Commoners?

          They were pretty good at recycling in olden times. When I went to Old Sarum last week, I was awed by the hilltop site, but disappointed by how little was left of the medieval castle and cathedral – just the rough, stony outlines of the excavated foundations were visible. All the good stuff had been taken away and used to build nearby Salisbury, the new town that grew to replace the ancient settlement. Fair enough, I suppose. Dressed stone was an expensive commodity and, besides, people back then weren’t to know that gawpers like me would come along centuries later, in our leisure time (in itself, an unimaginable concept), to try to extrapolate what their lives were like.

          Archaeologists trace continuous occupation of the site from 400 BC to around 1300 AD, so it has a layered history. Of those layers, the one that was on my mind that day (because I am halfway through Kazuo Ishiguru’s the Buried Giant) was the time of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. However, it was the subsequent legacy of the Norman conquest that had the dominant and lasting impact on modern society and, as I gazed down on Salisbury, some of the links came into focus.

          Ever since the Normans took all the land and left the populace to make a living, either in service to their conquerors or by foraging on licensed ‘commons’, we have been stuck with the same system, although it has become so normalised that we tend to forget its origins. It only got worse for the population at large: the commons were subsequently ‘enclosed’ (privatised, in today’s parlance) and people got accustomed to wage slavery as an alternative means of subsistence. It’s not a stretch to describe the present day oligarchs and their political enablers as the modern equivalent of the Normans, an elite that seeks to own everything and rent back to the rest of us that from which profit can be extracted, including hard-won ‘commons’ such as education and healthcare.

          Contemplating history from the heights of Old Sarum put me in a grumpy mood, but not for long. All things considered, I’d rather be a peasant in 2025 than in 1025: at least I have the benefit of some education and a degree of mobility, which means I can visit other historical sites, such as the town of Southport, established around the 1820s and now well past its heyday. I have been several times, accompanying my Other Half, who has business there. While she works, I wander and observe what has become of the place.

          It was once a prosperous and fashionable resort, offering hydrotherapy treatments and seaside frolics at fancy hotels. Its wealthiest scion funded a gallery and museum, the Atkinson, that is now run by the council and where I go to obtain background info on all the down-at-heel, grandiose buildings. While I was there last week, I saw a display about what is, as far as I’m aware, the only product of the town, potted shrimps, a delicacy to which I am partial. My appetite for lunch duly whetted, I went off in search of a retailer.

          But retail in this and many other towns is not what it used to be. There are too many shop premises – some shuttered because of the internet, some because of the presence of M&S and the like. If the town centre could be ‘tidied up’ by consolidating all the shops in one area instead of sprawling over the three that have developed over time, it would look a lot neater, even moderately prosperous. It would also make it easier to discover that nowhere in the town is there a shop that sells potted shrimps. I could have saved myself the trouble by googling. They are, of course, available online and might even have been delivered to me by a gig-economy worker on a bike, a form of subsistence employment not dissimilar to that which peasants endured in medieval Britain and, therefore, one in which I will endeavour not be complicit.

 

Enough Stuff?

          Some time ago, I adopted a deliberate policy of thinking twice before acquiring any more stuff. The change may have coincided with our downsizing to a smaller apartment, though I prefer to believe its origin was more loftily conceived, the result of ideological and moral contemplation. Certainly, I was influenced by William Morris’s advice to “…have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful…” and by the noble philosophy of asceticism, though less so by the latter, given that it requires considerable self-discipline and is tainted by association with religiosity. Most likely, the cause was a combination of pragmatism and idealism, but one thing’s for certain: the ticking clock of advancing age introduces a reality check to the rationale behind accumulating worldly goods.

          Decluttering has become a thing that people consciously do, whereas cluttering is not necessarily deliberate. Moreover, these terms apply not only to objects. Without due care and attention, one’s life can quickly become crowded with relationships and activities that complicate our days, obfuscate our priorities and eat up that most finite of commodities, our time. Of course, it’s not easy to divest oneself of relationships, since they are usually reciprocal. Activities, on the other hand, are easily terminated, as when I gave up gardening.

          One day, I woke up to the realisation that with both a garden and a share in an allotment, my weekends were spoken for well into the foreseeable future. Not long after this dawning, I relinquished both by moving into an apartment. I then bought a campervan, thereby gaining not only the time but also the means to pursue more varied leisure activities. It’s not that I find horticulture uninteresting. It’s just that I would rather someone else’s life were devoted to its execution. In return, I show my appreciation by subsidising the National Trust and visiting its gardens and orchards to admire – and sometimes harvest – the fruits of their labours. Last Sunday, for example, I went to Cothele, where a daffodil fest was in full swing. The gardens there are stocked with 320 varieties of the trumpet-like blooms, some of which date back to the 17^th century, though it was enough for me to pick out the half-dozen types that differ most obviously.

          The next day, I went to the re-opening of the leisure centre that closed for refurbishment a couple of years ago, thereby temporarily terminating my membership of its gym facility. I have to say that I have not missed the treadmill and, despite the shiny new upgrade and reasonably priced membership offer, I cannot work up sufficient enthusiasm to commit to re-joining. It’s not that I begrudge the time – one must exercise to stay well and, besides, music and podcasts are there to fill the mental void – but I’m inclined to postpone the decision ‘til winter, when recreational bike-rides and walks are less appealing options.

          I also spent a few days travelling up north, where I spent time with a few old friends that I don’t see from one year to another – long enough for visible changes to register. Everyone looks a degree or two older, something that might go unnoticed if we met more frequently, but that is to be expected. What I was looking for were changes of opinion, attitude or lifestyle. Of these I saw little. Set in our ways or committed to hard-fought-for values? My vote is for the latter.

          Conversely, I admit to a lapse in principles last week. I was browsing, somewhat scornfully, in a shop full of “collectors’ items”, when my eye was drawn to a framed print of a townscape, prettily done in muted colours and in a style reminiscent of the sixties. Perhaps I bought it for nostalgic reasons but, at only four quid (a mistake, surely?) it didn’t take me long to override my ‘no-acquisitions’ policy. Now, I have to find a space on the wall to justify its purchase.

 

 

 

The Power of Music

          Going to the cinema during the day still feels naughty, even though I’ve been doing it now for 18 years. The benefits are that it’s sometimes cheaper, often empty and always an enticing refuge when the weather is dull. So, it felt like an imposition when I was obliged to go on Wednesday evening to catch the final showing of Becoming Led Zeppelin.

          I’m not a big fan – I like some but not all of their music – but the appeal of the film is that it documents their backstory during an era through which I also lived. In the interviews, the four musicians come across as likeably modest, considering their international fame and their extrovert musical exploits. Acknowledging their musical debt to American soul and blues, they made it big in the USA before coming ‘home’ to consolidate their popularity in the UK, an unusual reversal of the norm in 1970.

          Those were the days! America, flush with the ethos of the summer of love and the hippy counterculture, was open to progressive rock bands from Britain. At the same time, however, the National Guard felt free to shoot and kill unarmed protesting students in Ohio. Two very different Americas asserted themselves. Will the States ever be truly united?

          Well, there is a concerted effort going on right now, though its methodology owes more to fascism than consensus. The Washington Post (WP) reports this week on the extent to which statistical data that provides evidence contrary to the current administration’s version of actuality is being removed from government websites. Much has disappeared already and, in its absence, the government is able to spin whatever story it chooses without the nuisance of contradictory voices. The WP dubs this ‘digital book-burning’, which is ominously reminiscent of Heinrich Heine’s observation, “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings”.

          I also managed a daytime cinema showing. I’m Still Here is another film about 1970, set this time in Brazil, where the military dictatorship was busy ‘disappearing’ those of its citizens who dared question its authority. One day later, I learned – from what still remains of the free American press – that a Green-Card-holding permanent resident* of the USA was taken from his home in an unmarked car and deposited in a migrant detention facility. No charges have been made against him at the time of writing. His pregnant wife, a citizen of the USA, awaits news of his fate.

          Understandably, you can get depressed by such bad news – if you’re anti-fascist, that is. But even fascists might feel a bit down after reading, as I did elsewhere, that if you measure your life in the number of weekends you likely have left, you might be surprised by how few there are to look forward to. In my case, there are very few so, to lighten things up, I chose to go for a long country and coastal walk on a day when the weather forecast was encouragingly vernal. For a few hours, my Other Half and I focussed our attention on varieties of daffodil and birdsongs (the latter, with the aid of a surprisingly efficacious app), while seeking the perfect bench-with-a-view on which to eat our picnic lunch. It was a classic two-in-one, relaxation for the mind and exercise for the body.

          But back to the everyday and, with all this going on, I forgot to prepare for last week’s choir session. Consequently, I was floundering with the melodies, confused by the four-part harmonies and distracted by the voice of the chap on my left, who sings strongly and confidently, even when missing the notes.

          However, there is one song in our repertoire that is relatively easy to sing, even though the lyrics are Italian. Bella Ciao! originally a folk song, was adopted during WWII as the call-to-arms of Italian partisans fighting fascism. I don’t know whether our musical director included it for political reasons but, when sung with gusto, it certainly seems to lift the spirits and offer some hope of resistance to whatever threat to freedom looms.

*Mahmoud Khalil

 

 

 

Party Time?

          I thought I was in good health, but then I got a worrying text from the NHS. It said that the blood test I had a month ago showed me “at risk of developing diabetes”. The degree of risk was not specified, nevertheless, the message urged me to sign up to attend an online ‘patient information session’, hosted by XYLA (part of Acacium Group) and ticketed by Eventbrite.

          Of course, I checked again on the possible causes of the disease. Lifestyle is a major factor but, in my case, an unlikely contributor, since my diet and exercise regimes have conformed, for most of my adult life, with those recommended by the medical profession. If, indeed, I am at risk of developing diabetes, then it is most likely due to ageing and/or having drawn the short straw in the heredity stakes, in which case there is not much point in worrying, since I can’t affect the outcome.

          What does concern me is the involvement of commercial companies in this process. Is it conceivable that there is a payment from the public purse to XYLA for every “patient” that signs up to a webinar to get advice that is readily available for free, either on the NHS website or through the internet more generally? The answer is “yes”.

          Every slight movement towards the American model of healthcare makes me nervous, especially since the takeover of its government by the far right. Fortunately I am not a citizen, but the protection that affords from being affected by its political direction is slender to the point of meaninglessness. The magnitude of its economic and military might is sufficient to influence everyone on the planet. And who is in charge of it? A handful of billionaires who have been working to this end for some time.

          I am inclined to the view that democracy is beyond being at risk in the USA: it has already been captured and is now being demolished by plutocrats who are busy consolidating their position by dismantling the state and selling its parts to oligarchs who will then offer services back to citizens at prices they determine. This is an attractive model of governance for those who stand to profit from it and, as history attests, it is both commonplace and relatively simple to achieve. All you need is great wealth. Feeling uneasy, I checked on the Acacium Group. It’s a Private Equity Investment Company, based – for now, at least – in London, where a modicum of democratic restraint still applies.

          And, despite holding a generally pessimistic view of the future for most of the planet’s populace, I take what opportunities I can to enjoy what is left of our civil society and our cultural and natural heritage. Life in Devonshire showed its bountiful face last week, with unbroken sunshine and a few days spent at the seaside in the jolly company of old friends.

          We stayed at Slapton, a ten-minute walk from the beach. It’s an officially ‘dark’ area, which means that the stars are spectacularly visible on cloudless nights such as we had. We walked through the village, where the vestiges of our feudal past remain in the layout and buildings. We mooched around the quaint old centre of Dartmouth, famous for its Roal Naval College (and, latterly, unaffordable housing stock) and visited the old market, interacting with the characterful fishmonger and genuinely French pâtissier. One of our party picked edible stems from the hedgerow and served them as an appetiser for supper. She identified them as Alexanders and told us the Romans ate them.

          We drank and laughed a lot, as friends will. After all, our party’s not over just yet.

A Word about Diversity

          The dictionary definition of “one who likes to bathe in cold water, especially outdoors in natural bodies of water such as rivers, lakes and oceans” is ‘psychrolute’ (from the Greek words "psychros" meaning "cold" and "loutros" meaning "bath"). Of course, ‘wild swimmer’ is the more commonly used appellation, possibly because, to all but scholars of the classics, it’s more evocative of its subject. Hence (pedants excepted) psychrolute is used only by marine biologists, who know it as the proper name for what is commonly called a blobfish.

          But I would argue that it's not just scientists who find it useful to have a noun, a one-word definition, rather than a phrase. For example, in everyday life, one has no option but to refer to one’s cousin’s offspring as “first cousins once removed”, an awkward phrase to have to insert into a conversation. We could do with a noun here, but none can be found. Was it a challenge too far for the scholars of ancient Greek? I consulted my copy of the Reverse Dictionary, a publication that is designed for looking up words that you suspect exist but have slipped from your memory. In truth, I didn’t really expect a result. I was just giving the book a valedictory airing, knowing full well that AI has supplanted its usefulness. I returned it to the bookcase, where it will remain as a decorative reminder of the days when reference books were, well, referenced.

          Of course, there’s no guarantee that knowledge dispensed by AI will be accurate, impartial or uncensored. It may even be completely fabricated – as is so much that comes from the official communication channels of various Autocracies, Theocracies, Dictatorships and nominal Democracies such as the USA (which now surely qualifies as a Plutocracy). So, how best to protect ourselves against the monopolisation of information by those who would control our lives for the benefit of their own interests? Well, efforts have been ongoing for thousands of years, so hope still burns. I just saw the secretly made Iranian film, The Seed of the Sacred Fig, a story of family conflicts set against the theocratic state’s brutal suppression of the hijab revolution. The title is allegoric and refers to the eventual overwhelming of the tree of state by home-grown dissent. Not everyone is persuaded by the regime’s rhetoric and diversity is a threat to dictatorship, which is a good reason to encourage it.

          Diversity is also a word that has come into vogue. When I was growing up, the very concept was exotic, if not downright alien, to be tolerated rather than accepted. Later in life, I met and mingled with people who were from different backgrounds and other countries. This contact had the effect of disrupting my cultural norms: the manners and etiquette that I had been taught were essential, I came to see as more of a framework of politeness. For example, tilting one’s soup bowl away from oneself and silently spooning the contents might be the quintessentially English way, but it began to seem prudish after I encountered the naked enthusiasm that Oriental soup-slurpers brought to the table. And at the table is a good place to start, since the ancient habit of breaking bread with strangers is the hallowed way of establishing friendly relations.

          In the less diverse days of my upbringing, dinner parties were gatherings of omnivores. But, as veganism heads for mainstream, I envisage a time when the opposite will apply. It’s been a while now since ‘special dietary requirements’ began to appear on invitations to dine (to which one diehard omnivore responded, “a decent claret, please”) and we have reached a point where even the word “dinner” needs either a qualifying adjective or a descriptive phrase.

Solace, of a Sort

          At last, I have resolved the niggling issue of having different types of valve on the front and rear tyres of my bike. Ostensibly, this was not problematic because I had bought a pump that connects to either, but when I needed it most, midway through a longish ride, it broke. My choice of a replacement was limited to whatever was available at the first shop to which I could push my stricken machine, so I came out of there with a very nifty (and quite expensive) lightweight ‘racing’ pump, which I soon discovered to be annoyingly impractical. Yes, it worked, but its adaptor for the differing valves was a plastic fitting so tiny that my fingers found it awkward to extract from its hidey-hole and re-position appropriately. Worse, the whole thing was about six inches long and impossible to grasp firmly and effectively.  Since Monday, however, when I acquired matching valves and a man-sized pump, I have felt happier about being back on the saddle.

          I know, I’ve been called pernickety before. But, in a world in which we are at the mercy of overwhelming forces, both natural and political, there’s comfort in controlling whatever we can to make life more enjoyable – or less annoying, depending on your point of view. And it’s not that I’m a complete control freak. Take, for example, the community choir. (There is a hierarchy of choirs, by the way, according to their degree of expertise. In this context, the word “community” is a euphemism for “entry-level”.) I’ve attended twice now and, as a participating singer, accept that I have no authority over the repertoire or how it is arranged, nor may I criticise the efforts of other members. This is challenging for someone who wants everything to be ‘just so’, yet I accept that teamwork is inherent to the enterprise, so I do what is expected of me. A good dose of working as a team is a useful antidote to selfishness, a reminder to stay rooted in society and a distraction from fretting about that over which I have no control, like geopolitics.

          Most of us are insufficiently rich to be in a position to influence the outcome of political power-struggles (yes, in case you hadn’t noticed, democracy is bought and sold). The very rich are in charge and act constantly to consolidate their stranglehold on power. Those who perpetrate war may legitimise their motives on religious or nationalistic grounds, but the real goal is invariably the acquisition of wealth. If this is true, it makes sense that Donald Trump should propose ending at least two wars, simply by putting forward commercial propositions. We shall see. Meanwhile, those who suffer are the cannon fodder and the civilians caught in crossfire.

          As interested as I am in geopolitics, there are mornings when I open the papers and skip over the headlines about this, that, or the other autocrat’s latest outrages on humanity. With a sad resignation, I search instead for some good news or, at least, a story that is not about destruction of the planet and its inhabitants. I suppose editors include such items purposely to leaven the burden of gloom and doom and avoid reader burn-out. This morning, I did the skip and landed on the story about archaeologists uncovering a pharaoh’s tomb, the first to have been discovered since that of Tutankhamun in 1922. Fascinated by archaeology’s forensic potential to tell us what happened in the ancient past, I’m always drawn to news of its findings, as I prefer evidence-based speculation to mythologies.

          But the uplifting effect of this particular story wore off pretty quickly when I realised that it’s really about yet another autocratic dictator who nabbed all the wealth for themself and – a particularly selfish move, this – took it all to the grave, presumably to avoid inheritance tax. In the three-and-a-half millennia since then, not much has changed. It’s enough to drive a chap to tinkering with his bike. 

Promises, Promises...

          The feeling that I really ought to make good on a few of the unfulfilled promises I’ve made to myself over the years has come to the fore. It gnaws at my consciousness from time to time anyway, but that recurring measure of urgency, my birthday, is here again to prompt me to action. Of course, advancing age renders some of those ambitions no longer feasible or, at least, less attractive than they once were: fast-tracking to rock stardom or wild-camping for two weeks in the Cairngorms are among the dreams from which I have awoken to face the reality of diminishing appetites and physicality. So, I have to refine the list and get on with ticking off the items that still qualify as achievable yet languish in limbo.

          A good place to start is the diary. A solid session of forward planning is an effective way to weed out unrealistic schemes. The very process of pinning down a date affords the opportunity to question the value of that to which you are about to commit. Whether or not you take that opportunity is up to you, with the proviso that your choice may be constrained by obligations to family and friends. Diarising (conversion of nouns to verbs is all the rage these days: I have it from Australia that a great-nephew “farewelled” his lifelong friend before he went off to study abroad) goes against my grain somewhat, as I like to think of the future as an open book. But my Other Half argues against this notion of que sera, sera by evidencing some of the lost opportunities that litter my past. I can’t argue with that, so I compromise by diarising key events and leaving blocks of time vacant and available for spontaneity – on my part, at least.

          As an extra refinement to this system, I have allocated a new colour code to the diary: graphite grey, which is to say, ‘pencilled in’. This category usefully covers the various events – gigs, meetings, exhibitions etc. – which are of interest, within walking distance, do not require advance booking, yet which I habitually miss. Now, with the ‘pencilled in’ category, I win/win. My options are left open, thus relieving my fear of constraint, while there is no chance of feeling regretful at having forgotten to attend.

          I tested this last Friday evening, foregoing a warm and cosy evening at home to brave a walk to the pub through a bitter easterly to see a “Barcelona street folk-rock” group whose percussion section comprised two tap-dancers. Interesting – for a while. But they did get an enthusiastic response from people inclined to dance. And there was a decent pint of cider on tap.

          But perhaps the more momentous event of the week – and something I have been dancing around myself – was my actual attendance, for the first time, at a choir session. Signs that I will keep it up are encouraging. First, they didn’t tell me not to come back (though this is likely to be because male voices are notoriously scarce in community choirs). Second, I did enjoy singing, even though it was difficult to make out whether I was hitting the notes, what with all those other people attempting the same. I suppose one becomes accustomed to that after a while, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

          The choir has been working for a couple of weeks on Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me to The End of Love, an unlikely choice, I thought. Not that I wish to disrespect Leonard’s legacy, but I never much liked that old klezmer-tinged dirge, though I do like the jazz-swing version recorded by Madeleine Peyroux. But our leader has come up with a complicated four-part arrangement that, if it ever comes together, will vindicate her endeavour and, to a lesser extent, mine.

Contemplate the Hole

          About seventeen years ago, I managed to escape from the hole I had dug for myself – a manufacturing business that I had established, nurtured and eventually grown weary of. The subsequent euphoric feeling of freedom from responsibilities took me back to the prelapsarian era prior to my taking hold of the metaphorical shovel, when my horizons seemed to expand daily, and mortgaging was something other people did. Once out of the hole, I relished once more the luxury of being able to plan a day out according to the weather forecast, spend a morning at the cinema, or enjoy a night out without a looming ‘school day’ to inhibit the occasional excess to which I’m inclined.

          But I have been aware lately of being stalked by a low-level form of anxiety. It creeps up and questions whether I’m making best use of my time. Whence this spectre of my shovel-wielding past? Well, after giving it some thought, I’ve concluded that it’s because I have gradually accrued responsibilities – again! To be clear, I’m not talking about anything really burdensome – just, for example, volunteering to help a local charity. Still, such work involves meetings, deadlines, preparation, engagement with professionals and various other activities that demand entries in my otherwise ‘pencilled-in’ diary. Looking over my shoulder, I’ve had to remind myself that anxiety, in itself, is not a bad thing: though it can be overwhelming, it’s best utilised as a driving force, an antidote to complacency and lethargy – or so goes the therapeutic argument.

          When, in a recent surge of outrage, I signed up to join last week’s protest outside the Royal Courts of Justice*, I didn’t think about how the action might cause me to become anxious, but that was before I arrived and saw that the side streets were crammed with vans full of police officers ready to be deployed. “Don’t worry”, said the organisers, as a thousand of us sat down deliberately to block a road for an hour-and-a-half, “You have a legal right to protest peacefully”. What followed was akin to a performance imbued with an air of menace.

          The police adopted a tactic of polite, individual engagement, aimed at encouraging us to move to the designated protest area nearby (where our message to the world would have shrivelled and died of media under-exposure) and backing this up with the prospect of arrest, should a Section 14 order be imposed in the next hour, which was “very likely to happen”. We all knew it was unlikely, but I admit, nevertheless, to having been tempted to move on quietly. But my fortitude prevailed – largely because behind me was someone I knew to have been arrested more than once, to my left a stranger who told me she had been arrested four times and, to my right, another who had actually served time in prison for animal rights activism. What was I? A wimp?

          Well, not exactly. I may not have form, but I do have nice, middle-class manners and, when asked politely by the police to move on, I find myself inclined to oblige. But I gained strength from our number and my anxiety was laid to rest. A touch of humour also helped leaven the situation, when a very young policeman explained to me, seriously, that, were I to be arrested, I would acquire a criminal record, which could adversely affect my future career prospects.

          That evening, I celebrated my freedom (though not, I fear, that of those on whose behalf we had protested) with a friend, in Soho, where we ate and drank lavishly before descending to a cellar to jive it up to an excellent jazz band. It was well after midnight before I got home but, who cares? School days are most definitely a thing of the past.

*Bringing attention to the appeal for a reduction in the custodial sentences previously imposed on sixteen citizens currently serving time for non violent acts of protest.

Vegans Beware!

          The set of friends we’ve acquired since uprooting four years ago includes quite a few vegans and, having heard their arguments in favour of a plant-based diet, I have found myself taking tentative steps down that particular road to Damascus. Although the ethical case for not eating other sentient beings is debatable, the scientific case relating to better health for us and the environment is not. And, as for best use of resources, it makes no sense to devote an estimated 36% of the world’s grain production to feeding animals who, while being bred and raised for slaughter, emit an awful lot of atmosphere-warming methane.

          Our philosophy discussion group began its new year on Tuesday with Socrates, whose principles might have aligned him with ethical veganism, had it been proposed to him, but that being the day after the presidential inauguration of the wannabe dictator, Trump, our focus was on the decline of political ethics since the golden age of Greece. When, in 380 AD, Emperor Theodosius mandated that Christianity must be adopted throughout the Roman Empire, he effectively buried philosophical discussion until the Renaissance. Now, faced with Trump’s triumphant onslaught against the reasonable exchange of ideas, could we be in for a second Dark Age?

          Trump’s vilification and stifling of opposition, along with his blatant attempts to capture the institutions of state, are classic fascist tactics. His success (as defined by winning the election) can be attributed, in part, to the paucity of public education, insofar as it has kept enough of the voting population sufficiently ignorant as to be easily manipulated.

          But the week hasn’t been all doom and gloom. Professional Donald Trump impersonators are delighted to be looking forward to four years of solid bookings. And, more widely, there are the veteran Bob Dylan fans, like me, who bought tickets to a time-travelling treat, A Complete Unknown, the biopic covering Dylan’s emergence in the early sixties. The accuracy of some details in the film is questioned by experts but, for me, it was enough that the overall re-creation of time, place and events had sufficient credibility and more than enough atmosphere to elicit a sometimes tearfully nostalgic response. As for Timothy Chalamet, his impersonation/impression of Bob’ singing and playing was astonishingly convincing – so unlike my amateur attempts in the heyday of my hopeful musical ambition. So absorbing was the film that my Other Half, whose interest in Bob has always been lukewarm and whom I suspect of having come along simply to see Timothy Chalamet, afterwards admitted to having had something of a damascene experience herself.

          I was at one of Dylan’s Royal Albert Hall concerts in 1966, ten days or so after the more famous Manchester gig at which a ‘folk purist’ and erstwhile fan expressed his sense of betrayal by shouting “Judas!” when Bob came onstage with his electric guitar and backing band. The London audience was also divided but I sat on the fence, more intrigued than outraged. In my view, Bob certainly had the last laugh.

          As it turned out, the week’s highlights were overshadowed by the constant stream of bad news from the good old US of A, land of opportunity and centre of the free world, which has seemingly acquired a king – anointed by God when he diverted the assassin’s bullet. Trump’s latest edicts include removing from official documentation the option for citizens to register their sex as any other than either male or female and denying the validity of those parts of the constitution that do not serve his purpose, such as the 14^th amendment, which grants US citizenship to all those born in the USA. More ominous is the implementation of a Soviet style ‘snitch’ culture, whereby Federal employees are now obliged to inform on colleagues they suspect of not whole-heartedly complying with Trump’s orders. At this rate, it won’t be long before, at the behest of the agro-industry lobbyists, Americans will be obliged to report anyone suspected of the unpatriotic crime of veganism.

Wassail Away

          In an old Steinbeck story, set in California around 1930, the protagonist adds a pinch of celery salt to the glass of beer he is served in a bar. Intrigued by this, I dug around t’internet and discovered that it has long been known that adding salt to poor quality beer makes it more palatable. Further intrigued, I went to the trouble of buying some celery salt and adding it to bottle of supermarket lager left over from a party. The result of my test was inconclusive – but that’s probably because I don’t much care for lager anyway, salted or otherwise. So, I am rid of the lager, but the salt remains, a useful addition to the cruet, as it goes especially well with boiled eggs (hard or soft).

          Actually, I prefer cider to beer and have become quite the afficionado when it comes to the apple varieties used, the style of the drink and the provenance of the producers. You could say I’m picky, but that would be an understatement. For me, it has to be dry, still, without additives and made in England with native apples. The thing is, when I taste cider, I taste also the history of England. It’s a visceral thing, hard to explain. I’ll have a go anyway.

          Last Sunday, I went wassailing around a small orchard that has recently been established on the Hoe (Plymouth’s elevated park that overlooks the city to the north and the sea to the south and from which sir Francis Drake calmly observed the approaching Spanish Armada while he finished a game of bowls with his mates). I joined a motley crew of traditionalists in the act of dispensing goodwill to the trees in the hope that they will respond with an abundant harvest. There is a special song to kick off proceedings but, after that, the ceremony loosens up and we traipse around the trees, banging pots and pans or playing folk instruments and offering libations of cider lees to the roots. It’s pagan, ancient, light-hearted and uniquely silly: the essence of old England as popularly portrayed. I don’t believe wassailing has any effect on harvests, but I do believe that the perpetuation of the joyfully expressive tradition makes the cider taste better in the bar afterwards.

          And so it did. The after-party took place in the bowling club pavilion (which is said to stand roughly where Sir Francis would have been playing in 1588), where we were treated to sea shanties, morris dancing and refreshments, including, of course, cider most pure (and some which was adulterated with spices and heated up – mulled, they calls it. I suspect it’s just another way of making a poor beverage palatable, like the trick with salt). Sea shanties are a bit like the blues in that, when sung with gusto, they can be moving but, musically the format is limited, so one’s attention wanders after about fifteen minutes. However, a couple of pints of cider soon has you singing along.

           Morris dancing, likewise, can arouse more curiosity than excitement, but this particular side* had a narrator who explained the stories behind the dance moves, clarifying the interpretive choreography. It became a bit fuzzy after the second pint but, by then, it was all just jolly japes anyway and I was feeling inclined to join in, regardless of the fact that the dancers were wielding heavy sticks. Sensibly, I refrained and gave thanks, instead, to those who actively perpetuate the folk traditions. Progress may be the inevitable fate of us humans, but the past is the start of our story.

          Two days later, I was driving along an old road that wound through the Devon countryside, skirting ancient landholdings and passing within inches of the thatched buildings of Norman hamlets. There were moments when old England surged through me, like the remains of a dream.

*Morris dance troupes are called ‘sides’.

 

 

Annual Review

          Happy new year! Although it’s unrealistic to expect a full twelve months of happiness, nevertheless this greeting is universal – implicitly acknowledging that optimism is a more attractive trait than pessimism. After all, it would be cynical to toast another year of ‘getting by’, even though that will be the inevitable fate of some of us. As for those who have been dealt the most certain of losing hands, even they might want a positive greeting, just to lift their spirits. At the very least, it’s polite to say to each other that we are hopeful everything will be satisfactory, while omitting the part about it being unlikely.

          Each new year begins in the depths of winter, when bright horizons, both actual and metaphorical, are easily obscured. For instance, during this week’s cold snap, two of our three storage heaters ceased to function, leading to some invective-laden questioning of their value and purpose. But let’s skip that and move on to the positives: there’s always joy to be found somewhere.

          It was one of those clear, sunny mornings after the overnight temperature had dropped below freezing. We went for a walk on the edge of Dartmoor and down into the valley of the river Tavy, where hoar frost decorated every leaf and twig with a delicacy and brilliance that made even the finest Christmas tinsels and strings of coloured lights look like the work of a ham-fisted amateur. It was cold, especially down in the wooded valley, but even here there was extraordinary beauty to behold in the mosses and lichens that smothered the sun-deprived trees and rocks. Muddy paths, turned solid by frost, crunched under our boots and warmth soon suffused our fingers and toes as we picked up the pace. Winter days like these are as enjoyable as the finest of any season.

          And at home, there are wintry culinary delights to be savoured. Wednesday’s supper of roasted parsnips and kale pesto, a newly discovered recipe, went down a treat with a glass or two of Douro. Dishes like this, savoured in the comfort of a cosy room are a satisfying antidote to cold, rainy evenings. And after clearing up, what better than to catch up on tv box sets. This week, having come to the end of all five seasons of My Brilliant Friend, we have begun to search around for the next addictive drama series.

          So, on the domestic front at least (and storage heaters notwithstanding), the year has started well. However, domestic order is an apple cart easily upset by external events and I can’t help but take into account the geopolitical situation which, in all its interconnected complexity, seems to hold no promise of a happy new year for anyone but a handful of oligarchs, kleptocrats, gangsters, billionaires and their respective hangers-on, whose manoeuvrings have brought them into positions of such power that even those governments with the strongest and most valid democratic credentials are now in danger of falling over and leaving the field open to fascism. This view, morbid as it is, seems valid the more I look into it.

          When I visited the library last month, I took out a book by Jonathan Aldred, Licence to be Bad: How Economics Corrupted Us and, having just received a reminder of its imminent due date, I picked it up and began reading in earnest. The message is bleak: a few influential economists have, over the last forty years, shaped our lives by steering western political policies towards maximisation of profit and, consequentially, away from societal cohesion. For this achievement, they were awarded Nobel prizes.

          So, when I wish someone a “happy new year”, there is an implicit qualification: I wish them well in the face of the odds stacked against them – and all the rest of us.

 

   

'Tis the Season

          If you’re the sort of person who depends on daily routines to keep you on the straight and narrow, then the chaotic end-of-year holiday period must be quite a challenge. Far from feeling flat when it’s all over, you might well relish the resumption of ‘normality’.

          This year, we didn’t avoid the festivities by going abroad as we usually do. Instead, we drew up a plan to remain and work with the situation. So, we participated in some of the revelries, avoided others and paid respectful homage to traditions with the degree of restraint you might expect of those who have reservations about their provenance. We threw a house party and justified it to ourselves as marking the solstice, though I don’t suppose anyone really cared about the reason: a party is a party, after all – especially during the catchall “festive season”.

          For me, the first event of said season was when our University of the Third Age philosophy discussion group devoted its last session to a lunch. It wasn’t a highbrow affair: there was everyday banter, tinged with a few jokes at the expense of the great philosophers and what felt like an appropriate toast to Epicurus, though his stated principle of pursuing pleasure is widely misunderstood by those (especially heavy drinkers) who are unaware of his balancing principle, that of exercising prudence to avoid future pain.

          Talking of pain, it hasn’t all been fun. On Christmas Eve, I suffered an attack of trigeminal neuralgia (severe pain, akin to toothache, in one side of the upper and lower jaw). It’s one of those oddly intermittent afflictions that are difficult to treat. It’s also difficult to say, for me, at least. So, having settled upon the malapropism “trigonomic nostalgia”, I came across some curious information regarding nostalgia which, until the 19^th century, was considered to be a serious medical condition. For example, during the American Civil War, 5,200 cases were recorded in the Union Army and 74 deaths attributed to it. Nostalgia, of course, ain’t what it used to be but, when the doctors return to work on Monday, I will just check that I don’t have the fatal variety.

         On the big day itself, we set off in the campervan for St Ives, where we hiked for a while along the rugged coast path, nourished by sandwiches and reassured by a handy supply of paracetamol. Later, a walk through the seaside town revealed that tradition was solid: only the pubs and hotels were open (for lunch). The public toilets were locked up and posted with notices declaring closure until the 27^th. There, at least, the sanctity of those two holidays remains unchallenged. We retreated to our snug campervan, hunkered down, all alone, in a small, sheltered field, where we cracked open the Champagne and celebrated our solitude.

          We lingered in the area until the 27^th, when the Tate St Ives opened its doors and I was able to get a fix of the kind of art that resonates most with my aesthetic preference – mid-century modern. Then we headed home to rejoin the social melee. By this time, my neuralgic pain had receded both in frequency and intensity, with just the occasional twinge to remind me of its presence.  Meanwhile, there was fun to be had at our block, where a round-the-world bar-crawl was planned for New Year’s Eve. Participating neighbours themed their apartments (ours was Greece) and opened up to all-comers for a pre-allocated half-hour slot. Despite some dodgy cultural stereotyping and a level of alcohol consumption that Epicurus would have advised against, the evening proved good for bonding with our neighbours and, as a bonus, having a nosey around their flats.

          Now, festivities are at an end, normality is nigh and I can relax into my routines. I’ll be able to see the GP about my nostalgia, one of the symptoms being a feeling that I’m going to miss the fairy lights and tinsel.