Tree Time

A few years ago the City Council planted trees along one of the streets next to mine. Ornamental steel tubes were thoughtfully placed around the saplings to protect them as they grew. The trees are thriving but the steel tubes (which are no longer required) have become stuffed to overflowing with empty cans, bottles and paper litter. Now the street looks pleasantly green when seen from a distance but comically untidy close up. When the Council arranged an early evening rendezvous last week between residents and the people who run our services I went along, curious to put faces to emails - and keen to raise my concern about street aesthetics.

It was an unstructured gathering attended by three residents and a dozen or so official delegates - disheartening for the organisers but useful for us as it presented an opportunity to command the undivided attention of our public servants. The other two residents, coincidentally, were on a mission to green up the neglected nooks and crannies of the urban landscape, so trees quickly became the main item of discussion. It transpired that the Council is aware of my particular concern but unable to resolve the issue promptly because of a legal complication: although the trees belong to us, the protective tubes belong to some arts organisation which designed and provided them as part of the original project. It was deemed a sensible collaboration at the time but the arts organisation, having lost its funding, is now defunct and negotiations to remove the tubes are stymied.

During this discourse I also learned that the cost of planting a city centre tree is approximately £5000 despite which, somewhere near the bottom of a prioritised list, there is a plan to plant some more as part of the rejuvenation of a nearby square. Tree-lined squares attract people and increase footfall for local businesses.

The meeting having soon disbanded for lack of attendees, I made my way to the square in question, motivated partly by curiosity but mainly by hunger and an urge to visit the noted pizzeria which has lately been established there. Pizza, once a simple, Italian street food, now features as a main course on many a menu and even has worldwide chains of restaurants devoted to it. This place, however, hopes to succeed by following a more traditional model - pizza al taglio - such as I experienced once upon a time in Rome when, near the bus station there, I queued outside a bakery for pizza which was made, once or twice a day, in big rectangular trays to be sold by the slice.

The square itself was deserted and the only bar I could see was closed. The pizzeria was open but there was no sign of life: its colourful display of pizzas, focaccia sandwiches and bottles of ruby red Montepulciano had attracted no admirers.  Inside, candles flickered invitingly on the tables at the back but the tinny sound of a cheap radio echoed in the empty room. I sensed a business doomed to failure.

A young man appeared from the kitchen, apparently pleased to see me. He helped me order and, when I had taken a seat, brought me a dish of livid-green Sicilian olives. It was a bribe, an inducement to talk. As one of the two proprietors he was keen to explore ideas on how to attract business. In exchange for the olives I offered him some observations from a customer point of view and encouragement in the form of the news about the trees. By the time I left he seemed more optimistic and shook my hand warmly.

On leaving I noticed that he had placed two small bay trees in tubs outside the entrance - the vanguard, perhaps, of the coming greening. I hope he can hang on until the reinforcements arrive: he certainly knows how to make pizza.

Watch Out for Historical Klingons

I really don't know how the Queen managed to keep a straight face when she made her customary speech at the opening of Parliament this week. Given that its theme was the necessity for cost-cutting, there is hilarious irony in the fact that tremendous expense is involved in the custom and pageantry of its delivery. Perhaps her conscience was assuaged by the recent tiny reduction in the cost of the whole performance: her speech is no longer hand-written on goat-skin vellum with a special ink that takes three days to dry. In these straitened times one must suffer with the people, even if it means having one's speeches inscribed on mere (imitation goatskin) paper.

When Gutenburg first successfully employed his printing presses he could not possibly have envisaged that 560 years later, on a small island off the mainland of Europe, there would still be a solitary scribe labouring over goatskin as if nothing had changed in the intervening years. Nor could he, visionary though he was, foresee that his invention would produce one of the earliest side effects of industrialisation - putting scribes out of work. I do have some sympathy for those scribes - there would have been no job-seekers' allowance (JSA) for them to fall back on - but I would rather praise Gutenburg for his innovation than damn him for the temporary woes of a few workers. And he was himself later put out of work by the banker who lent him the money to build the presses and then confiscated them when the cash failed to flow back quickly enough for his liking. The visionary had not taken into account the fact that he was producing more books than were required by the very small numbers of customers who could actually read.

Reading is now more widespread, but the capitalist model remains unchanged since those days. Any business which cannot pay its way must forfeit its assets, and its directors must suffer humiliation and possible financial distress. Unless, of course, that business is a bank - in which case it is lavished with public funds and its directors are permitted to retire anonymously and in considerable material comfort.

I expect that the scribes of old soon found alternative employment, perhaps as typesetters in the growing industry of printing, but the prospects for today's unemployed are not so promising. The rapacious activities of the banks have laid waste to the economies of entire nations. As a result, businesses are damaged: many are wary of taking on new employees; start-up companies struggle to find backers and unemployment is becoming the norm for young people who should really be climbing career ladders.

But we Europeans are sticking together, helping each other out and jointly laying the foundations of economic regeneration. Only last week I had to transfer money to someone in Spain and discovered that my bank had discounted its fee for that particular transaction. Spain, as we know, is short of money, so I'd like to think it was a 'philanthropic' rate - but no one at the bank was available to comment. Then there is the Cypriot couple who have just become neighbours. Having graduated from Manchester University with more degrees than I had thought possible they now describe themselves, with considerable inventive flair, as "international job-seekers". (Perhaps this enables them to qualify for enhanced JSA subsidised by the EU and known as IJSA).

But, now that Europe is impoverished and the subsidies are on the wane, many Britons have concluded that their flirtation with the Continent has run its course and it's time to retrench. It is, after all, dangerously republican territory. Even in those few countries where monarchs remain they are mere shadows of the real thing. Just look at that Queen of the Netherlands who abdicated last week - without ceremony. She simply signed a form - and I bet it was on A4 copy paper printed out on an inkjet.

Put Yourself in my Shoes.

The season turns to spring and Nature's rejuvenation begins all over again. Looking out at the surrounding buildings I see windows, long closed against the weather, now flip open and neighbours' faces, not seen for months, jut out to breathe in the mild air. I discern in myself a lifting of the spirits, an accompanying surge of optimism - and a motivation to take positive action. I rummage in the utility room for the nesting hut for solitary bees which I had thoughtfully refurbished before storing it over winter. I hang it on the balcony rail (facing South-West as advised by the instruction leaflet) in anticipation of an eager tenant. I go inside to put away some winter clothes and come across my favourite but dilapidated brown leather boots. I have an idea to get them fixed so that they will be ready for next winter.

Within the hour I set off to the repair shop, motivated not only by the sunshine but also by the need to distract myself from constantly checking the bee-hut. There are three repair shops to choose from. At the first one the man inspected the boots, looked at me sardonically and said "Let me put it this way: how much do you love them?” He then quoted an extortionate price.  At the second shop the man quoted a similar price - but without the nicety of foreplay. I gave the third one a miss and opted instead to take my boots to a coffee house where I could ponder the following dilemma: should I get them repaired at all - or should I just throw them away and buy new ones? In my business days I would have resolved it with a straightforward cost/benefit analysis but now it has become a lot more complicated.

Years ago, when most of our things were made in Britain, mending them would have been a foregone conclusion. Nowadays our things are made elsewhere and more cheaply, by exploited labour in overseas factories we would rather not know about. Not only does the cost of repairing them in the West exceed the cost of making them in the East but also, for me at least, an ethical aspect has arisen. Should I get them repaired, thereby supporting the local workers' wage or should I buy a new pair, thereby contributing to the wages of poorer, foreign workers?

On top of this are the ecological considerations: if we were all to consume fewer manufactured goods the world's natural resources would be under less pressure; if we continue to transport these goods over long distances we risk global warming; and, if we buy ever more goods from emerging economies, we encourage them to over-industrialise instead of developing as sustainable economies.

In terms of shoes, we could address these concerns by buying fewer but better quality, longer lasting pairs, sacrificing fashion at the altar of practicality. We could even foster a return to the golden era of manufacturing when all shoes were made in Northampton - from best quality leather and to just a few established designs - tan brogue for country wear, black leather for city wear, glossy patent for formal wear. I recall that such shoes lasted for years and, if bought late in life, could be bequeathed in one's will to grateful offspring. Buy cheap, buy twice was the motto back then.

My mood of optimism had drained away by the time I was down to the dregs of my coffee, and I opted instead to postpone a decision until autumn. Who needs boots in spring anyway? So I mooched home via shoe shops, half-heartedly looking in windows for replacements for my old favourites. None could compare. After a while, however, I began to notice the new season's displays of natty, canvas pumps. Ideal for the coming summer, I thought.

Mind Ambulation

I have done a fair bit of walking lately – in the hills of Cumbria and Derbyshire and along the rough coast of north Cornwall – variously in the company of acquaintances, friends, loved ones and one or two strangers. I have walked for the purposes of companionship, exercise and the simple pleasure of being outdoors. Not once have I walked out of necessity and I know that some people consider this to be eccentric. I can recall opening a conversation with the words “I was climbing Snowdon the other day” to which my friend responded “Why?” I have asked myself that same question, from time to time, ever since.

"Walking is also an ambulation of the mind" according to one writer: the physical exertion equates to stimulation of the brain; the open horizon to the endless creative possibilities of thought and the open air to the dissipation of stale ideas. All of this I can see, but there are times when nothing creative happens on a walk - especially a long and tiring one which has reached the point where exhaustion overcomes stimulation, automaton-like movement replaces physical fluidity and a corresponding lack of mental activity sets in. Tiredness has dulled the brain; the allure of the horizon has turned to menace and the senses have been over-dosed with fresh air. Under these circumstances I have known my mind to become detached from its present situation and fixated instead on imagined places such as cosy bars, candle-lit dining rooms, steamy bathrooms and comfortable bedrooms. At times like this the question "Why?" becomes unavoidable.

When a small party of us tackled Crinkle Crags recently, my partner and I decided to walk over the shoulder of the main peak rather than take the direct, vertical route. "See you on the other side" we called as we parted company from the others. But a hill tends to obscure whatever is beyond it and, without a direct sight-line, the exact whereabouts of the "other side" became less apparent the further we walked. Before long we ended up lost, disorientated and concerned that we might not see our party again that day. This provoked a disagreement between us as to which way to go. As usual, our exchange began politely, then escalated into semi-hysteria, before eventually culminating in a truce as we realised that argument would not lead us to the path.

At this point we followed some age-old advice -"When all else fails, read the instruction book" - and reluctantly pulled out our map and compass. It was, without doubt, the rational thing to do but wilful resistance to take such action is a human instinct, born of impatience and the urge not to stop and take stock lest we discover things we don't like. It may be further resisted, as in this case, by the inconvenience of having to take off our gloves, find our specs, dig out the compass, unfold an unwieldy map, locate our exact position - and all in cold and windy conditions. While there is a certain carefree cachet to the slogan "Not all who wander are lost", at times like this it can seem rather glib.

There are ways in which walking can be made easier, less fraught, less tiring and less dangerous. You may choose to walk only well-marked paths, not to push yourself physically, to devolve responsibility to a guide, to go out only in fair weather and so on. But there is something to be said for eschewing these more comfortable options - and if all this is beginning to sound like a metaphor for life, it is. "Mediocrity" said Balzac "can be trusted always to be at its best" and that, I suppose, might be an answer to my friend's question.

Outsiders?

I promised to speak no more of my recent visit to Cornwall but I do have a final observation: the absence of non-white faces. It reminded me that the peninsula is one of the last bastions of the ancient, native Britons who were forced to retreat to the western fringes of their Isles by waves of immigrants coming over from the continent.

Immigrants arriving in waves tend to settle in clusters for economic and cultural support. Subsequent dispersal into the hinterland can take many generations - hence my observation. But I now have firm evidence that those Anglo-Saxon continentals have made it at last into Cornwall. I interacted with them, incomers, people who have settled there and now own businesses catering for the tourists. I admit that I found this rather disappointing, since I do still cling to the vain expectation that places such as these are unique and unchanging. To be sold "real Cornish dairy ice cream" by someone whose heritage is more Essex than Celtic seems somehow fraudulent.

Back at home in the city, however, I am accustomed to the presence of recent immigrants and even to their domination of certain spheres of economic activity despite the disadvantage of their ‘outsider’ status. One such sphere, the car-valeting business, is of particular relevance to me. My vehicle is not a car but a high-top campervan and, because of this, I also have outsider status. My van and I are often on the wrong side of prevailing conventions; toll roads do not distinguish between commercial and domestic vans and charge us higher rates (unfairly); unexpected height restrictions at the entrance to car parks necessitate awkward reversing manoeuvres in narrow approaches; car wash machines are not tall enough for us to pass through and valeting tariffs, while differentiating between cars and 4x4s, don't acknowledge our special needs at all.

This last problem, however, has been resolved by the establishment of a Somali-owned car-valeting business down the road. The big red and yellow price lists put up by the previous, Romanian owners are still on the wall but, since there is no listed tariff for campervans, I have been obliged to engage verbally with the staff. The result is a personal relationship built on old-fashioned haggling. And I can assure you that, despite the tough reputation for bargaining they have gained in the pirating business, when it comes to a car wash where they don’t have the upper hand they are a pushover.

Nevertheless the best bargains are to be had during slack periods, so it's always good practice to do a ‘drive-by’ before committing to a visit - which is how I got them to agree to an especially small sum on the last transaction. When I came to pay up, however, I realised I had left my wallet at home. My initial reaction was panic. Were their cheerful smiles merely a mask for their ruthless disposition after all? Would they turn nasty, lock me in the office, put my van under armed guard and call my relatives with a ransom demand? I searched the van for something of value to offer, found a couple of bottles of wine stashed in the provisions cupboard and offered them as surety for my return with the cash.

They refused them not, as you might think, on the grounds of disputed value, but because - and they pointed to one of their number - they might be consumed.

"But you're Muslims" I said

“Yeah, but he will drink them. He's not a real brother," they replied "Just pay us when you come back next time".

I was off the hook - yet at the same time hooked. How could I give my future custom to another outfit? Business, as they say, is all about people.

   

Customer waiting area.