Most Mornings

Most mornings, of necessity, I see my face in the mirror. The experience is not especially uplifting but it does reassure me that I am still who I was the previous day and, despite cumulative evidence of aging, it’s recognisably me, physically and mentally, picking up the razor and starting to shave, as always, at the top lip. Sometimes I fantasise that the reflection might show some change - for they do say “a change is as good as a rest” – and in fact, for the past few mornings, change has come to pass; but only insofar as I have been looking into someone else’s mirror as we house/dog sit for holidaying relatives. Restful, however, is not how I would describe the experience.

I have been obliged to upgrade my relationship with Aini, their dog, from casual to intimate since I have undertaken to help with her feeding, exercising and toileting. In the process I am learning that dog-sitting entails very little actual ‘sitting’ although the experience is enlightening for I begin to see that the pleasure of pet ownership derives from making some other creature happy.

I have been obliged also to develop a relationship with an intimidating Polish plumber whose six-foot-six body-builder’s frame barely fits into the cab of his cavernous white van. He was summoned on the day of our relatives’ departure to re-grout a shower tray but, five days later, having noisily dismantled the entire bathroom, he waits impatiently for the arrival of the materials required to rebuild it.

One morning, the plumber having taken to smashing the floor tiles with a jack-hammer and the Polish cleaning lady having arrived to disrupt the rest of the house, I decided to get some respite by going out for coffee with my new best mate, Aini. The local parade of shops has many coffee bars but, by now, I had developed a preference for the one owned and run by second generation Italian immigrants, whose customer service is impeccable and whose prices are half those of the others. It is the default location of working men in overalls and is shunned by trendies with spiky hairstyles, complicated spectacle frames and shoulder bags full of Apple devices.

It was a good day for sitting outside, which was just as well because I was unsure of etiquette concerning animals in cafes. I tied the leash to the table leg and sat back contentedly while the roar of the passing traffic soothed my jangled nerves. Even Aini seemed quite chilled – until a passing hound aroused her interest and she started up, tilting the table and spilling my cherished cappuccino.

There followed a visit to a shop which taught me how difficult it is to give and receive with just one hand while the other is occupied in controlling a curious dog. Then, a final indignity, crossing the busy road: we had waited for a safe opportunity before stepping smartly out but halfway across I became aware that the leash was dangling limply from my hand. The blood drained from my face. But as I turned back I saw that she had slipped her collar before crossing and was happily sniffing around the cafe tables, making eyes at the patrons. I have much to learn about dog-handling.

Back at the house the cleaner and the plumber greeted us on the doorstep where they were smoking and chatting in Polish. I had the impression she was complaining about his mess and that he was explaining to her the need for the foundations of the house to be underpinned. We dropped off the shopping and headed quickly out to the park where, not for the first time, I observed the curious phenomenon of the resemblance of owners to their dogs.

The next morning, in the bathroom, I studied my reflection anxiously for signs of unwanted change.

Troublesome Legacies

It was necessary to turn to page six of my newspaper before I could find a subject other than the Olympics, or London 2012 as we are encouraged to call it - as if nothing else is happening in the Capital. The article was about the landing of a robot on the surface of Mars (surely a PB for the USA) and it was followed by an analysis of the state of manufacturing in America which, contrary to popular perception, is not dead. Instead it is transformed into a technically advanced, robotised process whose levels of efficiency, output and technological achievement are rising. The downside is that where once it was the source of millions of jobs, now it employs relatively few. The economy of the USA, as measured by numbers of people employed per sector, has reached the tertiary stage having progressed from agricultural, through industrial and on to service-based activities. The same applies in Britain where the economy underpinning Team GB is based predominantly on service industries (although the concept of ‘service industries’ deserves some scrutiny given the rapacious behaviour of its practitioners in our financial sector).

Sports are not generally of much interest to me but even I can get caught up in the excitement of a fiercely contested race if I happen to lower my guard and accidentally see it on TV. It’s impossible, however, to avoid the bloated publicity generated by the much vaunted medal-rankings-by-nation. The winning of Olympic medals, as all but the most naive must know, is an outcome not only of athletic prowess but also of national government policies aimed at capitalising on the reflected glory of being Olympic number one. In this endeavour the most populous nations have an obvious numerical advantage to start with but other factors such as wealth, available resources and the political will to direct them are decisive. If only the Jamaicans and Ethiopians would play by these rules, the rich, populous and/or command economies could slug it out between themselves without bothersome interference from naturally talented outsiders.

As I write, my own Team GB is doing well in the medal tables: we may not have as many people as, say, China or the USA but we have thrown resources at our chosen ones and appropriated some rather useful, professional floaters. And it is our turn to have the advantage of an enthusiastic, jingoistic home crowd. When it comes to providing for the refreshment of the spectators, however, we have called upon the expertise of the Americans, those masters of service, to send us McDonalds and Coca Cola. So the machinery of the Olympics hums along lubricated by corporate interests, impelled by international rivalries and fussed-over by the world’s press. Meanwhile the cost to the public purse is explained as investment in a ‘legacy’.

There is controversy concerning the involvement of McDonalds and Coca Cola on account of the physical health of their habitual consumers - but at least they know that they are in the business of delivering service with a smile. I ponder this as I sit in a typically British cafe. It had just opened for the day when I arrived to be greeted with indifference, treated as an inconvenience and obliged to sit at a sticky, littered table with wobbly legs. Wobbly table-legs are actually a challenge I cannot resist and I soon had them tightened up, twisting them by hand back into their sockets – one of those useful skills which are a legacy of the secondary economic phase. But my coffee tasted of the bitterness with which it was served up and, since it’s been fifty years since we started the transition to the tertiary phase, perhaps it’s time that we had some proper service - from bankers and baristas alike.

Map/Compass

Leaving the railway station one morning via the big main-entrance doors I deftly sidestepped a dithering, disorientated teenaged girl whose head was bobbing and turning as she peered down at her phone, up and around at her surroundings and back again at the phone. At my sudden movement she started, mumbled an apology then took the opportunity to ask if I knew where the entrance to the station was.

“This is it!” I said with a gesture and a hint of sarcastic incredulity. “Oh thanks” she said without irony and, closing her map app, bent her knees, picked up her bag and tottered off on her high-heeled evening shoes.

I confess that my reaction to her enquiry had been less than graceful: in fact it had been uncharitable. I had felt scornful that she should rely on a newfangled device rather than good, old-fashioned observation. I had made the assumption that she habitually used over-kill technology in preference to human skills. I had subsequently managed to work up a mild outrage at the way teenagers in general appear to live in a bubble where only their current obsessions exist, then followed this by reminding myself of the well-known fact that females can’t read maps.

As I walked on, realising that I had just experienced an inner tsunami of ignorant assumption and ill-informed prejudice, I began to feel remorse for my brusque reaction to her and some anger at the extent to which certain stereotypes have become lodged in my consciousness. What if the girl had not been in full control of her faculties? She might have only partial sight, hearing or understanding. What if she had been experimenting with Google Maps for the first time? What if she had been a foreigner unsure of the language and unconfident about asking the way? What if she had never before seen a railway station? This last may be the least likely but it did lead me to a logical conclusion: that nothing can be taken at face value.

A week later, during a hike in a relatively benign mountainous area, my partner and I, despite meticulously following a set of written directions, found ourselves at a point where we were unsure of the route (i.e. lost). My partner pulled out her map (of which she is a skilled interpreter) in order to orientate ourselves, identify landmarks and read the contour lines – all of which is straightforward provided visibility is adequate. In this instance, however, mist obliged us to resort to a GPS device to fix our position and a compass to determine our forward direction - there being nobody we could ask: which goes to demonstrate that a map is only half the story.

We were on a week-long, summer tour of Shropshire and Herefordshire where we were indulging one of my fanciful dreams of rural, 1950’s England. The dream is populated by people born in the nineteenth century who still inhabit the fecund landscape; the pubs and butchers’ shops in quiet market towns and villages; where it is still possible to drive with pleasure along deserted, picturesque roads, sun-dappled by overhanging trees; to come across wonky signs directing you to cider presses, farm shops or perfect country pubs with idyllic beer gardens. I am pleased to report that all these things (except for the people from the nineteenth century) are still to be found - sometimes diluted by the incursion of modernity, occasionally intact.

Our “plan” was to roam wherever the fancy took us: to wake each morning, point a finger at the map and say “Let’s go there”. But the pleasurable appeal of such a trip is partly in the imagining and the allure of a map, its promise of undiscovered treasures, may never be fully realised. Many frustrating hours can be spent simply covering ground in pursuit of the idyll. So, at last, we felt the need to reassess our purpose, take our bearings and re-set the compass – this time for the exit - where all the uncommitted, disillusioned hippies wind up.

Testing Wallets

The business card read “Cafren E......, Illustrator” but, since I had never known of anybody named Cafren, I couldn’t say if it’s owner was male or female. I spoke the name out loud and it sounded like a lazy pronunciation of Catherine. Then I thought it might be the Gaelic form of an ordinary name like Kevin; or the outcome of prolonged parental agonising over novel names for offspring; or possibly the invention of its owner, intent on adopting a distinctive-sounding stage name with an eye to future fame and fortune. The card, along with a discount voucher for Paradise Island Adventure Golf, was in a wallet I had found in the street. There was no cash, no bank-card or anything else.

Losing your wallet is an inconvenience, minor or major, according to the significance of its contents. I am, of course, making the assumption that the wallet was lost - or that it was stolen, emptied and discarded. But there is another possibility which is that its owner threw it away in disgust at what their life had become. I imagine Cafren out on the town the previous night and having drunk far too much, proclaiming to his/her friends that life was going nowhere fast, that the name Cafren had been an error of judgment and that it was time to make a new start, to reinvent oneself with a fresh identity and set of goals; then, with an oath and an over-dramatic gesture, tossing the wallet, repository of ID, onto the kerbside (having previously exhausted its monetary content).

If this is what happened it was a brave gesture on Cafren’s part but one which was inconsiderate of the consequence for the likes of me. For the finder of a wallet is faced straight away with an unwanted question concerning their own moral values: is the urge to pick it up driven by concern or by opportunism? Is the underlying motivation a wish to reunite wallet and owner or is it merely the base hope of acquiring a fat wad  of notes which, on the flimsiest of imagined justifications such as that it might have belonged to an evil drug-dealer, can be spent as greedily as a banker’s bonus?

All this flashed through my mind as I stooped to pick it up but I am pleased to report that relief, not disappointment, was my feeling on discovering its meagre contents. I was able to drive the morality test deep into the long grass of ‘academic point of interest’ and not have to tee-up to the next level - whether to return the money or steal it. Nevertheless I felt the wallet, empty treasure chest or remnant of a shattered dream, was part of its owner’s identity and it would have been disrespectful to throw it in the bin. So I kept it for a while.

I thought it a little unfair that the next morning, in almost the same spot, I was tested once more by the sight of another wallet abandoned at the kerbside. This one was fat with promise and I had to resist the frisson induced by the anticipation of instant wealth while, bending to pick it up, I fought to convince myself that my intention was benign. Stuffed though it was, it contained no cash but bank cards, a driving license, various club passes and loyalty cards. And with a name like Peter and an ID photo there was no gender mystery to ponder. With considerable detective acumen I noticed that there was an unzipped compartment that may well have contained the cash and from this I deduced that Peter’s wallet had been stolen, relieved of readies and chucked contemptuously into the gutter.

I took Peter’s wallet to a branch of his bank from where they could arrange for him to retrieve it. They wrote down my details so that they could send me a reward (I am still waiting for it but I understand the bank is itself a little short of cash these days). Peter phoned to thank me but I missed his call and listened instead to his message. I thought of calling him back and assuring him that it was empty of money when I found it – but that might sound as though I am guilty so I’ll leave him guessing.

I didn’t make any effort to return Cafren’s wallet: after all, the Paradise Island Adventure Golf discount voucher had recently expired.

Life is Tense

It would appear that the Pirahã Indians of Brazil have no future. Could this be on account of the relentless progress of ‘civilisation’? Quite possibly: but the Pirahã are futureless also in the sense that their language contains no future tense and, consequently, they live their lives from day-to-day. Or is it the other way round? Does the way they live determine their language? But that is a question beloved of Whorfians and the like, people who study Linguistic Relativity. It’s not so relevant if you are content, as are the Pirahã, to exist in the present.

How I envy them right now when the pressure is on me to face up to the future in the form of the nine-day programme of gigs which is the Manchester Jazz Festival. My dilemma is one of forward-planning and I am feeling overwhelmed by the number and variety of performances on offer; the fear of picking the worst ones and of missing the best; the anxiety of timetabling my life so as to weave its mundane events into the Festival; the question of whether or not to book tickets in advance and the reluctance to recommend gigs to friends and risk being responsible should they come away disappointed.

My anxieties obviously threaten to spoil my enjoyment of the music - besides which jazz is a fluid and freeform affair so it feels counter-intuitive to have to plan minutely for the pleasure. But I ought to have no problem with thinking ahead since our complex language provides us with just the grammatical tenses we need for such thought processing. We know, for example, that the Jazz Kings are scheduled in the programme for Wednesday. We might say, therefore, that they will perform on Wednesday. We might also say that they will be performing on Wednesday or we might say they are performing on Wednesday – in which case is it Wednesday already? Perhaps the application of Linguistic Relativity theories is not going to be as helpful as I had hoped.

Tempted by advertising and hype I also considered whether attending another kind of festival might be a good idea. The ones which appeal to me are multi-cultural and include music, literature, film, food etc. all compressed into a long weekend. On reflection, however, given so much choice and so little time I suspect my anxieties would be compounded to the point of panic, my decision-making facility would seize up completely and my entrance fee would have been wasted.

It wasn’t always like this. My first experience of music festivals was relaxed, unplanned and free-wheeling. I am reminded of this by a photo of a girlfriend and me on a ferry bound for the Isle of Wight circa 1970. She wore platform shoes, a mini-skirt, a summer blouse and a straw hat. I wore plimsolls, jeans, flowery shirt and a thin nylon jacket. We had no other clothing, no tent – nor even an overnight bag (although we did have a couple of grams of Afghan Black which proved to be a tradable commodity when seeking accommodation). Otherwise our approach was very Pirahã, very ‘in the moment’.

I’m not sure what happened to change all that. Certainly the music festival concept has evolved from its idealistic beginnings and has become more of a commercial proposition: the simple, one-band-at-a-time schedules I once enjoyed are not the best format for maximising profit.  Simultaneous multi-stage complexity is the new norm and forethought is essential if you want to get the most out of your festival experience. But I can’t help thinking that the Pirahã are on to something and if there was no future then I wouldn’t be so tense.