Exercise Freedom

          Our local, council-owned gym/sports centre is about to close for a six-month-long refit. We can go meanwhile to another of their establishments, but it is inconveniently located and would involve a relatively long journey. But anything more than a ten-minute walk is a real disincentive for someone like me, whose enthusiasm for work-outs is marginal at best, so I have stopped my subscription. Until it reopens I intend to get my exercise quota, free of charge, by more cycling and walking. My Other Half, however, has a much more demanding keep-fit regime and cannot contemplate a gym-free environment. She has signed up with a commercial outfit nearby, one that has upmarket pretensions manifest in its location, slick facilities, fancy lounge-cum-coffee bar and a price tag that is not for the faint-hearted. (In fact, she has appropriated my former subscription to subsidise her new one. The arrangement is by mutual consent.)

          I am similarly apathetic about swimming. Although we live just a few steps from the sea and a few hundred metres from an open-air, free-to-use, seawater pool, the stars have to be in a certain alignment before I’m inclined to reach for my trunks. Meanwhile, my OH will have completed her daily triathlon: running, working-out and twenty lengths in the fast lane. I marvel that she has the time and energy for much else, yet she recruited me recently to help out at a couple of environmental ‘actions’ she is involved with.

          Sometimes a confluence of events brings about critical mass and lends extra momentum to the progress of a cause. In this case, I cite the water companies’ cynical approach to dumping untreated sewage into the sea and rivers. They’ve been doing it for years, sneaking it in without too many people noticing, but the public has finally caught on and its outrage is rising. So, what changed? Could it be the increasing popularity of wild swimming that has brought so many people face-to-face, literally, with the facts? They are beginning to join ranks with organisations like Surfers Against Sewage, another group of citizen-witnesses to the daily discharges of waste. Environmental activists are showing up on beaches around the country this summer, asking people to sign a petition proposing that the government adopt its plans for cleaning up and regulating the pollution of our waterways. My part in this campaign is supportive. I am deemed too much of a risk to be entrusted with public outreach – the task of approaching people and asking them to sign a petition or take a leaflet. It requires certain skills that are characterised by friendliness and engagement – both of which I can do, up to a point. But I can’t be relied upon to sustain them in the face of obduracy, uninterestedness or worse, hostility. At risk of showing myself up as the Basil Fawlty of public relations, I am best employed fetching and carrying, putting up the banners, fixing broken displays and remaining in the background. (Though, come to think of it, how controversial is the issue of swimming with turds?)

          Judging by the number of signatures obtained by the reachers-out this is going to be a big, fat petition, despite the unseasonal weather that has kept so many people away from the beaches. A few sunny weekends should transform it into a jumbo document, capable of impressing upon politicians that the greed of water companies has become a significantly vote-sensitive issue at last.

          Of course, while I’m helping out at these events, three things are going through my mind: before you know it, winter will be here and my enthusiasm for cycling and walking will be damped by the weather; if I wasn’t keen on swimming in the sea in the first place, I’m even less so now, knowing what I know; and maybe it’s a capitalist conspiracy to corner us all into paying for gym membership?

 

 

  

 

Heavy Weather

          I once heard a mountain climber from America say how baffled he was by the number of Brits he encountered on the major continental ranges. Since the peaks of Britain are relatively short of stature, he had not expected them to provide adequate training for the development of such expertise. But then he got it: variable weather is the key. British climbers’ skills are enhanced by the layer of resilience required to deal with frequent and abrupt changes in the weather in, say, the Cairngorms or Snowdonia. Another American, Bill Bryson, observed this trait, albeit at a lower altitude, when he commented that only the British could imagine they were having fun crouched behind a sheltering rock with a cheese sandwich and a thermos of tea.

          None of this is proof that we are a universally hardy island race, of course. One has only to note the steady exodus to reliably sunny holiday destinations and the resulting decline of our once popular domestic seaside resorts to realise that, though we may be accustomed to the weather, we don’t really like its changeability. And even those few of us who do, sometimes get sick of its being a conversational mainstay. That said, July, although it did not provide us with overt summery joy, did compensate with much-needed rain, which plumped up the wild blackberries and will ensure an abundant (and early) crop of juicy apples. (So, in anticipation of nature’s bounty, we have acquired a small, pre-owned chest-freezer to accommodate the large quantities of stewed fruit we are already starting to accumulate.)

          Early August has brought some sunnier spells and a stream of friends and family to our manor, attracted, I’m sure, by the unique combination of the delights of the SW English Riviera and our own, universally acknowledged, good company. Among our visitors were a couple of friends and their nine-year-old twin daughters, who came in a campervan the same size as ours and with whom we spent a couple of days near the Cornish fishing port-cum-holiday town of Looe. We camped on a clifftop with a lovely view of the bay, a steep walk to the beach and a high degree of vulnerability to the prevailing winds, all of which we enjoyed in varying degrees. Not that we heard even one word of complaint, but our friends’ campervanning experience has mostly been in the south of France, as was evident in the fact that their set-up is what I would call continental – an awning for shade, facilities for cooking and dining al fresco etc. Their van is for travelling and sleeping in, whereas ours is capable of sustaining us comfortably for twenty four hours without setting foot outside. As it happens, the days were sunny enough for outdoor activities, but our communal suppers had some elemental challenges. On the first night there was no rain, but the windbreak we had stashed in our locker had to be erected around the picnic table to prevent food being blown off plates and our friends had to retract their awning before it flapped itself to shreds. On the second night, there was barely a breeze, but the rain started at mealtime and the awning was usefully deployed as a parapluie rather than a parasol. Later, with the children abed, we adults squeezed into our van for a nightcap.

          Britain’s weather may, arguably, play a part in the formation of national character. As a topic of conversation, it has always been a useful opener, though not one to drawl on about for too long. But perhaps this is about to change. Now that weather is consistently headline news all over the world, not just because of its variability and extreme, violent unpredictability, but also because of our failure to address, insofar as we are able, the causes of this change, now is certainly the time to have serious conversations about it.

 

Back and Forth Across the Atlantic

          You know how when a friend sends you a link to an article that they think might be of interest to you, the moment you open it the publishers seize the opportunity to persuade you to become a subscriber? That happened to me recently with the New York Times (NYT). Now, arguably, I don’t have the headspace for yet another online publication, but they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse (£20 for the year!), which got me thinking that I’m too comfortable anyway with my daily fare and might benefit from a change of journalistic perspective. However, though it may be too early to call, I’m beginning to think that there is not that much of a cultural gulf – let alone an ocean – between the American and British beneficiaries of my subscriptions.
          The NYT logo is in the same old-fashioned typeface as that of our own Daily Telegraph, conveying the superficial impression (to the uninitiated) that both papers adhere to conservative views. But, in the case of the NYT, the typeface is more likely intended to signal long-established journalistic bona fides than stuck-in-the-mud opinions. Indeed, the paper does contain some quaintly Old World usages of our language. For example, in an obituary for the recently deceased Randy Meisner, founding member of The Eagles, the author subsequently refers to him as “Mr. Meisner” and his associates as Messrs Frey and Henley, titles which, surely, the old rockers only ever saw printed in legal documents.
          Apart from reading the NYT, I am also consuming other forms of American culture and becoming obsessed by unravelling its origins in European traditions. The novelist Barbara Kingsolver, having sat at Charles Dickens’ desk, was inspired to write Demon Copperhead – a reimagining of David Copperfield. It is evident that she picked up on the element of social commentary in Dickens’ work and made it a linchpin of her own. The film, Oppenheimer, is an American story, set in New Mexico, yet the science itself and the scientists involved in the project originated in Europe. Moreover, the objective was to bring an end to a war started in Europe. On TV, I’ve just watched a series called The Bear, which is set in Chicago and written in vibrant, coarse, everyday dialogue that is unmistakeably vernacular. Yet the characters constantly reference their Italian heritage and the main protagonist is a chef, trained in Europe and intent on recreating the same tradition of fine dining back in downtown Chicago. Back at the cinema for Barbie, the European connection is less obvious, though I have read that the American creator of the adult doll was inspired by an earlier model that that she had seen on a visit to Germany. The German doll went by the name of Bild Lilli and, in my opinion, looked a little bit sexy, which is not something I could say about her American descendant, surely a victim of the superficial sanitisation of sexuality for which America acquired a reputation in the post-war years. But in the film version, Barbie acquires an understanding of the politics of patriarchy. The next time I come across her I’ll be seeing more than just a plastic doll.
          But perhaps the most unexpected example of this cultural cross-fertilisation is the NYT’s coverage of cricket, that most un-American of games. Yes, there are reports of the test matches in England but, more surprising – to me at least – is the news that cricket is becoming big in America (as it was before the civil war.) This rebirth is being driven by immigrants from Australia, South Africa, the Caribbean and South Asia, all of whom got it from the English. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised to see it re-packaged and sent back across the Atlantic to us sometime soon.
 

Now, Where Was I?

          Sitting down to a spot of diarising the other day, it came as a shock to realise that the year is already past its half-way mark. I know, it’s obvious, but I should explain that I’m not a natural in the fields of chronology and horology. I need visual aids – calendars (the original ‘spreadsheets’), clocks and fingers upon which to count. It’s not my fault, of course. If our accepted systems were logical, I would have no problem following them. For example, why does the year start somewhat arbitrarily in the middle of winter and not at the beginning of it? And who thought it was a good idea to have seven days in a week when we, the numerically challenged, can more easily cope with decimal and binary systems? And as for the variable number of days in a month, well…need I expound?

          I keep track of everything, these days, by using digital calendars and notebooks. They have many advantages over paper when it comes to organising events, especially those that are shared with a partner: referencing is easy with ‘search’ commands; upcoming birthdays are flagged in advance; filing is invisible and takes no shelf space; availability is always in your pocket, etc. And when I say that I keep track of everything, I mean past as well as future events. I keep a note of books I have read because lately it seems I remember more of those that I haven’t read than those that I have. So, if someone asks me if I’ve read a particular book, I can whip out my phone and check: they don’t have to listen to me mumbling, “I’m not sure”, and the imagined sounds of my memory-rummagings. Unfortunately, I can’t always recall the contents of that book. Neither my notes nor my memory is that extensive.

          Is it an inevitable consequence of aging that one’s past becomes a more valued asset, one in which to take comfort, one to be cherished? After all, the opposite does seem to apply: youth looks forward to life and cares not so much about what went before. Giorgi Gospodinov, in his novel Time Shelter, puts it this way, “They say that the past is a foreign country. Nonsense. The past is my home country. The future is a foreign country, full of strange faces.” He goes on to imagine clinics that are time-themed – for example, furnished in mid-20^th century style – recreating environments for those suffering from Alzheimer’s disease who feel comforted by surroundings familiar to them from their earlier days. He goes on to riff about the relationship between past and future, claiming that “Somewhere in the Andes, they believe to this very day that the future is behind you. It comes up from behind your back, surprising and unforeseeable, while the past is always before your eyes, that which has already happened. When they talk about the past, the people of the Aymara tribe point in front of them”.

          Confused? Well, yes but it can be argued that our past, being a part of what we are at present, is very much in our sights, while our future, if not exactly perceived as being behind us, could at least be described as lurking at the corner of the next intersection. As far as my diary is concerned, however, time is strictly linear, which suits me fine, as I would be quite lost in any other space-time continuum, unable to plan our upcoming excursions to Spain and Athens, which was why I had my diary out in the first place. I suppose what got me started was the realisation, as I made myself comfortable, that our living space is furnished in a certain mid-20^th century fashion, a style that has always been my favourite. So, inadvertently, it seems that I’ve prepared for what might come.

 

Just Saying...

          Wimbledon is over, but the contest between the England and Australia cricket teams continues – as does the disruptive action at these events by certain parties trying to draw attention to the looming catastrophe of climate change caused by human economic activity. If I’d had the ear of the sporting authorities, I would have suggested they invite the demonstrators to set up stalls from which they could disseminate their message. Not only would this have avoided the expense and inconvenience to their customers of the extra security checks, it would also have lent heft to the demonstrators’ message, since it might be perceived as having the endorsement of the authorities – assuming, of course, that the authorities concur that they are not immune from the coming storm that is already affecting billions of people outside of Wimbledon and a few select cricket grounds. But enlightenment dawns slowly and the messengers will end up in court, which is better than being shot but just as shortsighted.

          In our household, Wimbledon fortnight has one avid follower – and it’s not me. I was glad to escape the endless TV coverage, for a week at least, by going to Manchester, on the business of sorting out new tenancies for the two flats we rent out there. I had hoped to find time for some socialising as well, but there was too much to do, so I concentrated on fixing, refurbishing and making sure the new tenants would have no reason to trouble me once I had left town. There is apparent reason in the saying “don’t mix business with pleasure”.

          One of my tasks was taking inventories, which always reminds me of childhood and the moves into and out of “married quarters” whenever father was posted to a different Royal Air Force base. What fascinated me was the precise military logic of a description such as – “Table, oak, dining. Qty. 1”. Since then, I’ve had a thing about not getting it the wrong way round, as in “big yellow cushion”. This extends to recipes, which often exasperate me by listing ingredients by measure rather than type, i.e., “1½ teaspoons of finely grated nutmeg”, the reading of which makes the pre-assembly of ingredients tiresome. But I digress from the point, which is that I found myself with an excess of ovens, microwave, Qty. 3. I needed to dispose of one, so I chose the oldest model and took it down to the bins, where a woman – tiny, ancient, Chinese – was examining an upright vacuum cleaner that had been discarded because it’s handle had snapped off. We smiled and, though she spoke only a few words of English, I understood that she was asking me if I could fix it. I convinced her that it was beyond repair and we agreed to put it back into the bin whence she had dragged it. She then switched her interest to my microwave, wanting to know if it was in working condition. I gave her the thumbs up and she indicated she would like it. Now, a microwave is quite heavy – due, I think, to the fact that it contains a mini nuclear reactor – but she would willingly have carried it away, had I not offered to help (I guessed rightly that she lived in an adjacent block that I know to be a housing association full of women, tiny, ancient, Chinese). She appeared chuffed and used her English to the max, saying “thankyou” several times.

          The new tenants turned out to be from Arabia and Brazil, which is probably why they were particularly interested in the heating arrangements. Yet the news is currently dominated by reports of dangerously high temperatures on all the continents and, this morning on BBC Radio 4, Professor Sir Bob Watson told us (as if we didn’t know) that governments were not doing enough to mitigate the existential threat to our ecosystem. Not everyone tunes in to radio 4, but I couldn’t help thinking that if he had interrupted a tennis match to say that, he would have been hustled off to face a criminal charge.