Just The Ticket!

          Returning from London the other day on a ‘super off-peak’ ticket, we were refused boarding on two ‘off-peak’ trains and had to wait an hour for one that allowed ‘super’ passengers. Now, I would have expected a ‘super’ to trump a mere ‘off-peak’, but the system follows a different logic, baffling at best, incomprehensible at worst. In the event, the later train was almost deserted and therefore more comfortable and calming. And the fact that it got held up behind a slower train also worked in our favour, as we then qualified for a 25 % refund for late arrival. Now that’s what I call super.

          The next morning, I caught another train, the ‘bus-on-rails’ up the ancient single-track serving the Tamar valley. My mission was to get to the orchards at Cothele where, earlier in the summer, I had been eyeing up the variety of apples on offer. My enthusiasm for a harvest, however, was premature – as I’m sure any horticulturalist could have told me. The trees were weighed down with colourful fruit, tantalising but unripe. I made my way back to the station, not unduly disappointed. After all, it had been a lovely walk and the pasty I had purchased from the local shop was one of the best I have ever tasted.

          The train trundled into the tiny, unmanned station of Calstock, where a dozen or so of us day-trippers were waiting to be taken home. I found a seat that would allow a good view and, as we pulled away, patted my pockets for my phone. That’s when I got that sinking feeling. I searched my back-pack, frantically, but I knew it would not be there. I had left the phone on the platform, on the low wall where I had sat waiting for the train. Having put it down while I fiddled around with various pairs of specs, I neglected to pick it up when I stood to board.

          I remember that years ago, if one lost one’s wallet, the incident became an emergency – racing to cancel debit and credit cards and having to cope with dismay at the loss of one’s ready cash. Possibly, there was also a driving licence or other form of proof of identity and an intimate photo of a loved one that could never be replicated. The loss of one’s phone, by these criteria, is trivial, but in other ways, more catastrophic. The contents are – or should be – secure from acquisitive predators, but they are also temporarily inaccessible to oneself which, given they include diary, contacts and numerous indispensable apps, makes it awkward to communicate – especially as one has no phone! My mind whirled through possible courses of action. I consulted the ticket-collector, who told me the staff on the train were on their last shift, so they could not help to retrieve it. He advised me to remain on the train for its return journey (it turned at Plymouth to go back up the valley) and, with luck, my phone might still be where I left it.

          The fresh crew boarded the train and the kindly ticket collector said she had been told about my predicament and would not insist I pay again. Nevertheless, I spent the next hour alternating between despair and resignation. Every stop tested my patience and every mile my resilience. As the train pulled into Calstock, I stood at the door, scanning the wall and saw that it was still there! With unseemly haste, I leapt from the train and ran down the platform, dodging elderly trekkers and parents with toddlers in tow. A young woman stood next to the phone and had been ‘guarding’ it in the hope that its owner might turn up. She was almost as relieved as I was that we were reunited. Even the ticket collector leaned out and gave me a smiling thumbs-up. I clutched the phone closely all the way home and noted that there is a human side to the rail ticketing system after all.

Summertime Blues?

          Summer seems longer this year, perhaps because I’ve enjoyed the extended campervan excursions interspersed with spells at home, where swimming has become a daily routine. Not that I’m keen on swimming per se but, with the sea and an open-air pool on the doorstep, it has become a convenient part of the exercise regime I’ve adopted to defer the muscular-skeletal deterioration brought on by advancing age. And it’s a bonus that, unlike other forms of physical exertion, swimming doesn’t cause me to sweat. Nor does the series of morning stretches that are part of the plan to “use it or lose it”. (Whoever came up with that phrase did a great job of providing an aide memoire for those inclined to laziness or procrastination in respect of athleticism.)

          Autumn is by no means here yet, but the question has already arisen as to whether I will swim in winter. The pool will be closed but the sea will remain open. I could brave it in my wetsuit or coat myself in grease, I suppose, but the prospect is unappealing either way. There is an indoor pool, but it is neither handy nor free and, as we all know by now, the coming tsunami of inflation and energy bills will diminish and, in many cases eliminate, disposable incomes. (Maybe the wetsuit and grease options will be useful for an evening in front of the telly.) Actually, I usually look forward to wintertime – as I do to every season, each with its unique qualities – but this one will be different. For one thing, I will be spending part of it in Australia, where I expect to be broiled alive while trying to keep my cool in the company of family and friends. My summer tan will have long gone and England will be mocked by my hosts as a land of pale-skinned, rain-drenched unfortunates who ought to be grateful for the opportunity to dodge skin cancer on a walk to the supermarket. I shall be glad to get home in November, even if I find, as I expect, widespread civil disorder due to the extreme poverty, for which we have the ‘magic’ of ‘market forces’ to thank.

          The ageing process is remorseless, but we can at least prepare for its onslaught not only physically but also practically and mentally. The importance of the practical side is well illustrated by my ongoing involvement in the care of an aging, invalid aunt. She has been a life-long hoarder but, now that Alzheimer’s has overtaken her, only those possessions to which she is sentimentally attached are of value to her. As to her papers, folders stuffed with old and irrelevant documents such as bank statements and expired insurance policies, they are now consigned to the shredder. I did the same to my own files some time ago, when it became feasible to transact and save all this stuff online. And to those who protest that all will be lost in the event of a mega-crash in the cloud, I retort that housefires are more likely to destroy your precious documentation. (My passwords are stashed in a fireproof location known only to me and my executors.)

          So far, so smug. What I have yet to confront fully is mental attitude. Often referred to as “grumpy old man” syndrome but sometimes manifest in the form of real depression, it is a key indicator of resentment and, as such, an undesirable trait in the elderly. Early experimentation in warding off this evil include heeding advice on the avoidance of uttering involuntary ‘old person noises’ – such as grunting and groaning when settling into or struggling out of an armchair. It may not be much, but it serves as an aide memoire to keep on truckin’ till time is truly up.

 

It's Just Not My Thing

          There are certain music genres to which I have a sort of allergy: I stop my ears, for example, at the sounds of rap and/or hip-hop. (I don’t know how they are different, because my ears are stopped.) Occasionally, I make an effort to listen, but it is always short-lived and dead-ended. Even my last attempt, The Grey Album, “The 2004 mashup of the Beatles White Album and Jay-Z’s Black Album created by Danger Mouse”, failed to convince me. The promise of Beatles samples lured me into listening, but I spent the whole time eagerly identifying the Beatles bits and getting annoyed by the intrusive, ranting, shouty lyrics – the modern stuff. I do question whether I should be more open-minded (or open-eared). After all, the fact that a form of popular music is not of my generation or cultural niche is no reason to ignore or dismiss it. In the end, however, I have settled for finding it ‘unpalatable’ and leaving it at that.

          Hip-hop is just one of the layers of culture currently being laid down, with which I have little or no involvement and am content to entrust to those who will be affected most – the present and future generations. We Boomers have had our day in that respect and it’s time to make a dignified exit from the limelight, stand back and leave the stage to younger talent. Not that I would encourage retirement if ability and ambition remain strong, but there really is such a thing as an old fool. Nor would I advocate giving up and resting on one’s laurels. Engagement with society, at whatever level, is what keeps us well. Nevertheless, the past is still with us and, without dwelling on it, there is much to be learned from its occasional contemplation. And I mean not just the recent past.

          In the oldest part of Plymouth, where the original street-layout is largely intact, there is an Elizabethan house, preserved and maintained as a museum or time-capsule. Nearby, is a reconstructed garden of the same period – just a small space, squashed between the surrounding houses. I spent some time in both last week, soaking in the fact that the origins of the city were determined by geography and appreciating just how hard life was for most of the population. These things we know, but they become more vivid when contemplated in situ. Days later, on a soft, summer morning, I wandered the ruins of Haughmond Abbey in Shropshire and had a similar experience. The location is rural, tranquil and fertile. The Abbot’s chambers were palatial, while the monks lived frugally. Nevertheless, I imagine they were glad to have food and shelter in return for devoting their otherwise poverty-stricken lives to a god. The Abbey met its end during the dissolution, just as the house in Plymouth was being established. I felt grateful not to have been alive in those times, for fear I might have been at the bottom of the social ladder and with no prospect of climbing higher. Mind you, at least there was no danger of accidentally hearing hip-hop.

          But, as has been said by someone, “nothing ever happened in this world before the first person sold something”. A new age of trading was dawning in Elizabethan Britain and, with it, came wealth, social mobility, population growth, economic growth and, finally, industrialisation. This is our heritage and, though much has changed and is changing, some things stay the same. Those castles and cathedrals serve to remind us that hierarchies are still in charge, though their outward forms have changed. The present might be comfortable for some and the future might look rosy to others, but whoever coined the phrase “the good old days” didn’t know the half of it. If I were younger and angrier, I might be expressing this in a rap.