Now, Where Was I?

          Sitting down to a spot of diarising the other day, it came as a shock to realise that the year is already past its half-way mark. I know, it’s obvious, but I should explain that I’m not a natural in the fields of chronology and horology. I need visual aids – calendars (the original ‘spreadsheets’), clocks and fingers upon which to count. It’s not my fault, of course. If our accepted systems were logical, I would have no problem following them. For example, why does the year start somewhat arbitrarily in the middle of winter and not at the beginning of it? And who thought it was a good idea to have seven days in a week when we, the numerically challenged, can more easily cope with decimal and binary systems? And as for the variable number of days in a month, well…need I expound?

          I keep track of everything, these days, by using digital calendars and notebooks. They have many advantages over paper when it comes to organising events, especially those that are shared with a partner: referencing is easy with ‘search’ commands; upcoming birthdays are flagged in advance; filing is invisible and takes no shelf space; availability is always in your pocket, etc. And when I say that I keep track of everything, I mean past as well as future events. I keep a note of books I have read because lately it seems I remember more of those that I haven’t read than those that I have. So, if someone asks me if I’ve read a particular book, I can whip out my phone and check: they don’t have to listen to me mumbling, “I’m not sure”, and the imagined sounds of my memory-rummagings. Unfortunately, I can’t always recall the contents of that book. Neither my notes nor my memory is that extensive.

          Is it an inevitable consequence of aging that one’s past becomes a more valued asset, one in which to take comfort, one to be cherished? After all, the opposite does seem to apply: youth looks forward to life and cares not so much about what went before. Giorgi Gospodinov, in his novel Time Shelter, puts it this way, “They say that the past is a foreign country. Nonsense. The past is my home country. The future is a foreign country, full of strange faces.” He goes on to imagine clinics that are time-themed – for example, furnished in mid-20^th century style – recreating environments for those suffering from Alzheimer’s disease who feel comforted by surroundings familiar to them from their earlier days. He goes on to riff about the relationship between past and future, claiming that “Somewhere in the Andes, they believe to this very day that the future is behind you. It comes up from behind your back, surprising and unforeseeable, while the past is always before your eyes, that which has already happened. When they talk about the past, the people of the Aymara tribe point in front of them”.

          Confused? Well, yes but it can be argued that our past, being a part of what we are at present, is very much in our sights, while our future, if not exactly perceived as being behind us, could at least be described as lurking at the corner of the next intersection. As far as my diary is concerned, however, time is strictly linear, which suits me fine, as I would be quite lost in any other space-time continuum, unable to plan our upcoming excursions to Spain and Athens, which was why I had my diary out in the first place. I suppose what got me started was the realisation, as I made myself comfortable, that our living space is furnished in a certain mid-20^th century fashion, a style that has always been my favourite. So, inadvertently, it seems that I’ve prepared for what might come.

 

Just Saying...

          Wimbledon is over, but the contest between the England and Australia cricket teams continues – as does the disruptive action at these events by certain parties trying to draw attention to the looming catastrophe of climate change caused by human economic activity. If I’d had the ear of the sporting authorities, I would have suggested they invite the demonstrators to set up stalls from which they could disseminate their message. Not only would this have avoided the expense and inconvenience to their customers of the extra security checks, it would also have lent heft to the demonstrators’ message, since it might be perceived as having the endorsement of the authorities – assuming, of course, that the authorities concur that they are not immune from the coming storm that is already affecting billions of people outside of Wimbledon and a few select cricket grounds. But enlightenment dawns slowly and the messengers will end up in court, which is better than being shot but just as shortsighted.

          In our household, Wimbledon fortnight has one avid follower – and it’s not me. I was glad to escape the endless TV coverage, for a week at least, by going to Manchester, on the business of sorting out new tenancies for the two flats we rent out there. I had hoped to find time for some socialising as well, but there was too much to do, so I concentrated on fixing, refurbishing and making sure the new tenants would have no reason to trouble me once I had left town. There is apparent reason in the saying “don’t mix business with pleasure”.

          One of my tasks was taking inventories, which always reminds me of childhood and the moves into and out of “married quarters” whenever father was posted to a different Royal Air Force base. What fascinated me was the precise military logic of a description such as – “Table, oak, dining. Qty. 1”. Since then, I’ve had a thing about not getting it the wrong way round, as in “big yellow cushion”. This extends to recipes, which often exasperate me by listing ingredients by measure rather than type, i.e., “1½ teaspoons of finely grated nutmeg”, the reading of which makes the pre-assembly of ingredients tiresome. But I digress from the point, which is that I found myself with an excess of ovens, microwave, Qty. 3. I needed to dispose of one, so I chose the oldest model and took it down to the bins, where a woman – tiny, ancient, Chinese – was examining an upright vacuum cleaner that had been discarded because it’s handle had snapped off. We smiled and, though she spoke only a few words of English, I understood that she was asking me if I could fix it. I convinced her that it was beyond repair and we agreed to put it back into the bin whence she had dragged it. She then switched her interest to my microwave, wanting to know if it was in working condition. I gave her the thumbs up and she indicated she would like it. Now, a microwave is quite heavy – due, I think, to the fact that it contains a mini nuclear reactor – but she would willingly have carried it away, had I not offered to help (I guessed rightly that she lived in an adjacent block that I know to be a housing association full of women, tiny, ancient, Chinese). She appeared chuffed and used her English to the max, saying “thankyou” several times.

          The new tenants turned out to be from Arabia and Brazil, which is probably why they were particularly interested in the heating arrangements. Yet the news is currently dominated by reports of dangerously high temperatures on all the continents and, this morning on BBC Radio 4, Professor Sir Bob Watson told us (as if we didn’t know) that governments were not doing enough to mitigate the existential threat to our ecosystem. Not everyone tunes in to radio 4, but I couldn’t help thinking that if he had interrupted a tennis match to say that, he would have been hustled off to face a criminal charge.

 

 

 

 

Don't Worry, Be Happy

          The topic of last week’s University of the Third Age (U3A) discussion group was Happiness and we duly tied ourselves in knots trying to define it. My rough conclusion was that happiness is a human condition existing at a point on a continuum labelled ‘bliss’ at one end, ‘abject misery’ at the other and ‘contentment’ in between. This sits nicely with my own experience, which is that my life so far has been lived in a state of contentment, with occasional forays towards the extremes. The question then arose, can you recognise happiness if you’ve never been sad? Well, unless such discussions are conducted within strict academic parameters, they can get out of hand and soon become more frustrating than interesting. Fortunately, our sessions are time-limited, so there is always an escape route if things become uncomfortably contentious.

          On Saturday, I was amongst a lot of people who were demonstrably happy (whether they knew it or not is a moot point) for they were celebrating being LGBTQ+ at Tavistock’s Pride Festival. I had started the day feeling a bit grumpy because I had been co-opted into the logistics of transporting and erecting Extinction Rebellion’s stall, then hanging around until it was time to pack it all up and bring it home, effectively sacrificing a whole day to a greater cause when I would have preferred a spot of self-indulgence. But it’s hard to remain glum when all around you is gaiety. Besides, the sun was shining and, when I had had enough of the Freddie Mercury-based soundtrack, I was free to wander into town and get a fix of its unique old architecture and seemingly thriving shops and pannier market. Then, when I returned to the park, I tried something that I would ordinarily not have contemplated: morris dancing. A friend, whose troupe was dancing that day, dragged a couple of us out of our spectator comfort zone to join in an impromptu beginners’ class. The choreography involved wielding sticks in a mock sword fight, which was hazardous but arguably more exhilarating than waving handkerchiefs, an alternative tradition followed by some groups. I was actually complimented on my kick-step, though I suspect this mild flattery might have been a subtle recruitment tactic. Now that I have danced the dance, let me say that I do admire fellow countrypersons who selflessly uphold our ancient folk traditions and am grateful to them for doing so; but one morris dance is enough for me.

          Last week also saw the successful conclusion of my project to renovate the mahogany handrail on the balcony – something that brought me happiness, though I use the word loosely to convey what might more honestly be described as smug satisfaction. It has been many years since I was apprenticed to a cabinet maker, so it was with some apprehension that I approached the task, as I knew it would involve using a tricky little tool known as a cabinet scraper, which is a thin, flexible sheet of steel the size of a cigarette pack, the edges of which have to be formed in a certain way, periodically, to keep them sharp and effective. The forming process itself required skill and a couple of tools that I no longer had, so a visit to the tool shop was required – and that is guaranteed to make me happy, especially when I get to consult with a certain bloke there who knows what I’m talking about. Of course, the niceties of the apparently straightforward process of fixing a handrail that is partly rotting and in need of re-polishing will not be apparent to the layperson, so it’s unsurprising that no one has yet said to me, “Nice job!” Although, come to think of it, if there’s any truth in the saying “ignorance is bliss”, perhaps it’s best if I keep schtum on the technicalities. Then we’ll all be happy.