Them and Us

          There was no corkscrew at the opening event I attended last week, so I took it upon myself to procure one from a shop nearby. Knowing they stock everything a household needs (and loads of junk food that it really doesn’t), I went straight to the kitchen department, but I searched in vain! I asked the young man at the till who, though he had heard of corkscrews, wasn’t sure what they were and asked me to describe their purpose and appearance. As it turned out, he was not only young but Muslim as well, so the expectation that he should know anything about the (ridiculously outdated) method of sealing wine bottles was presumptuous on my part.

          Of course, with this anecdote, I attempt to illustrate how easy it is to assume everyone else shares your experiences and lifestyle. Just as easy, in fact, as it is to do the opposite and conclude, even on fleeting observation, that other tribes, with their funny ways, obviously have it all wrong. From here, it’s an easy step towards demonisation and one so thoughtlessly taken that I fear it is endemic to human behaviour.

          I had to watch my own step this week during a planned visit to Totnes, a town which, by reputation, is a hub of new-age thinking, sustainability, creativity and alternative lifestyles. When news reaches us of odd behaviour there, we say, “Yeah, well, it’s Totnes, isn’t it?” Even though I actually approve of the values that have come to define the place, I had to remind myself not to look at everyone as if they were weird: but for the accidents of fate, I might have ended up living there myself. As it is, I live in the less funky city of Plymouth, where I scatter hopefully the seeds of inclusivity. Polarisation is not the way forward for civilised nations. (There are warning signs from the USA, where recent data shows that many intellectuals are currently migrating from red to blue states.)

          As it happens, I had a dream this week about a life-changing move. My partner and I, during a party at our house, had a brief conversation that concluded in our deciding to walk out, there and then, informing no one, taking nothing with us and intending never to return. That was the exhilarating part of the story: the remainder, in which the consequences of our action unravelled, was misery personified. Antithetically, we would do no such thing and, since we are fortunate enough to have a degree of choice, decided to live where it suits us best (within the parameters of our circumstances). Even so, we should be on guard against adopting local prejudices, real or imagined. Rivalry such as Devon vs. Cornwall, say, or Yorkshire vs. Lancashire may provide a rich (if clichéd) seam of ice-breaking banter, but only for as long as there is a tolerably fair distribution of power and resources between the contestants. When scarcity and injustice come calling, there will arise populist leaders to pick out our resentments and degrade them to the status of hatred.

          But we’re not there yet, especially in relation to Plymouth vs. Totnes, where we spent a pleasant evening. The occasion was a lantern parade, an annual event, held on a seemingly random Tuesday in December (well, this is Totnes) and my Other Half was involved as part of the drumming ensemble recruited to drive things along. The lanterns were all very pretty, thanks to the renowned creativity of the locals (and the ubiquitous availability of cheap LEDs), and the drummers were… enthusiastic. Predictably, I tired of it all before long and found alternative diversion in the many charity shops along the high street, where I found what I had been searching for since last winter: a good pair of woollen trousers, in the right colour, style and size! Whenever I wear them, I shall feel a new sort of affinity with the good folks of Totnes.

Anything But...

           The completion of our household’s tax returns has been on my to-do list since April, but HMRC’s increasingly frequent reminders of the looming deadline finally injected a degree of urgency into the chore and, yesterday, I ticked it off at last. But not before dispatching a good many minor tasks masquerading as essential missions. These included: fixing a doorknob and sorting out my shaving mirror; then shopping for loose-leaf Darjeeling tea, tamarind paste and fairy-lights.

          The knob in question is a wooden one from a kitchen cabinet which, having fallen off, had been lying for two weeks in a bowl on the counter, where it passed itself off as a small brown onion among a crowd of larger ones. It took five minutes to replace it with an identical one that had been attached, for aesthetic reasons, to a dummy drawer front. I have now taken the faulty knob to the garage, where it joins a queue of items slated for refurbishment.

          Regarding the shaving mirror, its position has been an irritant for at least four years. It’s an elegant and effective product of German engineering, but it’s too tall for the shelf on which, ideally, it should stand. So, it squats down by the taps, where I have to crouch in order to use it, which means I never get a good view of that tricky spot under the chin and, consequently, too often cut myself with my so-called safety razor. The solution, when it finally occurred to me, was simple: I lowered the shelf. It took twenty minutes.

          As for the Darjeeling, I am at a loss to understand why so many people prefer to dunk a teabag in a mug and imbibe an inferior beverage from a clunky vessel, when they can as easily infuse the loose leaves in a pot, pour the strained liquid into porcelain and release the full, aromatic flavour of our national drink. Nor am I convinced by the convenience argument: I’m willing to wager that scientific study would reveal marginal savings in time and effort that are easily outweighed by a superior cuppa and – a bonus – enhanced self-esteem arising from having done the job properly.

          And the tamarind paste? It was readily procured in a multi-national ‘Asian Supermarket’, though it has been on the shopping list for so long, neither of us can remember for which recipe it is intended.

          We come then to the fairy lights. They would not normally be required at this time of year, since our habitual way of dealing with the festive season is to go abroad and return when it’s all over. This year, however, the extent of our recent travels has left us with neither appetite nor budget for further excursion, so we’re hunkering down at home, prepared to accept that a degree of engagement with the proceedings is our best option. To this end we have invited two groups of guests to gather socially at Wonderman Towers to acknowledge any or all three of the following: the Christian myth of Jesus’ birth; the Pagan tradition of the Winter Solstice; and the secular celebration of the New Year. A string of gaily coloured lights will, I trust, suit all occasions. It took me fifteen minutes to hang them.

          I also found time this week to test whether my recently rekindled interest in yoga was more than just a passing fancy. But, yet again, I found myself the only male – and an old one, at that – in a class full of middle-aged women, led by a younger woman, which made me feel… out of place. I won’t be going back, but I am on the lookout for a class for old geezers with attitude.

          Anyway, after all that, the tax returns were a doddle, more daunting in the contemplation than the execution. Next year, I’ll knock them out first and rid myself of months of lurking anxiety.