Something to aim for

The other day I was talking with a former colleague who, unlike me, is still gainfully employed. I was bemoaning the lack of structure in my retired life, the reduced scope for socialising, and the lack of anything to get my intellectual teeth into. In short, I was feeling the loss of something to aim for.

We also discussed the pleasures and ordeals of business travel, and I concluded that the loss of paid-for travel is one of the less expected disbenefits of retirement. We observed that a frequent node in the routings of the European business traveller is Amsterdam, where Schiphol is one of the world’s most civilised airports, well planned and well connected both in the air and on the ground, and even possessing a flightside mini-Rijksmuseum.

This got me recollecting some of my Dutch colleagues and acquaintances, most of whom were “characters” of an outgoing and occasionally overtly extravert nature, open minded and proud of their linguistic prowess. A nation whose motto should be “why not?” Like the man with a fondness for bright green, blue and orange, assigned to shirt, jacket and trousers in no particular order. Well, why not?  Like the man who, when I fumbled diplomatically towards a hesitant enquiry about a shop in Utrecht called “Piet Snot”, advised me tersely in his matter-of-fact Wedgie Benn accent – “yes, it means the same as in English”. I can’t remember if he was the same guy I had to wait for almost an hour after I arrived early one morning at Schiphol. When he eventually turned up he explained, but didn’t apologise, that he’d been in bed with his girlfriend. Well, why not? He definitely wasn’t the same man as the one conducting a one day course in a proprietary scheme for assessing business intelligence, who every now and then would punctuate his tediously detailed monologue with: “no shit, you do the analyses”. “Analyses” being pronounced as “anna lyzes” rather than the conventional “analyseez”. That is all I remember of that day.

Which sort of brings us round full circle. Or at least to the Gents at Schiphol, where as is very well known each urinal is adorned – appropriately enough for an airport – with an image of a fly. A precisely drawn fly embossed onto the enamel, just above and to the left of the drainage holes. I presume that some genius worked out that most of the populace are right, er, handed, and that no real man can resist a target. Quite stylish are these flies, modernist in the European tradition. Curiously enough they occurred to me last night, totally out of context but in the comfort of my own home in the wee wee hours, as I was taking aim at something considerably more three dimensional and organic, something altogether less arty and less flash in the pan. Success. Bullseye. A perfect score. No shit. You do the anna lyzes.

 
I really must work harder at being retired.

Quality of Life No. 1 – flowers blooming and black horse dropping

In these politically turbulent times an accusation often made between competing parties is of “running the country down”, the implication being the painting of an unfairly negative picture of how things are. “Modern life is rubbish” asserted Blur, one of our better bands, a couple of decades ago. An easy conclusion to reach, especially as one ages and tends naturally towards extra grumpiness. That’s me.

Given the potentially vast reservoir of material to go at I’ve decided to post the occasional blog on aspects of our current quality of life, or more honestly my quality of life, since it will be arbitrary and subjective and selective, echoing my experiences, attitudes and preferences. In the nature of things, anyone reading this is just as likely to have completely different reactions. Never mind, such is freedom of thought, and the basic truth behind the realisation that – however crappy things sometimes are – we don’t have to live in North Korea.

So, quality of life is all relative, but it’s a good excuse for a rant – like having a go at people who start sentences with “so”. So, I hope it will be both more and less than that. I’ll start on a high.

On Easter Saturday afternoon the doorbell rang, but by the time I reached the door there was nobody there. I found a bag containing a bunch of daffodils hanging from the door handle. A couple unknown to me, but who live round the corner, were delivering the same to every house (approximately forty) in our thoroughfare. A random act of kindness – by unknown strangers to unknown strangers - which made my day and improved the quality of my Easter; the very opposite of so many random acts – again affecting unknown strangers - that make the news these days.

Before Easter I received a letter informing me that my branch of Lloyds Bank, in Nottingham city centre, was to close in the summer. Though once the main branch in the city, for many years now it has been run down, with fewer serving staff, longer queues, and the sort of ambience one associates, perhaps unfairly, with eastern Europe pre-perestroika. Disappointing but not entirely unexpected. However, over the Easter holiday I noticed that Lloyds saw fit to screen an extravagant TV commercial, smugly congratulating themselves on how they are “on our side”, and have been for 250 years. Not pleased by this. This morning, visiting the bank - which is on the first floor of a tired 1960s-ish office block - to pay a bill and to express my observations on the tactlessness and hypocrisy of this advertisement to the ruefully smiling teller, they thoughtfully had the down escalator working, but not the up one. I wondered on whose side that was.

Progressing across town I encountered a McDonalds undergoing refurbishment and surrounded by protective fencing upon which were placed posters suggesting how the new premises will look. Featured prominently were self-service machines. I shan’t be bothering to discover whether these are for ordering food, for preparing it oneself, or – having obtained it – for stuffing it back into, and I’m sad to report that since my first euphoric visit to a McDonalds in Las Vegas in 1978 my appreciation of them – with a few exceptions (Swiss Cottage, Paphos) has been relentlessly downwards.

Continuing on my morning’s business, I went to one of two city centre branches of W. H. Smith’s, the one that from time to time is marginally more contaminated by staff and customers than the other one. I wonder how this organisation keeps going, but I’ve been wondering that for around 40 years now. Perhaps it’s because they’re so over-priced. Since the counter was marked “closed” I disturbed a rare staff member and asked if it might be possible to pay for my purchase. She pointed me in the direction of a self-service machine, and when I expressed a preference not to use it, she tutted loudly and went through the tedious rigmarole for me. I hope that in due course she will be made redundant. I mean, more redundant than she already is.

 
I think one may judge my attitude towards trends in quality in the service sector. However, to end once more on a high, my quality of life has been enhanced in recent weeks by the weather and the Spring flowers, and especially by the tulips in our garden, which have been of above average brilliance and duration.