One Thing After Another

          The past week flew by in a series of seemingly unconnected events. Daily routines were lightly disrupted for a couple of days by our hosting a visitor and the better behaved of her two beloved dogs. Since we have never had a household pet and I have never felt the desire for one, I tend to think of such visits – whether as host or guest – as a form of ‘cultural exchange’. On the one hand we have the self-centred lifestyle in which the protagonists are unencumbered in the pursuit of their personal interests: on the other, the dog-centred world of duties and obligations. From my observations, it appears that dog-owners put the needs of their animals first and only then feel free to turn to the pursuit of their own fulfilment. My lack of enthusiasm for this approach to life remains unflinching. Nor has there been any movement on the other side of this particular cultural chasm, from which we might conclude that there is mutual incomprehension of the other party’s position.

          Prior to our visitor’s arrival, I decided to patch up some screw-holes in the bedroom wall and paint over them in the existing colour. I got a book of colour swatches from the shop and set about finding a match, but the two-centimetre squares of printed paper in a dozen slightly differing shades proved to be more baffling than helpful and I ended up buying a very expensive litre of the wrong one. It almost matches, but not quite. Now, I am resisting the self-inflicted pressure to re-paint the whole room, using the arguments that the difference is barely noticeable, we don’t spend much time in that room and the lights are off much of the time when we do. I am fortunate in having a partner for whom interior décor is a subject of low priority so I could get away with it for as long as my sensibilities allow – which is probably not long, since I am already re-considering the colour scheme of all the other rooms – even though I know there are more pressing issues in our lives.

          For instance, I am becoming involved in a Community Building Company, a form of charitable organisation that has set itself the goal of buying and re-purposing the empty buildings on nearby Union Street, a once fabulous centre of entertainment in Plymouth. The theatres, cinemas, pubs and clubs that once thrived there shut down as the Naval base shrank and home-entertainment became more pervasive. Our intentions are not just to rescue such architecture as is notable, but mainly to ensure that speculative property development does not displace the local population, much of which falls into the ‘inner-city deprived’ category. And as part of the ‘community-building’ process, an annual street fair has been established. At this latest one, I got into conversation with a woman at the artisan bakery stall. She said she was considering moving to the neighbourhood and wanted to be sure that good food outlets were available. “Well,” I said, “It’s a chicken-and-egg situation.” Of course, we did exactly the same recce before we moved here two years ago.

          Re-building communities after their original raison d’être has disappeared is tricky. Thatcher’s policy of industrial closure took little or no account of the consequential destruction the communities that depended on them and, even now, there is very little Central Government support for repairing damaged social fabrics. Listening to the radio this morning, when the Prime Minister and her acolytes finally deigned to speak to the public about last Friday’s “fiscal event” announcements, I heard nothing to give me hope that this has changed. Despite widespread expert opinion that the new policies are causing economic havoc for us all, we heard only a refusal to acknowledge any causal connection. It’s all just a series of unconnected events, apparently.