Philosophy On The Cheap

 

          I had only gone to the outdoor adventure superstore to buy some toilet fluid for the campervan but I could not resist a bit of fantasy shopping while I was there. I was almost tempted to buy some plastic plates that were cleverly shaped to be held in one hand rather than laid on a level surface. The design seemed obvious for table-free dining, so why had it taken so long for someone to come up with it? Considering I haven’t slept in a tent for years, I have an inexplicably lingering obsession with camping utensils.

          Yes, at last, the campervan season is upon us. I spent a couple of nights last week in mid-Wales, just outside the former market town of Llanidloes and, so as not to alienate the locals, I asked the owner of the campsite for its correct pronunciation. “We call it Lanny”’ she said. When I went to have a poke around the town on Saturday morning I found it has that alternative vibe associated with an influx of incomers looking for a haven. The medieval butter market still stands in the middle of the road – awkwardly at odds with modern traffic flow – and the characterful buildings from its prosperous Victorian heyday are intact, if a little run down. Many have been re-purposed and there are quite a few independent retail outlets, interspersed with second-hand shops. I sense that its rural economy is nowadays supplemented with tourist income. There is still a functioning library-cum-museum, but it was deserted when I went in and the librarian looked surprised to see me. On one of the tables was a stack of copies of The Light, a free publication associated with the far right and conspiracy theorists. As I flicked through, I was taken aback by a strapline that stated, “no illness has ever been caused by a virus” and would have read on in the hope of enlightenment if the librarian had not stirred to remind me it was closing time. Following that unexpected encounter with unreason, Lanny took on a slightly sinister aura as I left it in the rear-view mirror.

          I was happy to return to the city and the company of my fully vaccinated social circle, in particular the philosophy discussion group under the auspices of the University of the Third Age (U3A). We number, at most, half a dozen and are currently learning a bit about the ancient Greeks. But our other preoccupation is finding a meeting space that is suitable, by which I mean free of charge, quiet and available around lunchtime – but mainly free of charge. We used to be happily accommodated in the lounge of the Theatre Royal, but its open-plan arrangement can be too noisy. All the cafes we contemplated as alternatives were similarly afflicted. In fact, it’s a mystery to me how the distinguished intellectuals who famously traded ideas in the cafes of Paris and Vienna managed to make themselves heard above the din. Could it be explained by the fact of their relative youth and soundness of hearing? As for the Greeks, it is easy to imagine that they could just have met outdoors.

          So, we went across the road to the Travelodge, where there is a lounge-cum-breakfast area that is deserted between the hours of 10.00 and 15.00. The receptionist, Lilly, was pleased to make us tea and even agreed to turn off the TV and the muzak while we held our meetings. But, alas, those days are no more. This week, Lilly’s manager was on site, enforcing the regulations concerning corporate branding, especially those relating to the TV and muzak playing constantly in empty spaces. Before leaving we agreed reluctantly to meet at the Theatre Royal next time. I’d swear that even Lilly, sensing we would not return, looked dispirited as we abandoned her to her corporate fate.

 

 

Home Alone

          In the late 70’s, there was a fad for the pseudoscientific theory of biorhythms. It came to mind this week when I experienced a day of extraordinary listlessness, brain-fog and clumsiness. Since this is not how I normally feel, I sought an explanation for the condition but, lacking the energy to dig deeply, fell back upon the familiar, half-boiled theory. I might as well have consulted my horoscope – another unsubstantiated system that purports to explain the vagaries of life. On reflection, it’s more likely that my bio-system was fully engaged in fighting off a viral attack, therefore short on reserves for anything but the essentials – getting up, getting dressed, getting lunch, etc.

          It may be unrelated, but I think the fact that I had been on my own for a few days imposed a layer of introspection on what would otherwise have been an unremarkable event. With no-one around to chivvy me along, perhaps I was just wallowing a bit – which is one reason why I wouldn’t choose to live alone. On the other hand, the temporary absence of my Other Half is something I savour as an opportunity to break out of habitual behaviours, free myself of compromises and revert to solitary indulgences, such as uninterrupted reading for hours on end – which has enabled me to finish several books – and watching a tv series for which she has shown no enthusiasm but which has captured my full attention (Better Call Saul). And there have been podcasts to fill the silences, among them a discourse on the history of the waltz (I find myself tapping the keyboard in 3/4 time as I write this).

          A lot of cultural ground can be covered when your time is your own, but the downside is not having anyone to share your harvest with. Perhaps, when she gets back, I can interest my OH in the following. Having read an account* of the prosecution in 1960 of the publisher of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (unexpurgated), I was struck not only by the contortions that the law has to perform in order to impose a moral code on its citizenry, but also the way in which that same code is applied differently to social classes. The now infamous line uttered by the prosecutor, “Is it a book that you would even want your wife or servants to read?” would be laughed out of court today (I hope). Then there is the waltz, which originated in Germany. It eventually gained acceptance as a civilised form of social recreation in England, but here it evolved a certain form of etiquette: ladies and gentlemen held themselves with a formal reserve, taking care to avoid intimacy, even in the form of eye-contact, unlike the lower classes, whose heartier embraces they considered vulgar and prurient. And, lest you should believe the USA is a classless society, check out Better Call Saul, with its revealing sub-plot of snobbery within the American legal profession. (I notice that Saul lives alone, by the way.)

          One day, while out cycling for exercise, I stopped to consult my phone and was approached by a man in his thirties who asked me a series of questions about cycling. At first, I assumed he was someone considering buying a bike and wanting some tips. But it turned out he was already an habitual cyclist and he just wanted to moan about how dangerous it is on the roads, what with motorists seeming to have a vendetta against him. “I ride every day and I get cut up almost as soon as I leave home!” I didn’t quite know what to make of the conversation, but it did occur to me afterwards that he might live on his own and need to express himself to someone – anyone. Either that, or his biorhythm had hit one of those low days when paranoia finds an easy way in. Perhaps what he really needed was a hug.

*Alison MacLeod Tenderness

Baked-in Heritage

          ‘Tis the season of hot cross buns, which reminds me that, as a student, I once had a holiday job in a bakery, where one of my tasks was to put the crosses on top of the doughy blobs before they were slid into the ovens. These seasonal treats were baked originally to mark the beginning or end (I don’t remember which) of a Christian fasting ritual. I could check online – if I could be bothered. But I take the view that if we were to get too picky about the origins of our numerous traditions, casual conversations based on commonly accepted heritage would be impossible. Pedantry is an acquired taste. Nevertheless, I think it behoves bakers to make some reference to the origins of the bun, lest another generation grows up in ignorance of its religious conception. The story could be printed on the packaging, in between the list of ingredients and the table of calorific and energy values, where those who are habitually investigative might find enlightenment.

          But do the details of religious history really matter in today’s more secular society? Perhaps not so much for their own sake as for the fact that they are the foundations of traditions we can share, thereby binding us socially and anchoring us to a place and a past. In a way, this argument applies to the village of Buckland Monachorum and its over-sized church. The unusual placename is a Latin reference to the monks who lived at the nearby Abbey and who were probably responsible for the jumbo church. On Sunday, when we visited a friend who lives in the village, a very small congregation was visible through the open door of the church, suggesting to me that things will end badly for the almost-redundant building – unless it gets rescued by a heritage preservation fund and turned into a tourist attraction, whereupon its back-story will be revealed in detail for those who are interested. And as a concomitant, the village will become even more quaintly attractive and further distanced from its original reason for being.

          Of course, there is a view that neither the past nor the future is of much consequence in people’s everyday lives; it’s the here-and-now that counts. Given the unpredictability of events, it’s a reasonable stance, though it smacks of selfishness and, actuarily, it might not stack up. While there is nothing to be done about the past, the future could be rosy and, with a bit of planning, rosier still. Studies of available statistics* show that, on the whole, humanity has more reason to be optimistic for the future than is generally acknowledged. And if you have won the postcode lottery of life and live in a peaceful, prosperous part of the world, there is a good chance that forward planning will pay off eventually. However, if your part of the world happens to be Britain, then you will find yourself swimming against a tide of short-termism, as embodied in our political and economic systems. What with our politicians preoccupied with winning votes from a mostly ill-informed and disillusioned electorate and our businesses dedicated to maximising shareholder returns in the shortest possible timeframe, investment in the future, both socially and industrially, is not on the agenda.

          Like most of my generation, I used to enjoy a mass-produced hot cross bun, toasted and slathered in butter. They gave me indigestion, so I laid off them for many years. Nowadays, I get the sourdough ones from the artisan baker and scoff them un-toasted and un-buttered. It’s a heritage product that has been through a rough patch of industrial processing but is coming good with a return to wholesome ingredients and craft baking skill. Past, present and future all in a bun.

 *Hans Rosling Factfulness (2018)

and Hannah Ritchie Not the End of the World (2024) 

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah...

          The weather lately has suited me well: wet and windy days interspersed with dry and often sunny ones. For me, this translates into a healthy balance of indoor and outdoor pursuits. One afternoon, I sat solidly on the sofa and finished reading Polly Toynbee’s memoir*. The next morning, I cycled through the rejuvenating sunlight along the seafront to the old fishing harbour, where I indulged my craving for coffee, a croissant and a mooch around an up-market charity shop. I returned two hours later feeling refreshed and in possession of an elegant, mid-sixties glass carafe and set of tumblers that we definitely don’t need.

          Looking back on the week, the sixties have been much on my mind (an explanation, if one were needed, for the superfluous purchase). Polly Toynbee is the same age as me and much of her story is set in the sixties and studded with characters from the political and social scene of the time. There are also photos of her, fashionably attired á la Carnaby Street, which are guaranteed to make a veteran of those days wax nostalgic. In the evenings, I binged on The Beatles: Get Back, a seven-hour-long fly-on-the-wall documentary filmed while they were assembling their songs for the Let It Be album. I imagine all that footage might be too much for those with only a passing interest in the music, but for anyone intrigued by the creative process, its very duration is a merit. To lighten things up, there are fascinating glimpses of Linda, Yoko and Maureen. And, for those who appreciate the technicalities, the characters responsible for the recording, equipment and general back-up are all highly visible. The prodigious musical output is the most striking aspect of the film, but the unspoken social commentary is interesting too. It’s there in the fashions, manners and habits of the time: for instance, there was very little swearing and an awful lot of ciggie-smoking, the opposite of what you might expect in a studio today.

          I don’t know whether Polly Toynbee was a Beatles fan – or whether the Beatles were even aware of Polly - but whereas she continued in her family’s tradition of political writing and activism, the Beatles (collectively) kept shtum publicly on such matters – with the notable exception of Taxman, their 1966 rail against the tax rates for high earners. At that time, I was far less interested in politics than I was in popular music and, if I had been asked, I probably would have said that the two were unconnected. This, I now believe, was a view born of ignorance. Ask me now and I would say that everything is political.

          At our last University of the Third Age (U3A) discussion group, the topic was ‘trust’ and how it impinges on our social interactions. We concluded that society can only work as long as a degree of trust – or at least the expectation of it – is embedded in our transactions with other individuals, our institutions and the state. This led to a round of votes on which politicians (including from the sixties, Heath and Wilson, both of whom are named and blamed in Taxman) we considered to be trustworthy. Perhaps because our group tends towards left-wing liberalism, there was mostly consensus. But the problem with attributing trustworthiness to individuals is that it does not necessarily carry over into politics. John Steinbeck** put it nicely, thus:

“The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first, they love the produce of the second.”

All you need is love, eh? I wish it were so.

 

*Polly Toynbee An Uneasy Inheritance

**Novelist and Nobel laureate

 

 

Eyes Right?

           Reading specs, driving specs, computer specs, varifocals (for general use); even the simplest of tasks is now complicated by having first to choose, then locate the appropriate eyewear. My optician is unsympathetic. In fact, he told me that he had recently read a professional paper arguing the case for even more specs. Its author had concluded that the visually challenged should, ideally, have a separate pair for every one of life’s tasks, which would add up to eleven, different prescriptions. How would you even manage the logistics? But perhaps it would be possible, one day, to have just one pair of digital lenses, adjustable by scrolling, to match every prescription.

          Anyway, having found my computer specs (not in the obvious place), I hurriedly finished the online ‘artwork’ for the poster advertising the latest jazz-themed social evening. I needed some actual paper copies to reach out to the social-media-challenged, so I primed the printer and pressed enter. When the prints came out a different colour from the on-screen version, I thought for a moment that I might need another trip to the opticians to check for colour-blindness. But the diagnosis was obviously non-medical: the cheap substitute cartridges I’ve been using are incompatible with the hardware. (Or, more likely, the hardware is programmed to play up when it detects subs.) Either way, I would have to buy the branded ones. I found them at the local computer shop, but the exorbitant price reminded me why I had shunned them in the first place. “Don’t worry,” said the man, “we can print them for you. Just email me the image”. Five minutes later and £2 lighter of credit, I walked out with ten, perfectly colour-balanced copies and a growing conviction that some things are best left to professionals.

          On the other hand, when the old campervan needed a replacement rear window wiper motor and the mechanics declared it obsolete, I sourced a pre-owned part on eBay and, out of pique, fitted it myself. The bill was cheaper, but it cost me a stiff neck and considerable time removing and replacing plastic panels, exploring the wiring etc… not to mention the hassle of having both reading and varifocal specs to hand. In the end, I recalled the wisdom of the old rhyme:

M'lord tried to fix the electric light

It struck him dead

And served him right

T’is the duty of the nobleman

To provide employment to the artisan.

But I had been keen to get the job done prior to our drive to Lyme Regis, where we were going to join some old friends for a couple of days in a rented sea-side cottage.

          Lyme Regis is a little place, but it punches above its weight in the arena of international fame. It was noted in the Domesday Book and granted the “Regis” (Latin for “of the King”) tag in 1284, because of its status as a port. It was renowned then for its unique harbour wall, known as the Cobb which, though it has since been rebuilt to a different design, remains famous. Jane Austen visited it as a tourist and it features in her novel Persuasion and in John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman. But, above all, Lyme Regis is known for being a centre of palaeontology, ever since Mary Anning (1799-1847), an uneducated local woman, began to excavate and categorise the fossils embedded in the Jurassic era cliffs. Although in her day she received scant professional recognition, in 2010 she was recognised by the Royal Society as one of the ten most influential women scientists in British history.

          The cliffs at Lyme Bay are prone to slippage, making it easy to access the famous fossil beds. We visited on a grey, rainy day – just the sort that causes the slippage – and there were people on the beach, chipping away with little stone-hammers. How much easier it would be, I thought, if they had X-Ray specs.