Election day is coming

Time to look through the booklet telling us all about the Mayoralty and the London Assembly, the two page spread each mayoral candidate gets to boost themselves, and the lists of candidates for Assembly seats (no promo spots for them, which seems a biti mean, for candidates and voters alike).

 Diamondgeezer's given a concise thumbnail sketch of the mayoral candidates, so all I'll remark on is the number of candidates vying for the "Stop the world, I want to get off" tendency. Apart from the increasingly fissiparous pressure groups within the Conservatives and the ex-UKIP/ex-Brexit/Nigel Farage fanclub ReformUK that the Tories are so afraid of, there are the "I've run a business, so how hard is it to run a city" candidates, the "Social Democratic Party" that looks nothing like the original SDP I joined in - can it have been? - 1981, and the latest incarnation of what we tactfully call the far right. We'll draw a veil over - no, let's not - the actor Laurence Fox, whose name appears in the booklet without any further details, because his team messed up their nomination forms. 

 What pretty well all of those have in common is opposition to the zone where people are charged to drive cars that emit too much muck, despite the repeated legal judgements against the UK for missing international commitments on reducing air pollution - and more urgently, the death of a child from severe asthma brought on by the traffic pollution where she lived. Oh, and despite a £120 million scrappage fund to help people swap older polluting vehicles for newer, cleaner ones. 

 For the Assembly (basically a relatively small scrutiny committee), there's also the Heritage Party - yet another split-off from Reform. Elsewhere on the spectrum are the Communist Party ,(yes, there still is one), the Christian People's Alliance, and the perhaps over-hopeful RejoinEU. The Conservative candidate for Brent and Harrow might need to review the chances of his name being on everyone's lips in future, or at least of wear and tear on typesetters' nerves - Stefan Bucovineanul-Voliseniuc.

Click to see the what, when and where
- and what one must and mustn't do

It's election time again, this time for local government in London and a bunch of other cities, though since there must be a general election by next January, this will inevitably be taken as an indicator of whether the government really is staring into the abyss the opinion polls suggest.

As ever, we get this handy formal notification of when and where to go, and the essential rules. 

But this year there was also a colourful leaflet reminding us that we now have to take photo ID with us to the polling station. There's a long list of suitable documents, of which I have at least three, so it won't be a problem for most people who don't forget to take it, but one does have to wonder whether it's really necessary.

I can't recall any cases where people have been prosecuted for impersonating someone else, let alone where it would have made any difference to the overall result. If you think about it, the effort of identifying people on the register who could be plausibly impersonated and then recruiting other people to pretend to be them just doesn't look remotely likely. These days, getting enough people to go out canvassing and leafleting seems to be more and more difficult for the parties. 

This rule was applied to last year's local elections in other parts of the country, and it looks as though at most 10,000 people across the country were turned away and didn't come back, or in effect a handful of votes in any one election.

As it happens, my polling station is in the primary school just over the road, so voting just requires a slight diversion from my normal route to buy my morning paper.

It's also a chance to admire this mosaic in the playground, and the children's artwork on the walls once inside (briefly, given how quick the actual process is). 

And then it's back home for breakfast, civic duty done. 

Hip Hip

..but not yet quite hooray.

For some time I've been annoyed by sciatica, and for longer than if I'd been a bit more systematic about professional advice. Now that I have, the NHS has ruled out all the potential slippery slopes into really nasty infirmities (in less than a month, three GP consultations, blood tests, X-rays and a check with a vascular specialist - perhaps London may be a little better provided for than elsewhere in the country), and the various exercises and so forth are starting to loosen things up a little. At last the slightly more comic (though perhaps no less annoying) side of it comes to the fore. It's long been a commonplace that once you reach about 50, it is the law that you can't bend down and pick something up without a satisfying "oof!". But that's nothing compared with the variety of flinching, wincing, huffing, puffing, moaning, groaning, gurning and even occasional yelping that comes with a sore hip and an inflamed sciatic nerve: and what's even odder, is that all this is wasted on the desert air, since it's hardly the done thing in company. A pained smile, in moderation, is about as far as one can reasonably go. Even when the man in the paper shop asks if it's the shrapnel that's giving me trouble.

But at least I'm no longer walking as though I'm about to serve two soups (though it may be a while before I'm ready to gallop).

Sunshine at the Bank

No, not a weather forecast, either literally or financially, but a person.

To be specific, someone I must have been at school with, and referred to in a letter from a mutual friend found in a box full of old letters starting over 40 years ago, uncovered in the process of de-cluttering (finally!) my storage cupboard.

It was an unsettling experience to realise I had actually forgotten some of the people writing to me, not to mention many of the people they referred to; and even more so, as I re-read them, to think of all the could haves, would haves, should haves of different points in the past.

Less unsettling, perhaps, to marvel at how we actually managed to make arrangements to meet and to keep in touch in the days when you either needed to find a landline or phone box, or to send a letter or a post-card; and if, as they would, something went wrong, another exchange of cards or letters would be winging their way backwards and forwards.

There was no great loss in consigning so much trivia to the shredder; but some names and faces had re-emerged from the mists of memory - including, eventually, someone not exactly blessed with the sprightliest sense of humour, who eventually went into something financial.

According to that well-known source of infallible guidance, the internet*, it's pretty hard to tell I'm not forty years younger than it says in my passport.

If only the internet could persuade my knees and hips of the fact.....

*You can take the test here:
http://bitecharge.com/play/oldact

Insecurity

Strange how unsettling even minor unexpected change can be.

It wasn't so much the finding, on arrival home from Barcelona, that the dishwasher had gone into a huff for my exchange partner, since I don't use it much (perhaps that was the source of the problem). But a few days later the washing machine threw a wobbly (literally - that's what happens when you try to wash too many bath towels at once): like the rest of the kitchen it's nearly 20 years old and the repairman said five years ago that its last repair was just that.

No matter that it was hardly a matter of having to beat the washing on the stones by the riverside (there are launderettes within walking distance, and thanks to the internet, choosing, ordering and taking delivery of a new one is a virtually painless process - apart, of course, from paying for it). No matter that the new machine was delivered in a couple of days and easily connected: there was still a day or two of the oddest sense of unease. Even when it was up and running, there was a period of re-adjustment, even a faint (very faint) echo of what, perhaps, parents of a new baby ask themselves: "It's very quiet - is that too quiet? Should I check if it's all right? Now it's making a noise - what does that mean? It's not leaking, is it?"

It's a reminder that the ordinary certainties of daily life can't be taken for granted at any time, and less and less as the decades advance. More practically, it's one more sign that the whole damn kitchen is about due to be replaced. No more "just looking" and shiny-fondling in showrooms: time for decisions and upheaval. Not that it's unexpected, or a financial problem (money was put aside on the off-chance some time ago, and as it happens some suppliers have some very attractive offers available at the moment); but my toleration threshold for the slog of taking decisions and waiting out the disruption seems to get lower and lower.

Big Breakfast

Oh dear.

I went into the kitchen this morning and filled the kettle to make tea to have with my breakfast, filled a bowl with cereal and some milk from the fridge, wondering when I'd emptied the milk jug, and took the bowl through to the living room.

Only to find the bowl of cereal I'd taken through barely minutes before.

Thank goodness I don't have gas.

Intimations of something or other..

I've had an introduction to the undignified side of the sort of infirmities that may well await as I get old. The NHS has kindly been inviting people of my age to take part in a national bowel cancer screening programme.

This involves a piece of cardboard with flaps that lift up and close again, and some cardboard spatulas, for use (as used to be said in some old-style adverts) in the privacy of your own home, and to be returned, not (as those adverts used to say) in a plain brown envelope but a rather more secure plastic one.

Who'd have thought those instructive childhood hours spent cutting out cardboard models from cereal packets and tucking flaps into slots would be put to use, not for yet more wonky models of the Tower of London ("That's nice dear"), but for - well, not quite an advent calendar? And I don't think I'll be icing any cakes anytime soon.

I had much more Rabelaisian fun backing up my digital recorder's complete run of Phoenix Nights, which (for those who don't know) was a sitcom about the owner of a northern working men's club and the inevitable clash between his ambitions, his tightfistedness and the limitations of everyone around him (not to mention the bouncy castle for a family fun day that had to be turned into Sammy Snake - that one you can look up on Youtube for yourself). A regular joy of the series was the range of dud variety acts seen auditioning as the closing credits of every episode rolled:

Reading too much into it

A damp, grey day today, and a bit of a hangover from last night's party (it seems three glasses of wine need four glasses of water or more to compensate, if I'm not to keep on waking up in the night feeling wretched).

Just the day for staying in and catching up on my backlog of reading: not just the Saturday Guardian, which has returned from the Christmas break to its usual elephantiasis and so takes up the whole weekend, and sometimes more. I've bought it, so I've got to make some effort, but "1000 novels everyone must read"?! I haven't even looked at that yet. No, today I am tackling an accumulation of magazines from various organisations I've been involved with: for example, both this year's and last year's annual reports from my old college.

It's not as though I feel a great sense of connection (it was 40 years ago, after all, and I've never been good about maintaining friendships), but here they are. There's plenty of news of interesting new academic work, and glossy photos of the daily life of the place, but I've reached the age where one scours the obituaries (no, I'm not there, but since you ask, this year there is an apology for misreporting someone as dead last year). What a catalogue of success, adventure, service, commitment - and what did I do with my opportunities?

It's enough to drive one to the biscuit tin.

Oops..

Tonight, as ever, I put the kettle on to boil, poured the water into the teapot, let it stand, and eventually sat down in front of the TV to pour myself a cup: only to find I'd forgotten to put any tea in the pot.

I have seen something like this before.

It's official. I have become my mother.

How now brown cow?

One of the incidental benefits of digital TV is the revival of the back catalogues to fill all those extra channels of airtime. Once upon a time "It's a repeat" was a mark of the scheduler's lack of imagination. Now, in amongst the forgettable dross that should never have been shown the first time around, we have the occasional pleasure of re-visiting programmes we once enjoyed (or never got to see).

There's the oddity of old BBC series turning up on ITV3 (the Two Ronnies, Pie in the Sky - the one with Richard Griffiths running a restaurant and doing a bit of police work on the side): but what's particularly struck me recently (which I didn't expect) has been the degree of technical change over the decades.

Recently BBC4 has been re-running a production of Jane Austen's Emma from the early 70s. Something has been troubling me throughout, and I've finally realised what it is: the sound.

The difference in the quality of visual presentation is something I've rather got used to as time has gone on (one only has to look at the difference between the lighting in those days and, say, the way Lark Rise to Candleford has drawn on so many familiar pictures from the period). That includes the startling difference between the visual quality of film and videotape until very recently, though it hasn't been much in evidence in this Emma, as it's entirely studio-bound (we haven't got to the picnic on Box Hill yet).

And that's what made me realise what was striking me as odd - it's studio sound, dead and flat in the pauses. But I also realised I can hear every word: the actors are articulating. It's not just me - these days, actors are gabbling and swallowing their words, or letting them be swamped by the accent or the background noise.

But I'm looking forward to another digital channel pleasure tonight: a new series on Sacred Music.

Wrinkly, crumbly, twirly

I've got to face it: they're coming true, these particular epithets.

Wrinkly? Well, I've only to look in the mirror (not that I'm particularly bothered, you understand, it runs in the family a bit). And now, a check-up at work confirms a generous fold or two elsewhere: one knows it perfectly well, of course, but what's sold as a 34-inch waist turns out, shamingly, to have been coping comfortably with the challenge of a rather more expansive circumference.

Crumbly? Not quite yet: but the tape measure was only one of the checks that day - and cholesterol, blood pressure and peak airflow have moved in the wrong direction over the last couple of years. I've always thought I was being careful about what I eat, but although this means not quite so drastic a change as for diamond geezer, I shall certainly have to take some more exercise. So tomorrow (ah, always tomorrow), it's back to the gym my service charge is paying so much towards. It's served me quite well in the past (I managed to get a good 20lb off over one period), it 's just a matter of building it back into the daily routine. Though I don't think I'll be taking it quite this far.

Twirly? That's what bus drivers call the canny holders of older people's travel permits (now called the Freedom Pass): they're not valid in the morning rush hour (or not until Ken has his way), so it's not uncommon to find someone affecting hopeful if unconvincing surprise: "Oh, am I too early?".

That's what I became today. And yes, though it feels far too early, and rather over-generous to those of us who are still earning a decent crust, I've paid my taxes for everyone else. If a bit of payback's offered, why not take it?

As rites of passage go, it's very low-key. No oaths of allegiance, no special ceremony (what could it consist of - ceremonial presentation of some thermal underwear and a promotional tin of Benger's?), just a queue at the Post Office (well, this is Britain), a form, some symbolic documents (wouldn't you just know that one's authenticity can depend on a bill?) and one of those axe-murderer photos from a machine.

It brought to mind distant memories of being taken by my mother to the disused chapel the Ministry of Food was using as a local office, to queue up for new ration books. (Guess what was still on the ration in the early 50s? That's right, all the things I'm going to have to ration for myself once more: butter, cream, cheese, meat, sugar and sweets).

And that's not the only throwback that's returning. This is my old identity card.

I suppose it's too much to hope Ms. Smith will accept it in lieu of the expensive shiny new ones they're insisting on wasting so much of our money on.

Well, it would be asking a lot to be taken for sixteen again.

All in all, it makes you think there's only one thing to be said:

Funeral blues

It seems to be one of those topics that comes up in conversation from time to time - what music would you like at your funeral? In a purely hypothetical way, of course - I've no intention of going any time soon. Anyway, funerals are for the living, not the deceased; I shan't be there, and it feels rather controlling to try and lay down how people ought to be thinking about me.

My brother - a minister - tells me it's not uncommon for people to ask for a cremation service to be accompanied by Blaze Away or Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, and part of me rather fancies suggesting Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye (except I don't believe "Till we meet once again" would have any reality).

But sententiousness will creep in, so I tend to mull over some favourite classical pieces. When I Am Laid In Earth is just too heart-rending (and in this context, dictatorial - what's to say people won't be saying "About time too" or "Who?"). Bach's Schlummert Ein is gorgeous and comforting (especially when sung by Lorraine Hunt Lieberson), but is sadly too long.

So for now I think I'll stick with Beim Schlafengehen from Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs (this is a literal translation):

Now the day has wearied me,
My eager longing
Shall accept the starred night
like a weary child.

Hands, leave all work;
Brow, forget all thought;
All my senses
Now seek to sink into sleep.

And the unguarded spirit
Shall soar in free flight
To live in night's magic sphere
Deeply and thousandfold.

What to do?

I hate taking decisions. Or rather, I hate being confronted with choices when I wasn't expecting them, even when, in principle, they're entirely welcome. I'd rather stick to the tried and tested, comfortable (if perhaps somewhat limited) routine.

So when I got a letter telling me the deferred retirement benefits I'd assumed weren't coming until I'm 65 are in fact due to be paid on my 60th birthday (in about six weeks), I felt a certain amount of gloom. Coincidentally, I also have to make a choice about pension contributions in my present job, and whether what savings I've got are best organised.

So I'm having to spend a chunk of a very springlike weekend with a bunch of papers and try to work out how best to arrange - or get professional advice on arranging - my finances. For the rest of my life.

That's what does it: "the rest of my life". Time to lift my head from this cosy cocoon, and look around - and ahead to the inevitable.

But I might take a break to walk in the park and perhaps use the binoculars someone gave me: or more likely just go for the cream tea.

And don't even get me started on the ironing........

My how times change..

Off and on, I'm one of those people who does a bit of family history. One thing that struck me quite early on was just how many of my ancestors seem to have been shoemakers, back in the early nineteenth century (devotees of Cockney rhyming slang won't be surprised at the thought of a lot of cobblers in family history). I suppose, come to think of it, that people went to their local shoemaker until quite late in the nineteenth century before industrialisation took over. Globalisation came along even more recently.

There's a Clark's factory outlet near where I work: Clark's, good old Quaker family, industrialists with a social conscience, all that sort of thing. Plus, they've always done broad fittings. So I nipped over in my lunch hour and found some very comfortable shoes: one pair was made in Thailand, the other in Vietnam. A bit of googling tells me how things have changed. It's all in the logic of global capitalism, of course, and if it's helping Thais and Vietnamese to share a bit of our prosperity, all well and good.

But how fast things have changed: less than two hundred years since my ancestors couldn't even have imagined shoes being made the way they are now - and shipped from places they wouldn't have heard of.

Enjoy your trip?

Just recently, I seem to have taken a few unpredictable tumbles in the street. Once, simply hurrying across a main road while the traffic lights were at red (fortunately), several times catching my foot on uneven paving stones, most recently on a slightly cobbled slope that I've managed to step up without trouble more or less every week for ten years. The odd thing is, it reminds me that at about the same age my mother was doing exactly the same thing. We'd be walking along quite normally and she'd suddenly be sprawling at our feet (mind you, she had another thirty years of a busy life ahead of her).

Which brings on a fit of wondering which of the minor incidents of life are just that, and which are symptomatic of, well,.... you know... [whisper] getting on a bit?

That name that seems to have wandered from the tip of my tongue to some dark recess in the back of my mind: could it be - Alzheimer?

That strange crick in my neck of a morning: does that mean I need a new pillow, or is some muscle wasting away or some joint wearing out?

Which is the greater sign of ageing - all those physical changes or simply the fact of worrying about them?

But perhaps I shouldn't stay for an answer and just get back to the gym, as I've been meaning to for weeks. Once the latest set of grazes has healed up, of course. Till then, tea and cake, I think.

Ambition

Riding to work on the top deck of the bus, I became aware of a disgruntled child's voice from downstairs - well, it is the first day back at school.

I wasn't sure I'd heard it correctly, but when I came down the stairs to get off, the smiles all around confirmed it. Granny was obviously taking her to school, so a very determined six-year-old was chanting "I want to retire! I WANNA RE-TIE-AH!!!"

I watched The Zimmers Go to Hollywood last night.

Leaving aside the evident similarities with last year's Channel 4 documentary on Young@Heart (I missed the start so there might have been some acknowledgement of them in the Zimmers programme - some hopes), I couldn't help feeling that for all its evident good intentions there was still something a bit superficial about the show. Perhaps it was the focus on getting out a single and creating just another show-business ballyhoo (for heaven's sake, smashing things up was childish when people did it in their 20s, it doesn't become any less so when people think you're well on your way to your second childhood). And we can all guess how long the ballyhoo will last, and what the chances are of its really changing people's attitude, can't we?

I'm still a long way from real old age, but I don't intend to be "wonderful for my age", I intend to carry on doing whatever I'm good at by anyone's standards for as long as I can. I'd rather rage against the dying of the light on my own terms, thank you very much. I think I can do without the chance of being patronised by the likes of George Clooney.

And on a happier note, I loved Sunday night's Prom with the performers from Soweto playing and dancing to Rameau. A wonderful evening, and not in the way one would expect from the words "French Baroque". Such joy, such life, such professionalism and artistry.

EXCEPT

the digital notes were across the bottom of the TV screen where all the action was. Doesn't anyone think about this? (I will forgive the temporary appearance of the Cbeebies smiley across the Requiem: think of it as an omen of the smiles to come).