Can do, might do, do do

Over the decades two people close to me have died of motor neurone disease – horrible deaths. Last night I watched a TV programme about a British scientist suffering from MND and alleviating things with advanced technology. It threw up an important observation.

The scientist spoke to another sufferer, the theoretical physicist, Stephen Hawking (Liza Simpson: “The world’s smartest man” – but it’s not that quote.). Hawking advised: “Think about the things you can do, not the things you can’t.”

In infinitely more mundane circumstances I did just that. We’ve had a birthday in the family, whose doesn’t matter. The Plague prevented physical assembly so we Skyped. Nothing new about that, we’ve family-Skyped – three times a week – for several months now.

But you can’t just say we’ll have a good chat and expect it to happen. Fatigue, grumpiness, anxiety to watch qualifying for the Hungarian GP may all undermine that aim. But more often than not someone starts a hare (A metaphorical hare, that is. I’m anti-bloodsports.) and the rest join the chase. Ysabelle and Daniel had just bought a car; they detailed their negotiations and the whole thing became hilarious.

Who’d have thought it? In fact everyone should have done. We’re a family, a group of individuals each with stories to tell. That’s a huge information base for a start. But members of families interact and that multiplies the possibilities n-fold – where n is a large number. Yes we could have got raucous on drink at some watering hole but the hell with that. Instead we created a successful social occasion with what we had.

A trivial achievement compared with the heroic scientist (Peter: The Human Cyborg. Channel 4). But we must all lead our own lives. Consider what you can do. In short, don’t be defeated  

Let's hear it for trite

Journalism often demands "think pieces" - articles churned out quickly, from a sitting position, minimum research. Preferably none. Tone Deaf readers will notice I haven't discarded this practice since retirement.

Ten minutes ago I was all set for a think piece contrasting clichés with platitudes.  Fatally I broke the think-piece research rule and decided I should cover my rear by checking the exact meaning of platitude. Just as well. The first half I expected:

trite remark, stating the self-obvious

But the second half was new to me:

typically made for the sake of something to say

Obviously I did wonder whether my original idea was itself a platitude. Perish the thought. Ideas are not at all like No. 10 buses. They're rare and they stop for no man.

Platitudes can fill in embarrassing silences. Not always successfully:

Waiting room, STD clinic
X says to Y: Do you come here often?

Touring Bucks Palace
DT: Your Whotsit, did you know Trump Tower has a sign on the front saying Trump Tower? Big letters. Golden. On the front.
Queen: Not on the back, then?
DT: On the front. Trump Tower. Definitely.

The Pope’s antechamber
John Bolton: I got photos, here in my billfold. The Gulf War. Six Days War. Grenada. Korea even, but in black and white
The ghost of Nelson Mandela: Not now, John. Not now.

Anywhere in Britain, late June
Anyone speaking to anyone else: It’s raining.

I know, I know, these aren’t traditional platitudes. But I’ve been hard on platitudes during my contumacious life and they deserve some rehabilitation. I’m glad to see I’m not alone in this. Judging by his responses to Laura Kuenssberg’s interview on the BBC it is clear soon-to-be-enthroned Boris Johnson is doing his best for this form of literary orphan.

No talk of walls

Christmas 1971, when I was working in Pittsburgh, my  mother died in Britain. I felt I must attend the funeral even though it meant spending money I'd saved to cover any emergency that might happen to a foreigner (with a wife and two children) working in the USA.

But to leave the USA I needed clearance from the Internal Revenue as proof I'd paid my taxes, and the IR office was closed. Ed, the father of one my daughter's friends, was an attorney; he phoned me, "Call your congressman." I pointed out I was a voteless alien. Ed said, "Call him and tell him I'll call him if he doesn't do something. And if you're short of cash I'll let you have anything you need."

As it happened things went smoothly. I was reminded of this when the new president ended his speech exhorting Americans to think only of themselves.

The smell of glue

My late father-in-law, who always called me Robin, announced suddenly, "Whenever Robin moves (home) he looks for the nearest library and the nearest off-licence." UK off-licences sell ardent spirits.

These days I buy or download books. Rarely, I read one of VR’s many borrowings. Presently Murakami's "Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage" which starts exotically then fades.

The worst library was the first, in Idle, Bradford, immediately postwar. There was no cash for new books so they re-bound old ones in bomb-proof cardboard. The librarians were two elderly women, one club-footed. Both wore green overalls and, needless to say, hated youth. On the adult shelves was a thick tome "She Married Pushkin" the title of which made me laugh and for which I was shushed. First published in 1939, I see, running to 442 pages.

The most lavish library was in Mount Lebanon, a swanky Pittsburgh suburb. New books were added continuously but I read much H. L. Mencken. The counter staff, all female, were formidably healthy. My last borrowing was in March 1972, since when the library has moved to more imposing premises (See pic).

The smallest library was a trolley with three 1 m shelves on either side, serving the sick quarters of RAF Seletar, Singapore. I was in for incurable athlete’s foot and read to pass the weeks away. I avoided Kingsley Amis’s “Lucky Jim”, foolishly imagining it was a period novel about highwaymen. In the pic, I’m probably reading Aldous Huxley.

Our nearest library here in Belmont, south of Hereford, is under threat of closure because of austerity cuts imposed by our finance minister, George Osborne. Our new prime minister, Theresa May, has fired Osborne and there is some Schadenfreude to be gained in that the library has outlasted pinch-mouthed George.

Silly season in the Marches

HURRAY FOR HFD Professional Bleeder and partner, Peter, are staying. They live in Luton and cannot agree with a local judgment that nearby Harpenden is "the most beautiful village in England". For one thing it's more of a townlet, for another a main road runs through it. I suggest that Eardisland, 20 miles outside Hereford, might be a stronger contender. We drive there, PB takes pix with her camera and we all come away smugly satisfied that Harpenden hasn't a hope.
Sir Hugh's advice is worth the effort.

BELATED DISCOVERY Peter is a great Kindle user. Can walk to work reading, without tripping over kerbstones or being squashed flat by a white van. I say I wished older Kindles offered page numbers rather than percentages especially with long books. He says there is a way - hold down Menu and the page number plus the total number of pages appears. But no doubt you all knew this.

BROTHERHOOD? I leave the cathedral close and enter Church Street, a narrow atmospheric ginnel left over from Old Hereford. A lad sits with a begging tray, reading a thick old hardback, his finger moving painfully along the line. He's still there when I return and I drop a pound coin in his tray. I hate doing this because I always need change but occasionally there are larger obligations.

WIP Second Hand (30,134 words)
(Lorne said) "Perhaps you’d be better off working in customer services... More interesting than till-work... How do you feel?”

(Francine said) "Sounds like an intellectual step up...  What’s this about training?”

“Knowing where we keep gherkins. Explaining why and what World Foods are. Working the Lottery machine. Arguing the toss about out-of-date vouchers. Handling returns. Knowing kids’ ages when they order cigarettes. Fun stuff.”

No points but not pointless

Having topped the blind brow of a hillock on the Brecon Road at 47 mph (vs. the legal 40 mph) I was faced with a choice:: a fine and three points on my driving licence or four hours’ speed rehab at £80. Not everyone gets this no-brainer option.

I expected things to be worthy but dull. But it was better than that. I haven’t seen the Highway Code since I passed the test (St Valentine’s Day, 1963) and a ten-question quiz (Where does a 40 mph or 50 mph speed limit apply? What is a repeater sign?) revealed signs and practices now unknown to me. Answering the provocative What are the advantages of driving above the speed limit? helped invert my thinking.

A class with a fiftyish average age (six women) was said to be typical. Surprisingly it was women who invoked the war-horse defences about tailgating and the imperative to break motorway limits under certain conditions. Lorry drivers adopted low profiles, perhaps not caring to be among amateurs.

Braking distances were presented in a new way which teased my techno-brain. Since driving doesn’t always afford a hi-fi version of one’s surroundings we were given blurry photos of seemingly normal lengths of road to interpret for threats and other inferences. There was coffee, we were police-less, instruction was by a civilian, the time slid by.

For my final pledge I wrote: Remember G. He was manager I knew, a decent sort, invited to a boozy Christmas lunch. Driving home he crashed and killed a father and two children. The judge said jail was necessary but almost superfluous. G had lost his job, his future, his very personality. He was obviously racked by remorse he would take to the grave. Booze then, speed now. Both indulgences.