On Choosing One's Destiny

          Finally, we decided on a colour for the walls. It’s called Tundra Frost. Despite my slight embarrassment at returning several times for sample pots, the man in the paint shop told me that I was nowhere near the record, which is held by a person who bought 46 pots to determine two shades of cream for one room. It made me feel quite decisive.

          I became impatient waiting for the decorators who said they’d do the job to get back to me so, while my Other Half is away for a week, I’ve taken the opportunity to get on with it myself. The fact is, I never could resist a DIY challenge, especially one that fell comfortably within my abilities. Nevertheless, I have a nagging feeling that, despite enjoying the work itself, there are more momentous issues crying out for my attention. I am also a little anxious about meeting the somewhat demanding deadline.

          Am I over-worrying the situation? If so, I put it down to the accumulation of knowledge and experience that clogs my mind and inhibits my motivational impulse. Oh, for a return of the simplicity of youth, when everything was an adventure upon which I would embark without hesitation. Nowadays, I think at least twice about everything.

          Last week, our friends took us on their catamaran, as passengers, for a sail up the River Tamar. I chose not to get involved in manoeuvring the vessel. I have tried it before and decided that life is too short to spend it acquiring skills that I don’t need (I have a tendency to become sea-sick), which left me in a position to observe not just the scenery, but also the procedure. Under sail and with strong but variable winds, experience is required to navigate the several sharp bends while keeping to the deep channel. It’s not what you call ‘plain sailing’. But conditions were favourable, the crew were competent and we had time before the tide turned to drop anchor and enjoy lunch in the spacious cabin that straddles the hulls.

          Our destination was Calstock, around which the lucrative industries of mining and lime production thrived at a time when the spoils had to be transported down river by sailing barges. It seems to me that those involved in that trade must have mastered not only the skills but also the longanimity required to sit out the vagaries of wind and weather without suffering constant deadline-stress syndrome. Perhaps they enjoyed the work/life balance. If so, they were probably not best pleased when the railway arrived and deprived them of it.

          As to whether I could spend my time more profitably than by wielding a paintbrush – it is a moot point. We are all living our lives to a deadline (literally), we just don’t know when it’s scheduled. It makes sense, therefore, to make progress, while we can, with whatever we are best equipped to achieve. This is a thought that preoccupies me increasingly, in direct proportion to my diminishing future prospect. It can lead to a sort of desperation to try anything – as, for example, when I went recently to a performance given by a fifty-strong steel band. It was certainly impressive; there was no conductor up front and no sheet music to guide them through their impressively complex pieces. And yet, once the novelty wore off, I could find only so much musicality in the hitting of steel drums with sticks, no matter how masterfully executed. I left the hall uninspired, but in awe of the commitment of those involved.

          But I must get back to the job. Satisfaction lies in its completion, on time, within budget and to a competent standard: of that, I’m sure. It’s just the Tundra Frost I have a lingering doubt about.  

 

 

Aisle Number One

          I was crossing the carpark on my way into the supermarket when a woman emerged from a car, looked at me and said, “I was having trouble seeing the lines.” Apparently, she was embarrassed by her inept parking. As if I had even noticed! Still, I smiled and responded, “Yes, it’s time they were repainted. But there’s plenty of space, it’s not busy this early.” “I know,” she said as we walked through the door in sync. “That’s why I’ve come now. I have to go into town after.” She was, I guess, in her early seventies and had a purposeful set to her petite frame. I complimented her, jokingly, on her efficient time-management. She didn’t smile, but continued to outline the rest of her day, regardless of our being strangers to each other. I know that routines and goals, however trivial they may appear, do play a part in maintaining good health, physically and mentally. Perhaps that was how she kept things together, I thought.

          My own resilience in this respect has been tested these past couple of weeks, one of which was spent looking after three dogs at the house of relatives, the other spent entertaining visitors back at home. Although my habitual routines were thereby disrupted, I cannot claim to have suffered unduly – painful as it was to have been  obliged to make conversation over breakfast. Nevertheless, I missed the rhythms of my preferred lifestyle and, now that I have settled back into them, I feel more at ease. None of which is to deny the advantages of disruption – the stimulant of company and the refreshing of perspectives discovered in unfamiliar places or situations. In the end, however, it’s the certainty of a controlled environment and a constant companion that gives me comfort.

          But I haven’t finished with the woman at the supermarket. As we arrived at the fruit aisle, I feigned an interest in the bananas, thinking she might take the hint that we both had errands to fulfil. Instead, she began a new topic of conversation, her penchant for coastal hiking – something we both share, as it happens. However, it wasn’t conversation she wanted, just a sympathetic ear, so I listened patiently to descriptions of her favourite stretches of the Cornish coast, while using my body language to move us along, hoping that she would remember the urgency of her mission to get into town. But we had only progressed as far as the nectarines when she announced that she was going to show me some photos of the stretch from Polperro to St. Ives.

          She fished out her phone and there was that awkward couple of minutes while I waited for her to locate the pics, during which time I averted my eyes from her screen, as per newly-established social conventions. And, with nothing to do but contemplate the nectarines, I remembered the last time I had tried one from there, about four years ago: it was tough as a turnip and less flavoursome. When she eventually found them, her photos were embedded in a chain of WhatsApp messages, a sort of travelogue, that she had sent to her son. As I admired the shots – all strips of blue, green and yellow, the coast on a sunny day – it became apparent that she hiked alone. Not that she expressed loneliness, either in words or demeanour but, after we parted company (by the melons) with the usual, “must be getting on, nice to talk to you” etc., it occurred to me that what she was really doing was keeping herself busy, filling her days with whatever it took to give them meaning.

The Jury's Out?

          Last Saturday, I joined around one hundred other concerned citizens at a Defend Our Juries rally in Parliament Square, the ideal location, you might think, for such a demonstration. It’s a high-profile, public space right outside the seat of government. However, it’s actually a traffic island and it has to be shared with other groups wanting to make an impression on Parliament and the public at large.

           The spot beneath the statue of Gandhi is especially popular and, in order to claim it, we were obliged to come to a time-share arrangement with groups demanding rights for trans-sexual people and statehood for Palestine. And, considering one of our aims was to engage the passing public, the spot was even less ideal. The foot-traffic consisted almost entirely of foreign tourists, whose interests lay elsewhere – mainly in getting selfies of themselves with the smart, white-shirted, pointy-helmeted officers of the Metropolitan police, who were there in abundance. (I imagine that the body-armour-clad snatch-squads lurking nearby were too menacing to approach and, in any case, did not project the essence of the ‘Mother of Democracies’ that the photographers were hoping to capture.)

          Still, there were some fine speeches – and an amusingly satirical poem – addressed to the assembled crowd of already-converted campaigners in the hope that TV news channels would broadcast our message, which is that we object to the judicial undermining of the long-established* principle that juries, having been presented with all the relevant information, have the right to give their verdict according to their convictions. (In March 2023, Trudi Warner sat, silently, outside Southwark Crown Court holding a poster reminding jurors of this right. The judge, presiding over a case against climate activists inside, ordered her arrest and prosecution for “contempt of court” and “conspiring to influence the jury”.)

          I can’t say for sure that our rally didn’t make it on to the national news channels but, even if it did, it would have been eclipsed by the rioting that subsequently broke out in several cities and which is attributed to politically far-right groups who blame immigrants for our social problems. That footage of violent mobs attacking premises, fellow citizens and the police made it to Australia, from where my sister sent messages of concern for her siblings at home and for the UK itself, which, as she saw it, seemed about to erupt into civil war. A few days later, the rioters (whose targets also included retail outlets, especially those selling booze, fags, trainers and phones) were faced down by far larger numbers of counter-protestors determined not to let violence prevail. Civil war was never likely to transpire, but the power of media to amplify an event is evident, which is why we too would like some exposure for our cause.

          But there might be a chance of a randomly beneficial side-effect to all this violent disorder – at least for those who have been locked up for protesting peacefully. The government promised swift justice and harsh sentences for those caught red-handed in acts of violence against society and, today, the first of those arrested were tried, convicted and sentenced. Two men are now serving two-and-a-half year terms in jail.

           Well, it was certainly swift – especially considering the utter congestion of our legal system – but whether it was harsh is a moot point. By comparison, four people are currently serving four-year custodial sentences and a fifth was jailed for five years – the longest sentences ever given in the UK for non-violent protesting. Their crime was to discuss, via Zoom, a plan to disrupt traffic on the M25. Their motive was to bring attention to the devastation that fossil-fuel extraction is wreaking on our eco-sphere, but the judge ordered that they were not allowed to mention that in the court, lest it sway the jury.

           As to which of the crimes prosecuted is more harmful to society, the jury’s certainly not out.

*Ref the prosecution, in 1670, of two Quakers, Penn and Mead, who were tried for preaching to an unlawful assembly. The jury refused to give a verdict against them.

WOMAD

          I was initiated into the world of music festivals in 1969 at the Isle of Wight. Bob Dylan was the main attraction for me, but there were many other favourites of mine on the bill. The following year I caught the ferry across the Solent again, this time to see an even more comprehensive roster of outstanding acts and, looking back, I’m not sure which was more incredible, the lineup* or the fact that the tickets cost less than a fiver.

           Memories become patchy and distorted, as we all know, yet such fragments as remain with me from those festivals are vivid to this day. Jimi Hendrix dazzled us with his guitar wizardry, building to a climax when he set fire to his instrument (literally) while still playing it. But what I remember most clearly about that was that he pulled from his pocket one of those little yellow tins of lighter fluid and periodically squirted it over the guitar to keep the flames going. The mundane, makeshift nature of this pyrotechnic device somewhat dulled the magic of the moment and drew a line for me between musicality and theatricality, hence my subsequent indifference to, for instance, Ziggy Stardust.

           For a few carefree years, I would catch up with the music I liked at similar multi-act, outdoor gigs, until I moved from London and grew into a different scene and phase of life, emerging at last into the light of jazz. I started going to jazz festivals (where the theatrical elements of performances, if there were any, were restrained so as not to distract attention from the musical artistry). But while I was preoccupied with my newly adopted genre, something happened to music festivals. They no longer presented themselves as extended gigs, but had become ever more complex, multi-stage, multi-interest events appealing to wider audiences.

          I began to fancy the idea of one of these new-fangled festivals that embraced literature, poetry, art and music – something for everyone – and, in 2016, I finally got around to attending Festival Number 6 at Portmeirion. One reason for the delay in making the decision was my astonishment at the effect inflation had had on ticket prices in the years intervening. Another can be laid at the feet of my Other Half, whose aversion to events such as these is as stubborn as it is unaccountable. I did persuade her, eventually, to come along, only to have my success blunted by the incessant rain which led to the total washout of the event, our early departure and the confirmation of her antipathy.

          Fast forward to this year and I made up my mind to give festivals another chance. The one I chose was WOMAD, World of Music, Arts and Dance (only later did I discover the irony of its nickname, World of Mums and Dads) and this time I went solo. The weather was perfect and there were tents dedicated to real ale and cider so, if all else proved disappointing, there was some solace to be found. But being alone is only fun for a while, so I hooked up as soon as I could with some friends, old and new, that I knew were there and the event subsequently took on a sociable, party atmosphere. I began to understand that I was in a sort of holiday theme-park, with a menu of entertainments at my disposal.

          I don’t need to go back to WOMAD. The ‘world music’ genre is a mixed bag, some of it too ethnically pure to be more than academically interesting, some of it too rhythmically focussed to go anywhere but trance-dance and some of it too mixed up to qualify as ‘fusion’. I could try another festival next summer – Love Supreme has been suggested as being more to my liking. Of course, what I’d really like to do is go back to the Isle of Wight and, this time, pay more attention. But time-travel is for dreamers.

* I.o.W. 1970.
Jethro Tull
Ten Years After
Chicago
Family
Taste
Voices of East Harlem
Arrival
Lighthouse
The Doors
Joni Mitchell
The Who
Sly and the Family Stone
Great Mother
Free
John Sebastian
Emerson, Lake & Palmer
Mungo Jerry
Spirit
Jimi Hendrix Experience
Joan Baez
Donovan & Open Road
Leonard Cohen & the Army
Richie Havens
Moody Blues
Pentangle
Good News