New Laptop, Old Ways

          One of my favourite non-jazz acts appears to be following me around. I first went to see This Is the Kit when I lived in Manchester, since when they have twice travelled to perform near our newly adopted home in the Southwest. Last year, they played at the Minack theatre, a spectacular outdoor venue carved into a Cornish clifftop by an eccentric old lady armed with a pickaxe and wheelbarrow. Last week, they played Falmouth’s Princess Pavilions, the epitome of an elegant Edwardian leisure complex. Lovely venues and heartwarming performances. But the latter was a ‘standing’ gig, which is a bit of a challenge for us older people. Next time I’ll make sure there is seating – comfortable or otherwise – before buying tickets.

          I have come to accept the inevitability of ageing and I don’t feel too hard done by but have noticed lately that various of my gadgets seem to be approaching a similar state of decrepitude. My six-year-old smartphone one day ceased recharging, thereby causing me a moment of panic. Fortunately, I recovered my composure and remembered a quick fix: spraying electrical contact cleaner into the connector port to shift whatever muck has accumulated there. It worked, but my confidence in the phone has been shaken and I’m gearing up for a newer model.

          The cannister of cleaner is expensive, but it can be used on other gadgets. However, it wasn’t effective when, later that week, I tried it on the power port of my seven-year-old laptop. Its battery having died ages ago, it requires permanent connection to the mains, so I have had to splash some cash on a replacement. I bought a pre-owned model that is similar to but more powerful than the deceased one and have had only minor frustrations setting it up to my liking. (New laptop, old ways.) While I was at it, I bought a big monitor so that I could make sense of the spreadsheets that have become part of my voluntary work. So, feeling renewed, invigorated and even chuffed, I sat at my desk all fired-up for a super-productive morning. That was when an arm fell off my twelve-year-old spectacles.

          The specs were unrepairable, so I had to get new ones – after being tested for a new prescription, that is. There followed the tedious process of choosing frames, complicated by the temptation of the buy-one-get-one-free offer, a scheme guaranteed to wind up costing you more than you could imagine before you are presented with the bill. I gritted my teeth and consoled myself by doing a rough calculation to prove that I might never need to buy new stuff again – apart from one of those phones with really big buttons.

          On the way home, I popped into an art gallery situated in an unlikely location a few streets from ours, behind Lidl and sandwiched between a tyre centre and an accommodation facility for temporarily homeless people. I always have the place to myself – not surprising, considering the catchment area and the nature of the work shown, which could be described as radical-contemporary. It’s an outpost of the Arts University, probably funded by some well-meaning foundation to promote diversity and inclusion, which would explain why they always ask me to fill in the survey concerning my socio-economic background. The latest show comprises stacks of framed photographs on the floor and a robot that spends all day picking them up and rearranging them on the walls. Unfortunately, when I called in yesterday, the robot was out of order. “Awfully sorry about that,” said the girl at reception. “Can I ask you to complete our survey?” “Not again,” I said, ungraciously, “But I do have a cannister of electrical contact cleaner you might find useful.”