Keeping it Real

          Have some sympathy for Gen Z (pronounced zee, you old-timers), the demographic nickname for people born between the mid-1990s and early 2010s, for they are Digital Natives and, as such, different from the generations that precede them. They are still human, of course, but their interactions with the rest of the species have been disproportionately informed by a novel system of communication, the Internet, which the rest of us see as an addition to, not a substitute for, face-to-face encounters.

          Is this problematic? Well, there are plenty of anecdotes that flag it as an issue and there is scientific research to back that up. Psychologists have identified the following skill sets in which Gen Z is deficient: empathy, time management, problem solving and critical thinking. They have also noted their aversion to picking up the phone and attending meetings at which people are physically present.

          This state of affairs might set older people tut-tutting, but there is another, practical level of concern, expressed by employers. Where will they find the workers who have the old-fashioned people skills necessary for public-facing jobs? Our education system was supposed to churn out a workforce equipped to fill the available vacancies. Has it failed in its mission?

          Yes, but there is hope in the form of a course that is becoming available to rectify the balance and teach Digital Natives the soft skills of human awareness and interaction. However – aside from the sad fact of its perceived necessity – there are two potential problems with it. The first is that it is not yet incorporated into any regular curriculum. The second is that it is conducted online.

          Over the Easter break, an evening spent in a pub reassured me that offline life, in all its messy, jostling vitality, aces it. The pub was a street corner local, with a band jammed into the window bay and a mixed crowd of all ages thronging the bar. The vibe was timeless, insofar as it felt the same as it did when I was in my early 20s and pub gigs were staple entertainment most weekends.

          Back then, I was generation-blind, interested in mixing only with my peers. I could say the same today, except that I do take notice of those younger than me. Having been there, I am now curious about how they navigate life. What are their backgrounds, their daily strivings, their hopes and ambitions? How do their lives compare with mine and those of the people I grew up with? That evening, it was plain that we had at least one thing in common: coming to the pub to hear a good blues/rock band.

          But for such an evening to be authentic, it takes more than a good band. The place itself must feel welcoming to one and all, as this one does. Key ingredients are a good beer (and cider), a friendly, mixed crowd and the kind of interior that hasn’t had a themed makeover since it first opened its doors in 1887, it’s essential grubbiness disguised by a random assortment of trophies, old photos, bric-a-brac and plaques inscribed with humorous slogans, within which often may lie a gritty grain of real-life truths. Surely everyone appreciates the wry humour of the old Free Beer Tomorrow offer; or the quaintly illustrated Duck or Grouse warning on the low beam in the passageway to the gents (nowadays rudely sidelined by a mandated health and safety sign in neon yellow)?

          If you consider all this to be the essence of a charming old institution sustained by genuine human interaction, then it might be a good idea to encourage Gen Z to go and learn to mingle there as a practical alternative to the online course. I’m not sure they would appreciate the significance of the sign over the bar that asks What if the Hokey Cokey Really Is What It’s All About? But I’m sure some old geezer like me would be happy to explain.

Dining Out

          Our local Earth Café (an event, not a place) is held once a month, on a Saturday evening in a community space. If you think its name smacks of veganism, you’d be right, though you don’t have to be a committed vegan to eat there: you just need to be open to the principle. So, as one of a growing number of people shifting towards a plant-based diet, I’ve become an enthusiastic participant in its regular suppers.

          I say “participant” and “enthusiastic” because it’s not just about the food. The emphasis is on fostering the sense of community by way of sharing a meal with like-minded others. You pay a fixed but modest price, bring your own booze, choose seats at long, communal tables and go to the counter to be served generously from a limited choice of dishes. The seating arrangement is as flexible and as sociable as you want to make it, especially when the tables are cleared and the meal is followed by announcements, short speeches and, to round things off, live music.

          The experience is the antithesis of fine dining, but not a repudiation of it or, indeed, any other type of restaurant experience. It is different, if only insofar as it might work well as an alternative to dinner parties staged at home. Imagine: no work, disruption and responsibility for the would-be hosts. As for the guests, they would feel less constrained: no need to bring a gift (possibly an inappropriate one); to endure an ill-conceived seating plan and several hours in the company of someone they don’t like; and no potential awkwardness over what the host serves up. Etc.

          Dinner parties at home can, of course, be delightful, but the Earth Café format de-emphasises the complexities of cuisine and social niceties. It serves food in the ancient spirit of sharing and widens the scope for random social connections. And, not coincidentally, the plant-based menu is the ultimate all-rounder when it comes to inclusivity. Is there any creed or religion that forbids it?

          Veganism has been practised since ancient times, though the word itself was coined in 1944 by Donald Watson, a British woodworker. As far as ‘conversion’ to the credo is concerned, it’s not the same for everyone. Some people have an instant revelation and subsequent total adherence to its principles, while others – me included – lurch towards the finish line without ever, perhaps, actually arriving. We compromise, accepting perhaps the logic of the proposition (a more sustainable agri-system) while stopping short at the ethical boundary (not killing animals).

          Anyway, it’s not easy to wean people like me off legacy foods. We need a little encouragement to forsake the familiar tastes and textures integral to our upbringing. Briefly put, the bacon butty beckons at random times and places. Added to which, there is the embedded expectation that the meals on our plates should conform to longstanding, familiar conventions.

          At one of our University of the Third Age (U3A) philosophy discussion sessions, Pythagoras was identified as an early believer in vegetarianism (or veganism lite, as it may be called) but, although the group accepted his logic, when it came to our Christmas social, sausage rolls were the most popular item on the buffet. And further proof that the U3A is not all highbrow, there’s a newly formed group dedicated to performing the Blues. When they saw my interest piqued, they asked if I would like to join. But, alas, my arthritic fingers can no longer navigate the frets on my now redundant guitar (I really don’t know how Keith Richards keeps it up) and they don’t need another vocalist. Maybe I can get them a gig, though – headlining at the Earth Café.

Precedent vs Hindsight

          When the cover on my e-reader (not a Kindle) finally disintegrated, it was cheap and easy to replace. (By the way, this is just one of the advantages these devices have over printed hardbacks with their flimsy dustjackets.) After twenty minutes online, and for less than eight quid, I had a new one delivered directly from China. Even though I am not a citizen of the USA and cannot claim to understand fully the economic theories underpinning free trade, this simple transaction is enough, surely, to raise questions about the logic of President Trump’s tariff war? Especially considering the precedent set by President Hoover, whose protectionist tariffs screwed up international economies in the 1930s.

          Not that I intend to dwell on the crass antics of a bullying braggart but, while economists ponder and speculate over the eventual outcome of his diktats, whatever it is Trump is up to is, I’m sure, intended to enrich himself and the even wealthier billionaires for whom he toils so blatantly, shamelessly and relentlessly.

          Meanwhile, far below the level of macroeconomic and geopolitical jousting, populations at large suffer the divisive effects of widening income inequality and endure the vanishing prospects of job security, as businesses put profit before social responsibility. If we want to rein in the excesses of corporate greed and rescue what little is left of society’s commons, we might try playing them at their own game. I, for one, avoid buying from Amazon whenever possible, though I can only hope that millions of others will come together to boycott such monopolistic companies, causing their share prices to wobble and their oligarchs to concede that a more compassionate distribution of wealth is not only affordable but also beneficial to society as a whole.

          The fact that this is unlikely to happen is somewhat depressing, so it’s best not to dwell on it. Fortunately, there are still some small, inexpensive pleasures with which to distract oneself, such as poking around in local history - which is why I boarded a train for an afternoon excursion to nearby Exeter. I was aware of the rivalry between Exeter and Plymouth, the two cities of Devonshire, but did not know the root cause of it. Apparently, it stems from medieval times, when Exeter was a cathedral city and Plymouth a maritime town. Thus, the driving factors are snobbery on the one part and resentment on the other: what’s more, they are remarkably persistent.

          Plymouth has a much larger population but that of Exeter is posher, as evidenced by the fact that John Lewis is on its High Street. Exeter has a magnificent medieval cathedral and all that goes with it: extensive grounds bang in the city centre, with properties, including a posh school, all owned by the Church of England. The centre of Plymouth was erased by bombing during WWII and rebuilt in a modern, architecturally coherent style that is magnificent in its own way but commonly dismissed as ugly by many.  And it wasn’t until 1974 that a reorganisation of local government freed Plymouth from the humiliation of being ‘ruled’ from Exeter.

          No doubt the list of grievances goes on but, in a corner of the ancient church of St. Martin’s, next to the cathedral, I discovered a nugget of history that links the cities despite themselves. Plymouth made the national news last year when there was a dispute over the felling of trees in the city centre to make way for modernisation of the major boulevard, Armada Way. The council insisted (despite strong objections from many citizens) that the trees be removed, claiming that they served as cover for ‘undesirables’ and their nefarious activities. The CCTV cameras needed a clear field of vision.

          It seems the precedent had already been set. The same argument was used at St. Martin’s in 1555, when John Hooker, chamberlain of Exeter, cut down the elms that graced the boundary of the church “because under and behind the trees did hide many evil persons”. He got rid of the trees but, I suppose, the evil persons just relocated. Perhaps it's a good idea to look for precedents.

What's it All About?

          Mortality featured prominently on my agenda last week, beginning on Monday, when my Other Half and I finally got around to consulting a solicitor about amending our wills. We want to gift funds to the likes of Liberty, Greenpeace and Amnesty, in the hopeful expectation that these organisations will continue to fight the good fight long after we are deceased, for there is no definitive victory currently in sight.

          Then, on Tuesday, at our regular philosophy discussion session, some of the Ancient Greeks’ ideas on life and death were explored. I was gratified to learn that there was little or no nonsense about an ‘afterlife’ – at least not as far as Leucippus and Democritus were concerned. They had proposed the theory that everything in the universe is made up of indivisible particles called atoms (yes, 2,000 years before the science of physics emerged), thereby establishing the case for the ultimate recycling of life: ‘dust-to-dust’.

          Unfortunately, one of our number revealed during our discussions that he had a terminal illness and was trying to face up to the prospect of palliative care. Whether our discussion had prompted his revelation I couldn’t be sure, but I fear ours was not the most sympathetic forum in which to raise the matter, since philosophy tends to focus on the logical, not the emotional. I, for one, was stuck for words. But, that same afternoon – and entirely by coincidence – I attended a family funeral, at which I experienced the opposite: the overwhelming of logical discourse by the tide of emotion.

          It seems to me sensible not to hasten one’s own demise, which is one reason why I avoid risk of physical injury and always* take the doctors’ advice about maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Hence, I was at the clinic this morning for a covid vaccination boost. I had also organised a routine blood test appointment ten minutes later, followed by a visit to the nearby shop so as to optimise use of time and effort.

          These days, a visit to our clinic is an eerie, non-contact experience. The two receptionists (who, on this occasion, outnumbered the waiting patient) are redundant, apparently: unless, perchance, you are unable to negotiate the self-check-in screen and subsequent directions to take off your shoes and step onto a machine that records your vital statistics and sends the results directly to your digital record. I have heard that there are doctors on the premises, but I have never seen one.

          There is, certainly, a woman, dressed like a nurse, who takes blood samples and sends them off for analysis. The last time I tried to engage with her about the whys and wherefores of the process, I discovered that she doesn’t do interpretation or explanation. She does excel, however, at small talk (the weather being a classic opener). When she asked me which arm I would like to proffer, I pointed to the left one and joked that it had already been stabbed once, so I would prefer to keep at least one uninjured limb. “Was it the covid vaccination?”, she asked. “Yes”, I said, “better safe than sorry.” I was expecting her to nod approvingly but, instead, she implied that it was a waste of time and, when pressed, hinted that she didn’t believe the science. “Well, you hear so many stories”, she said. I wouldn’t be surprised if, next time I go, they tell me she’s emigrated to Texas, where the wages for vampiric operatives are more generous, and patients don’t ask awkward medical questions.

          Assuming I survive the next two weeks, I shall propose at the next philosophy session that we discuss whether we are wasting our time, considering how some people appear to be regressing to beliefs held prior to the 5^th century BC.

*Reduction of red wine intake is work-in-progress.