s ecosystem is collapsing on our watch and future generations will inherit a depleted Earth. Yet life goes on as normal for most of us. We occupy our time with nothing out of the ordinary.

Wishlists

          A couple of dear old friends came to spend last weekend with us, jolting me out of the perilously placid routines that have become a feature of my later life. Our friends are lively, adventurous people whose default setting is “go for it”, so it would not have done for us to spend time sitting around reminiscing: a programme of events was called for, nothing too rigid – dinners in the evenings and excursions during the days – just a framework of activity to provide structure for our precious time together and opportunities for spontaneous fun. I would say it worked well for all of us, the only downside being that I missed my afternoon nap slots.

          On the other hand, the excursions took us to places that had been languishing on my wishlist of ‘local destinations of interest’, stuck there by the hum-drum preoccupation with everyday events and a low-level tendency to procrastinate that results from easy proximity, as is often seen with people who live in London but feel no urgency to visit its world-famous attractions. Not that the places around here are world-famous – they have more modest pretensions – but they are on my wishlist for such unique qualities as they do possess. Take the manor house and grounds of Cotehele, for example, inhabited by the same family for five centuries, until they handed it over to the care of the National Trust in 1947. The estate lies on the opposite side of the Tamar estuary, just a few miles inland from us, but I had not yet made the journey, delightful though it is in its own right. A single-track train winds its way up the Devonshire side of the river, which it eventually crosses into Cornwall via one of those impossibly tall, stone-built viaducts erected by navvies in the Victorian era. Alighting at the village of Calstock, there is a thirty minute walk along the river and up through the trees to the estate. It being a sunny March morning, the daffodils, primroses and crocuses splashed colours all around, though it would be attractive in any season. Likewise, the gardens and orchards of Cotehele, so fresh and full of promise in the early spring sunshine that I vowed to make a habit of returning frequently, to relish the blooming and ripening.

          In fact, I returned two days later, specifically to tour the house and experience its interior. It is medieval but with Tudor extensions, resulting in a layout that, in modern parlance, does not ‘flow’ very well. Though its architectural quirks are charming, in practical terms it is cold, dark and costly to maintain. What passed for luxury in days of yore – a roof, windows, fireplaces, bedrooms and furniture – would be considered the bare essentials of comfort today.  I can see why the family opted, eventually, to live elsewhere. Nevertheless, it is grand in parts: the all-important Great Hall is impressive and the interior walls throughout the house are covered in rich tapestries (though they have been cut mercilessly to fit the spaces, which may be why the owners did not take them when they left).

          So, after our friends departed, it didn’t take long for me to revert to my solitary ways. Yesterday, I went to that bastion of solitary pursuits, the public library. Having shunned and been shunned by it for the past year or so, reacquaintance was a pleasure, especially as it has a roof terrace that, in fine weather, serves as a reading room with unique anti-drowse properties. I had pulled a copy of Jazz Jews (Mike Gerber) off the shelf and sat to peruse history of a different genre and more recent era. But reading served only to whet my appetite for action – in this case, attending a live jazz performance. And in the company of old friends, preferably.

 

    

 

Things Fall Apart

          The campervan is booked in to have yet another worn-out part replaced: I shall drop it off at the garage on my way to the dentist’s, where I myself am booked in to have a worn-out part replaced. I suppose there is an element of desperation here, insofar as the van and I resemble a couple of long-time friends who, having shared experiences over the years, cling to the fond hope of stringing it out for a bit longer. After all, there are so many adventures still to be had together. (I use the word “adventure” not in the heroic sense – one’s ambitions are tempered by age – but more modestly to describe the smaller discoveries and achievements of daily life that add value to mere existence.)

          One fine day last week, we drove to Totnes, a town that is to South Devon what Hebden Bridge is to West Yorkshire, i.e. a legendary centre of alternative lifestyles, colonised in the 1970s and now maturing nicely, as its pioneers have settled into more comfortable circumstances, including holding sway over local politics. My first impression was that Totnes is a caricature of itself, which may account for the tendency people have to make fun of it. Nevertheless, its denizens are doing a great job of maintaining its otherness and for that, I am thankful. I had great coffee in the vegan café at the community education hub, then greedily bagged some of the locally-produced delicacies from the indie shops before retiring to a high street micro-brewery (bring your own food!) to consume some of my purchases with a pint of Totnes’ finest ale. It was there that I opened a copy of The Light, a newspaper-styled publication that promised – and delivered – an anti-establishment view of, primarily, the covid vaccination programme.

          The writing failed to keep a balance of rational argument, descending instead into impassioned ranting and extended riffing on a theory of conspiratorial power-grabs by the likes of Bill Gates. It was an unpalatable read so, when later I passed the distribution table on the street, I stopped to ask for a lucid explanation of the “anti-vax” position. Maybe I was just lucky but, instead of being berated by some swivel-eyed fanatic, I was properly engaged by an ex-teacher whose ability to present a coherent set of reasons (subject to fact-checking) not prejudices, was a joy to my ears and a challenge to my preconceptions. The Light has since been resting on my coffee table at home, where it awaits my further consideration – providing I can work up the enthusiasm to digest its proselytising style.

          Meanwhile, back at the roots of alternative lifestyles, I have just spent some time ‘forest-bathing’ with friends who, somewhat late in life, have purchased a few acres of woodland in which to practise what they preach, which is (as far as I can tell) to honour nature and do their bit to encourage it to thrive in the face of the challenges presented by the Anthropocene era: that and to relax off-grid as and when they are able to make the time in their otherwise urban schedule. It seems to me they have bitten off more than they can chew, but then I have grown wary of taking on projects that have a time-scale beyond my own life-expectation, which is the understandable perspective of a non-parent. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy the fleeting return to youth in the form of a feeling of boyish adventure brought on by the open fire and improvised shelter. But, along with that and the joy of contemplating daffodils and green shoots, there was work to be done – a dying ash tree needed felling. I assisted with the aftermath, sawing up the smaller branches in a show of manly vigour and woodworking expertise. All very satisfying, except that I was woken in the early hours of the next morning by persistent pain in my shoulder, symptom of yet another worn-out part, I have no doubt.   

The Art of Persuasion

          On Saturday, the XR groups from around our region got together to attract the public’s attention to the enormous scale of Barclay’s investment in fossil fuels. The action took the form of a funeral parade through the city centre and a set-piece outside – and inside – Barclay’s Bank, comprising a theatrical roll-call of hundreds of  assassinated eco-activists. I had been cajoled into helping with logistics, but soon got sucked into the more public-facing role of ‘outreach’.

          Now, at its simplest, this involves handing out leaflets, but more was expected of me, apparently, since I was given a placard to hang around my neck and another to brandish: the one was a league table of banks ranked by their green credentials; the other was an invitation to talk to me about switching banks. And I have to say that, despite my initial shyness (not helped by the fat bloke who emerged from a pub en route to shout “Wankers!” at us), I rather warmed to the task in the end. ‘Outreach’ is, after all, marketing, the fundamentals of which I absorbed during my years in business. So, realising that I had been furnished with good tools, I set up pitch on the broad pedestrian way so as to be visible to all passers-by. The day was sunny, which helps, and people were attracted to the league table, pausing to check their bank’s ranking, thereby giving me an opportunity to make eye contact, smile and utter a few words of encouragement for them to engage with me on the issue.

          My strike rate was impressive, though not every respondent seemed fully engaged with the principle of switching their accounts. Several middle-aged ladies took the time to tell me of their outrage at the greed of banks generally but made no connection with environmental concerns. A small chap in a leather cap seemed more promising. He was chuffed by the fact that he was already with the Co-op Bank (very green), but it turned out that he really wanted to tell me that he was a retired architect and that he could assure me that the twin towers of the Trade Centre could not have collapsed as they did merely from the impact of two jetliners. On the other hand, a Police Liaison Officer, who had been eyeing me from time-to-time, came at last to have a word – not about moving on, but about the criteria used for ranking the banks. He seemed genuinely interested, as if he would seriously consider switching if the evidence was sound, but he was suddenly distracted by his radio and called away to liaise elsewhere.

          After a while, some fellow demonstrators, having noticed my success in attracting respondents, gathered around to talk to me and I had to shoo them away because a queue was forming at my placard. It turned out to be three Italian students, who asked me to explain what was going on. They may have thought it was an English version of a saint’s day celebration, or they might just have taken my invitation to “Speak to me”, as an opportunity to practise their English. In any case, their bank accounts, being Italian, were beyond my ken.

          Overall, I was encouraged by positive responses from several concerned individuals, as well as frustrated by the negativity of others. When one person said they had banked with Barclays for 20 years, I wanted to retort, “So what? Did they ever show loyalty to you?” But, knowing confrontation is not an effective tool of persuasion, I held my tongue. Persuading people to act rationally is notoriously difficult. Nevertheless, it must be done somehow. To quote Doctor Seuss, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”