The Kids are Alright

There’s a very human moment in series three of Fargo, when Sy Feltz breaks down in his wife’s arms and sobs. The reason? Bewilderment, plain and simple. The chaos that has arisen all around him has pulled the last remaining threadbare remnants of certainty’s rug from under his feet. It’s still his world, but he no longer recognises it.

I know the surreal nature of Sy’s situation only too well. In my own dark days, more than 25 years ago, I didn’t have bodies, blackmail or life threatening criminals haunting my every waking hour. But I had enough emotional disturbance going on to stretch my anchor lines to the limit. My own nadir was marked by a particularly frightening episode of disorientation. Driving to work, along an all too familiar route, I found myself, inexplicably, in a cul-de-sac I didn’t recognise. I had no recollection of making the turns that brought me there. I just arrived, confronted with half a dozen unidentifiable bungalows, seemingly bent on wrapping themselves around me, and not in a friendly way.

That was a long time ago, and my life has long since been purged of that exceptionally toxic mix of circumstances. But in recent months something has gradually dawned on me. My world, beyond family and friends, is becoming harder to recognise. My own rug of certainty has frayed under the traffic of insidious mixed messages and mischief making. The scuffmarks of racism, intolerance, pollution, political skulduggery, and outright inhumanity are indelible. It’s all out of shape. Pulled this way and that, alternately, by hope and despair.

Here is the news: the grown ups have lost the plot, and only the kids can save us. I truly believe this. I applaud the youth striking for climate action. My heart feels lighter when I see Greta Thunberg say her piece, in the same way that it did when Emma Gonzalez stuck it to the NRA and Donald Trump and called BS in the wake of the Parkland shooting.

My own grandchildren are often aghast at the way some people in society are treated. The eldest, offers a well practiced and passionate ‘thumbs down’ to those in positions of power, who have abandoned their responsibilities. The twins (aged nine) simply dismiss what I would call unjust and callous, as mean and unkind. They already know, as do many of their peers, that the world we’ve shaped for them is unacceptable. But new patterns are way beyond the design stage, the means of production is being rallied. The kids are about to weave their own rug for the future, and they have already chosen the certainties with which they wish to bind it.

What Kind Of Animal Are You?

A colleague once confessed that, during a works outing, she and a few others had assigned animal identities to various individuals in the department. Without too much coaxing, she revealed that I had been labelled a sloth. She didn’t elaborate on the reasons. Probably just as well. Aside from long forgotten childhood role play, this is the only time I can recall being compared to another animal type. Anyway, the tag doesn’t stick. I’m not particularly slow in my movments, I don’t have long arms, and I pay close attention to the length of my nails. My tree climbing efforts are pathetic.

There’s another animal I’m not, and that’s the political variety. At least in the sense of turning myself inside out to make a point. It’s not that I can’t articulate my thoughts and views. It’s more to do with the nature of debate. The walking, talking reference books who spill out their favourite quotes, cite political theorists, regurgitate selected media opinion. Too often an exchange of passionate, yet mutually respectful, arguments fall foul of the need to be right, and it doesn’t take long before a sanctimonious sledgehammer is wielded to crush an honestly expressed walnut of opinion.

So now, like millions of others, I tend to keep my political opinions largely to myself; occasionally sharing them only with those who have learnt the knack of agreeing to disagree.

I saw a clip of Jarvis Cocker recently. He had been invited to appear on BBC Politics Live to talk about Brexit, as he was supporting a second referendum. Perched on one end of the panel, he looked like an exotic exhibit, a celebrity curio. While Toby Young, at the opposite end, had the demeanour of a man poised to berate his neighbour for clipping the hedge and disturbing his Sunday afternoon nap. Jarvis opened his mouth and calmly told it the way he saw it. A pain-faced Toby Young responded with a well rehearsed diatribe in the way the pub know-all is apt to put every egg-sucking grandmother right. It struck me that this is pretty much how ‘common people’ are addressed by those who don’t necessarily know better, or have all the answers.

It’s not the zeal that’s frightening; we live in desperate times, so it’s to be expected. But it’s the arrogance, the contempt, the dismissive tone aimed at those voices that are not in tune. What happened to reason, and gentle persuasion? How does the quest to make a better world so often include turning a blind eye to the very humanity we seek to save?


What Goes Around Comes Around, usually at 33⅓ rpm

Almost fifty years ago my parents gifted me my first record player. It was a homemade affair, obviously put together by the hands of an enthusiast. It had been well loved, but the peeling sticky-backed plastic, and a temperamental lid didn’t bother me. I was blinded by prospect of being able to play my own music in my own bedroom whenever I wanted. A new kind of freedom. I knew nothing of stylus wear, and frankly couldn’t have cared less about dust accumulation or the taboo surrounding thumbprints across the grooves.

But gradually I caught on. Acquiring words of wisdom from better informed pals, regarding the care and conservation of the precious vinyl. In a few short years I would spin my way through a Dansette Trent (complete with a detachable that stored away cleverly, locked to the from of the main unit), a Steepletone, a Marconiphone, an ill advised foray into PrinzSound, Dixons own brand of hi-fi disappointment.

At last, in 1973, I parted with a fortune – well, £400+ (sale price) – on what was, undoubtedly the best set up I’ve ever owned: the Sony TC-161SD Cassette Deck, AKAI AA 8080 Tuner Amp Receiver, Linn Sondek LP12 turntable, and Leak 2060 speakers.

I’ve had various combinations of kit over the years, but nothing that compares with the above. I haven’t managed to escape the format merry-go-round either. Vinyl, cassette tape, CD, mp3, flac, etc, etc.

And what did Mags and I get for Christmas from our daughter and family? A Crosley Executive Deluxe record player, that’s what. And it’s great. New life breathed into what little vinyl I had stored away in a dark cupboard. I’ll be doing the rounds of the charity shops in the New Year. Who knows what I might turn up for the turntable?

I Belong, Where?

“A good traveller is one who does not know where he is going to, and a perfect traveller does not know where he came from.” – Lin Yutang

Years ago I read about a man who packed in his job, bought an old mobile library with his savings, and set about converting it into a home on wheels. Stories of this sort can start a person dreaming. Imagining a nomadic lifestyle, with the freedom to roam wherever. I did the job resignation bit (many times) swapping some mind numbing routines for something a little more adventurous, and with less responsibility. Like the time we took off on a whim to travel Scotland and its islands. As it was, the caper was unromantically short-lived, due to Mags succumbing to infected blisters. Our time away, though, was anything but boring. An alcoholic lunch in Ardrossan, stormy crossing to Arran, a bluebell wood with herons nesting in the treetops, camping on a beach where the only flaw was the washed up, rotting calf that came to rest overnight only yards away from our tent flap. More of that, another time, perhaps.

I’ve almost finished ‘Stopping Places’ by Damian Le Bas, the author from Gypsy stock, who writes of his quest to understand more about his people and their travels. Several times I’ve paused to share short passages with Mags. Sayings that I’ve only ever heard my Grandad use. Familiar lifestyle habits of a man who spent the larger portion of his life working in the woods, making hazel hurdles and thatching spars, bundling up pea and bean sticks and securing them with twists of green wood. I know he had dealings with Gypsies, particularly those who camped close to his woods at various times of the year. One man, George, a gigantic figure to a small lad, in heavy brown jacket and trousers, used to call on Grandad from time to time, with some implement or other that he couldn’t sharpen or set the teeth on. When the job was done, he’d thumb coins from his hand into Grandad’s palm. This may have been the solitary thumb’s only real use. The rest of his fingers had been lost to a circular saw blade.

Great Uncle Jim, youngest daughter, and pony.

My Gran’s twin brother, Jim, definitely had something about him that was unsettled, nomadic and, like my Gran, he had a love of horses. Both their father, and paternal grandfather had been grooms. An explanation of sorts, maybe? Jim ran away to join a circus at the age of 16. A little known fact that has come to light in the years after his death. But showmen, circus folk and Gypsies are itinerant, and it’s so tempting to speculate that Jim might have been trying to connect some dots. Like Damian Le Bas, maybe he had a strong inner sense of belonging that required investigation.

I don’t think I’ll be pulling up sticks any time soon. Reading about the escapades of others will do me fine. Speaking of which, I must check out ‘Salt Path’ by Raynor Winn. Not least because part of her journey takes her along the coast of Cornwall, the only place I’ve lived, other than Hampshire where I actually felt I belonged.

Milkman Out, Brilliant Friend In

There was a time when I’d beat myself if I abandoned a book part way through. These days, not so much. As a general rule, if it hasn’t grabbed me in the first couple of chapters, I close the pages and move on. The fact that my latest rejection is Anna Burns’ Booker winning novel, ‘Milkman’, makes no difference. It’s back on the shelf. Maybe I’ll tackle it another day.

Unlike the challenge presented in Eimear McBride’s ‘A Girl is a Half Formed Thing’, Burns’ book has strained rather than stimulated. I was constantly losing track of the story and rather than being drawn closer to the characters, felt myself floating away from them. The colour, which I sensed to be vivid and intense, became obsurred by lingual layers. In a review, one of the Booker judges encouraged readers to persevere. The view from the top would be worth the steep climb. Sadly I got out of breath about 60 pages in.

On the flipside of this experience, I’ve discovered the most wonderful TV adaptation of Elena Ferrante’s ‘My Brilliant Friend”. I never got around to reading this one, and in a way, I’m glad. This miniseries is proving to be one of the best things I’ve watched this year. If you have access to Sky Atlantic, I urge you to take a look.

When I Get Older…

It was my birthday last Friday, and ‘When I’m Sixty Four’ took on a little more weight for a day or so.

It was an enjoyable, low-key event. A few cards, a box of liquorice allsorts from my granddaughters and a couple of books: China Dream by Ma Jian, and To the River: A Journey Beneath the Surface by Olivia Laing.

The eldest granddaughter baked a wonderful cake, long since devoured (the cake, not the granddaughter).

In the evening I kicked back and watched The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, a thoroughly entertaining Coen brothers film.

And to top it all, I hear that Blac Rabbit just released ‘Seize the Day’. If you don’t know the band, check out their Beatles covers on YouTube.



If ever there was a deterrent to the pursuit of physical fitness, “no pain, no gain” has to rank pretty high on the list. It’s a phrase that’s been appropriated and given a twist by motivational speakers, life coaches, and advocates of extreme dieting regimes. It’s the mantra that drives those who should know better into bungee jumping. Who knows, it may even, in some circumstances, have brought about an early demise, in the quest for the perfect holiday selfie.

Personally, I’ve always thought that people who claim to be happiest outside their comfort zone should be avoided at all costs. Apparently I’m not alone in my thoughts. See Melody Wilding’s, Please stop telling me to leave my comfort zone.” I mean, call me unadventurous, but why would anyone want to constantly drive themselves into anxiety or humiliation in order to find a side to themselves that they may ultimately wish had remained hidden? Unless you have masochistic leanings, how is this the route to an agreeable existence?

I have a lifelong aversion to public speaking, but no matter how persuasive the arguments for making me a more rounded person, I have resisted in determined fashion. I even had my career prospects curtailed due to what was perceived as a “bad attitude”. Or, as I would put it, more fittingly, non-compliance in the interest of self-preservation. In short, I already knew where I was most at ease; and it didn’t entail leading huge gatherings of students, repeatedly, through the ins and outs of database interrogation.

Of course, people may say that my fascination with art – I’m no expert, by the way, so don’t ask me – must inevitably present the odd challenge or two. Yes, of course, but therein lies the thrill of provocation, the testing, the questioning, the interpretation, the working out. All these things I can achieve in relative ease, allowing myself time to process and evaluate. I can get into a special place, right enough. It’s a flexible expanse; the horizons of which stretch out further with each passing year. To call it a zone, comfort or otherwise, would be far too limiting.

This week I happened upon the work of Felice Hodges (not a relative, to my knowledge) on Instagram. I was immediately smitten. How about you?