What You See Is What You Get?

           We now live in Plymouth. It’s official – the council tax bill arrived the day we moved in. So, being in a new space, in a new place, we have an opportunity not only to enjoy the difference but to question lifestyle habits we have fallen into and make a few adjustments. (I’m not talking about delving into existentialism, just the everyday business of making the best of one’s life.)

          Not that Devon is an alien or unfamiliar region – English is spoken and the Queen’s coin is valid – but there are significant differences, at least superficially, as can be seen from the window. Whereas, in Manchester’s gritty centre, I breakfasted with a view of lorries delivering supplies to and collecting refuse from a row of Chinese restaurants, here I watch the quieter, more relaxed activities of a waterfront awakening. Either way I’m in a room with a view. But it’s the particularities of a view that call into question the impact it may have on one’s approach to life. I suppose that, after a while, what I observe each day must become a part of my consciousness and play a part in forming habits. The Manchester view had little to stimulate the imagination, but it did provoke an urge to go out and explore the streets, rich with magnificent buildings, and partake of some of the cultural life of the teeming city. The Plymouth view serves a dual purpose: on the one hand, it is scenic and good just to contemplate (which is useful if you’re feeling poorly); while, on the other, it is dynamic and stimulates a desire to go out and participate.

          Although the South West Coastal Path runs past the door, most activities here take place on the water. A variety of pleasure boats, from kayaks and canoes to small yachts, launch from the slipway and adjacent marina, tantalising even a landlubber like me with the prospect of a jaunt. Meanwhile, further out, the scary-looking Royal Navy warships passing to and from the dockyard upstream serve as a reminder that all is not well with the world. And each morning, at 08.30 prompt, a dozen or so ‘ladies of a certain age’ launch themselves into the water for a swim. They don’t swim vigorously – just a few gentle laps around the little bay, followed by an extensive period of bobbing about in a huddle, chatting loudly and elatedly – but their endurance shames me into feeling like a wimp nevertheless. Perhaps I will work up the courage to take a dip myself – once I have unpacked my trunks. It’s only been a few days, but already I am contemplating the options for water-related exercise. I can swim, though it’s been a while. I don’t fancy any of the many variations of balancing on what looks like a floating ironing board. Nor do I have any desire to own a boat for, as I see it, that would mean devoting a lot of time and money to ‘gear’ and maintenance. I can, however, see a way of dipping my arse in the water by taking a few ‘kayaking for beginners’ sessions – not ambitious, I know, but it could be the start of a new enthusiasm.

          But all this talk of the great outdoors distracts from the business of the interior life – the room from which one views. Moving home is also about finding a balance between replicating the comforts of the old nest and making changes that will expand rather than contract one’s life in the new one. A reassessment of the space, the way it is used and furnished can be stimulating and eye-opening if made in the light of questioning what is really important instead of merely habitual. All this, however, can wait until the foremost priority is sorted: broadband!

 

 

 

Never Waste a Crisis

           Last week, I lamented the stasis of three issues. This week, I am pleased that progress that has been made on all of them: the announcement of a viable vaccine for covid has lit a lamp at the end of the tunnel; the US electorate has succeeded in cutting off the head of the monster that is Trumpism; and, on the personal level, our home-moving process has advanced significantly.

          While progress such as this fans the flames of hope on both the macro and micro fronts, nothing is quite resolved. However, the direction of travel is cause for optimism. In the case of coronavirus, it is to be hoped that, once over, the havoc it is wreaking on human lives and livelihoods will lead us to adjust some of our behaviours – such as better management of the environmental interface between humans and wildlife, a less isolationist tendency among nations and more serious support for the aims of the World Health Organisation. In the case of the USA, perhaps the pendulum of popular opinion has now begun to swing away from libertarian fanatics and towards “losers”, ultimately to replace selfishness and polarisation with a social contract that is more inclusive. Meanwhile, our moving home presents an opportunity to shake off some entrenched ways and perspectives, to stimulate the senses and reignite one’s curiosity.

          The pandemic – as has often been said – will bring about some big changes, but what and how remain to be seen. For example, will working from home become a permanent feature and, if so, how would that affect our centres of commerce, our cities? But there are less obvious ways in which our lives have been touched: Guy Fawkes night was firework-free; Armistice day was without ceremony; and Christmas party invitations have not been sent out. Will the temporary absence of these traditions begin to erode them or, at least, bring into question their hold on the common psyche, thereby shifting our historical perspective a little? I hope so, for the upholding of traditions requires a fine balance between using them to bind society in a mutually beneficial alliance and misapplying them to stultify dissent, diversity and enlightenment. And whilst we, in our smug ‘Western Democracies’, might think we are well along the road to ultimate civilization, we have a long way yet to travel. Take a look at Peter Geoghagan’s book, Democracy for Sale: Dark Money and Dirty Politics. If you think that either the USA or the UK has a robustly democratic system, this evidence-based analysis will open your eyes.

          There has always been lobbying, gerrymandering and – in the USA – state-sponsored suppression of ethnic voters. Over the years, legislation has been passed to set up controls aimed at keeping the playing field level and, when it comes to suffrage, this has been relatively successful. However, in the fields of lobbying and campaigning, nothing has been able to control the power of money. The gist of Democracy for Sale is that money, in the last few years, has played a decisive role in influencing voters because it is being used to buy advertising on social media, an unregulated medium. Not only are the purchasers of the ads invisible, but the ads themselves are liable to contain unverified propositions targeted at those most likely to accept them as factual. Existing controls on political campaigning are ineffective in the era of instant social media. Complacency in this respect is proving to be dangerous for democracy.

          Crises present opportunities for change, for better or for worse. I vote for better, by which I mean progress towards socioeconomics*, environmental restoration, democratic restitution and, on the practical level, advances in technology and design. Funny, though, how I am spending a lot of time online looking for a vintage mid-century easy chair for my new life in my new abode. Traditional ways are not so easy to shake off.

*As in Raguram Rajan’s The Third Pillar.

 

The Waiting Game

           As I write, it seems that everything is up in the air: lockdown has just been reinstated in England; votes are still being counted in the USA; and the legal process of conveyancing grinds inexorably towards an unknown and unknowable date of completion for our home move. When will the pubs, gyms and shops selling non-essential items re-open? Who will emerge as leader of the “Free World”? When will I be able to sit on my west-facing terrace and contemplate the sun going down over Cornwall (or watch the Atlantic weather fronts roil in)? It feels like living in limbo, whatever that is. To be sure, I looked up the origin of the word and was horrified. It seems that having invented a place called Heaven, Christianity then had to institute a few border controls to ensure that only the worthy entered. Hence Limbo, the place where applicants, i.e. innocent souls, languish until their visas can be validated. This applies especially to saints who died before the advent of Christ and (it gets worse) all those unbaptised children who have committed no sin except for the “original” one of having been born. So henceforth I will shun the word, along with its implication that there is nothing to be done but wait. Instead, I will concentrate on the here and now.

          As far as lockdown goes, although it means the suspension of daily visits to the gym, it also presents the opportunity to question the sense of a costly membership pass. Why not make permanent use instead of the outdoors, where walking and cycling cost nothing? As for the pub, the experience of the past eight months has made us resourceful in finding alternative ways to socialise – for the time being, at least. And the non-essential shopping? Well, it’s non-essential.

          Then there is the presidential election. While one hopes for the worst possible outcome for the incumbent, the present hiatus is a chance to reflect on how he even got there in the first place and whether or not he has had any positive effect on the system of governance, which is not as perfect as the myth surrounding it would have us believe. Certainly, he has exposed its weaknesses, so maybe there will arise some momentum to fix them – if, that is, politicians who are not corrupt ever get to tinker with the constitution. For it is said that “power corrupts but it is more likely that power attracts the corruptible. And supposing an honourable, public-spirited legislature did turn the USA into a better functioning democracy, how long would it last? As one US Senator* has observed, “If we were to wake up some morning and find that everyone was the same race, color and creed, we would find some other cause for prejudice by noon.”

          Then there is the waiting to move home, which is largely a state of mind, since there is a mass of displacement activity to keep one from dwelling on it. Despite paying solicitors to deal with it, most of the work is actually done by me. They made it sound easy, seducing me with web portals, through which documents can be exchanged – signed, even – and phone apps which track your progress towards the all-important ‘completion’, but the reality is that I do all the collating, scanning, checking, uploading, emailing and subsequent chasing-up. Without a fully equipped home-office, which (to my occasional regret) I do have, all this would be unfeasible. And even the removals companies got me to do the surveys for them via video.

          So, I am trying to keep my mind focussed on the present, be in the moment and not waste time speculating about what might be. Even so, I do lapse sometimes into a daydream of what it will be like to sit on that west-facing terrace and watch the sun go down on the river Tamar – and, possibly, democracy itself.

* George D. Aiken, (d. 1984)

 

Hello, Goodbye

          We have often fantasised about living in some of the places we been to during our travels and now, fantasy is about to become reality. In a few weeks’ time we’ll be moving to Plymouth, a city that I know from adolescence. It’s smaller than Manchester and it’s a seaport, so it has quite a different feel, but that is the point – to experience living somewhere different – while we are still able. We’d had it in mind to migrate there a couple of years hence, but covid has catalysed events, challenging assumptions about likely future outcomes and putting pressure on timelines. Much is about to change in the way many of us live, our cities, our infrastructure and our freedom of movement so, with all that in the offing, now seems like the time to stop dreaming and make an actual move.

          Preparations for moving home include taking stock of possessions that need to be transported. We don’t have much, having downsized just six years ago, yet a reappraisal swiftly identified at least one item that need not follow us around any longer: my collection of CDs. The fact is, since I copied them all on to a hard drive around ten years ago, I haven’t laid a hand on a single one of them. Not that I have gone off listening to music – far from it – but CDs are just as redundant in the life I now lead as shellac discs and disposable gramophone needles were at the time I first bought a record, which (for the record) was in 1959. Even so, the tedious process of digitising the CDs was, in the end, pointless, since, for a modest monthly subscription, all that music is now available to stream online.

          And there is more: internet-enabled TV brings musical treasures galore straight to your favourite armchair. Last night, for example, I caught up on a bio of Count Basie that gave an insight into the man, as well as the music. Which reminds me: unlikely though it may seem, I do not expect my membership of the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society to be revoked on the grounds of geographical disqualification. These past few months have seen its activities confined to Zoom anyway and, since the members mostly fall into the upper age-range ‘at risk’ category, the likelihood of physical meetings in the foreseeable future is small. I am confident that it will adapt to the times, as with its latest project, a plagiarised form of Desert Island Discs, which reflects the ‘marooned’ feeling we all have and seeks to bring us all together over the ether.  

          Not all decisions regarding possessions are straightforwardly dependent on logic, as anyone sorting through their cupboards will tell you. What do you do about the sentimental stuff – the love letters, the photos, the books inscribed with birthday wishes? The obvious answer, supposing one has the space, is that there is no need to dispose of them: take them along and let someone else do it for you when your time is up. Nevertheless, to put a perspective on this conclusion, the world is full of refugees and victims of destruction who have been left with nothing but memories, so I consider it a privilege even to have a choice in the matter. I will be taking my personal mementoes with me for as long as I can.

          Which just leaves one outstanding matter and the only one of real consequence: the friends we will leave behind. After so long in one place it is certainly not a matter of “easy come, easy go” (though in a few cases this is true) it is a case of wrenching oneself away. It didn’t feel like that when I left London, but I was younger then and the sense of adventure for what lay ahead easily overwhelmed any hankering to stay. Perhaps the secret to the success of this move is to try to emulate that optimism of youth and not dwell too much on the past.

Opening Shots

           While I was loitering in St. Peter’s Square trying to make up my mind where to go for coffee, a small blue tent slid slowly into view. Propelled by the wind, it progressed gracefully across the paving. I got a hand to it before it drifted onto the tram rails. It was empty but I guessed it belonged to a homeless person, so I put it under the arcade, whence it most likely came. There are fewer tents on the streets since the pandemic forced the authorities to do the decent thing and take more care of the homeless, but they haven’t all disappeared. I thought, at the time, that the scene would make a good opener for a film, since there was a sort of mystery about it. What had become of the owner/occupier? Perhaps they had found permanent accommodation – or moved into a friend’s tent for companionship.

          I was mulling over several possible plotlines, when a large pigeon startled me by landing in a flurry on a low wall nearby. I noticed that it had only one leg yet, by somehow twisting it into a central position beneath its breast, it was able to stand erect without the aid of a crutch. Perhaps it had been born that way. I could see no sign of injury or mutilation, no residual stump. The pigeon had adapted well to its handicap and I felt some admiration for it, unlike its two-legged fellow, an avian  brute, who arrived soon after and chased it away as though it were a nuisance. Mmm, I thought, an allegory on lack of empathy. Another good opening shot, perhaps.

          I suppose film was on my mind because the previous evening I had watched Witness for the Prosecution, a 1957 production by Billy Wilder starring Tyrone Power, Marlene Dietrich and Charles Laughton. The plot is intriguing – as you would expect of its author, Agatha Christie – and the production, allowing for its era, is top-notch. From my contemporary liberal point of view, however, the experience was marred by the reduction of the supporting cast to gross caricatures. This may have been done for comic effect but, nevertheless, it left a bad taste, based as it was on the kind of class-biased assumptions of superiority that have long since been discredited. The saving grace of the film (production quality excepted) is that the story itself – a tragedy of unrequited love – is all too human, credible and moving.

          I have not been to a cinema since lockdown: too risky to be enjoyable. Instead, I have spent more time at home, streaming, reading and browsing the internet, the last of which is not without its own dangers. Not that I have been infected by a computer virus, but I have unwittingly attracted the attention of a blogger known as Peking Duck, whose mission is to spread propaganda for the Chinese Communist Party, of which I am not a fan. In the interest of open mindedness however, I have read some of Peking Duck’s content and have to agree that the CCP has achieved a remarkable feat in dragging China out of poverty and propelling it to the forefront of technological innovation. I also agree that ‘western democracy’ is not the perfect system of governance that some claim it to be, especially now that I see it crumbling under pressure from demagogues and corrupting lobbyists. But my real objection to the CCP is its anointment of Emperor Xi Jinping and the consequent snuffing out of all political dissent. I am, after all, a liberal and I said so in a comment to Peking Duck one evening after a few glasses of Bordeaux, which may not have been prudent, since I imagine now that I will soon be kidnapped, taken to China, charged, convicted and imprisoned under the new National Security laws. Now, that has the makings of a good film plot.