More is Less

According to Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, "millions of people now own Kindles". I'm baffled. It's an ugly, clumsy-looking device that reminds me of the first generation of mobile phones. The Kindle lacks the elegance of the I-Touch and I can't see it winning any design awards:
Bezos adds that "Kindle readers read a lot", but what does that mean? I listen to a lot of music on my MP3 player, but I would argue that the quailty of my listening has deteriorated, as the technology allows me to jump tracks so easily.

It feels like a long time ago (it is a time long ago) since the days when I'd carefully remove an LP from its sleeve, put it on the turntable, gently lift the stylus arm and place it down on the outer edge of the record, listening with anticipation to the crackles and clicks. Whether I was playing a Shostakovich symphony or a Stevie Wonder album, I would lie back and listen to the whole thing, experiencing the record as a whole.

I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember the last time I listened to a piece of music in its entirety. I can partly blame my children - we live in a small house and I don't have a "room of one's own". However, there is nothing to stop me lying down on the bed and listening to a piece of music on my headphones.

When I do listen to anything on my MP3 player, I find that I have the attention-span of a two-year-old. I will dutifully begin listening to Beethoven's Eroica symphony, right up to that sublime moment when Beethoven gets really angry, then my attention will wander and I'll start zipping through my tracklist: St John Passion, Andy Warhol, Siegfried Idyll, Meera Nam Chin Chin Chu, Luonnotar, The Headmaster Ritual, Concerto for Orchestra, Wichita Lineman, Trying Not to Think About the Time, Peter Grimes...

30 seconds here, 15 seconds there, I know I've only myself to blame, but it's too easy to change tracks. I need a deterent - the modern-day equivalent of the tedious, time-wasting process of rewinding a C-120 cassette back to the beginning.

If I had a Kindle with several dozen books at my fingertips, I'd probably go through a similar process, giving up on anything that wasn't utterly gripping. My Kindle would have to be restricted to one book at a time.

I'm not a Luddite, but I'm concerned about the increasing emphasis on quantity rather than the quality of experience. Our Kindles can store hundreds of books whilst our MP3 players and cameras can store thousands of tracks and photos, but what is the end result? Are we leading richer lives as a result?

I can see certain situations where the Kindle comes into its own. If you're backpacking for several months or are one of those commuters who devour airport novels, the Kindle is ideal. But, to quote the title of a novel, books do furnish a room. The book isn't just a medium, but the thing in itself. It is something that we see, touch, smell and even hear, as we flick through the pages.

Working with secondhand books, I am acutely aware of the sensorial qualities of a book: the slightly indecent softness of calf leather, the odour of stale pipe tobacco, the cracking of the binding as you open an old book, the unpleasant, chalky feeling of photographic plates, the smell of public libraries and, occasionally, damp, mildewy cellars.

These qualities proved to be too much for one of my customers who, last week, returned a 1920s book to me with a handwritten letter explaining that she felt that the book was too dirty to take to bed. There was nothing wrong with the book. Perhaps my customer would be happier with a nice, germ-free Kindle?

I shall not be buying an e-reader or I-Pad. I don't need more technology. What I do need is something that I got rid of years ago and have been quietly regretting it ever since: a wind-up gramophone.

Twelve years ago, when I lived in Twickenham, there was a power-cut late in the evening. Everyone was plunged into silence and darkness. However, my wife and I lit candles, opened a bottle of wine and listened to Noel Coward records on our gramophone. It was one of those perfect moments.

No piece of technology I own has ever bought as much pleasure. With their vast array of functions and huge storage, my gadgets promise so much, but somehow they seem to deliver so little.

Resenting the Zeros

A Facebook friend posted this clip a few weeks ago. Apparently there's a "technical problem" with embedding the clip, but if you click to he original YouTube page, it works:

I agree with everything Louis CK says in the interview, although I'm ashamed to say that I'm one of those people who complains that the internet is "slow" if it takes longer than half a second for a page to download (the 14k modem is a distant memory).

I also remember resenting telephone numbers with lots of zeros.

Seduction

Last Saturday I caught the train to Victoria to meet some old university friends at the Coal Hole, which I love. It's one of the few central London pubs where you can always get a seat, thanks to a secret basement.

After a few drinks we walked along the Strand to the India Club - one of the most bizarre restaurants I've ever visited. There are no neon signs or menus in the window. The entrance is in an inconspicuous doorway, with only a small plaque to alert passers-by to the restaurant's existence.

After ascending three flights of stairs, you enter a room that looks like the refectory of an Antarctic research station or a nuclear bunker, with cheap formica tables and garish flourescent strip lights. I kept expecting people to enter through an airlock.

The waiters always seem surprised by anyone's arrival. On one visit I discovered them all fast asleep, lying on rows of chairs pulled together (I crept out and returned later). They are also flummoxed by standard restaurant practices, like putting plates on the table. Instead of moving glasses and side dishes to make room, the waiters stare impassively at the table, as if contemplating an algebraic equation.

The restaurant isn't licensed, but if you ask for beer a Polish girl will mysteriously appear five minutes later with a bottle of Eastern European beer and a request for hard cash. It is all very strange. But then the food arrives and apart from being very reasonably priced, it is gorgeous - better than anything most Indian restaurants serve.

During the evening, one friend confessed that when he was doing a postgrad course, he'd made a compilation cassette called "Seduction Tape." The idea was simple enough: he'd entice girls back to his room, turn the heating up to maximum and put the tape on.

He then revealed the track listing. This was the fourth track:

Not a great seduction song, to put it mildly. Sailor only had two hits and were generally regarded as the poor man's Roxy Music. By the time this song appeared on my friend's compilation tape, Sailor were a distant memory from another decade. Surely this seduction technique couldn't have worked?

However, my friend had the last word: "Reader, I married her."

An Appeal

In my recent post about accents, I wrote about my quest to become middle class. I think I've largely succeeded. If I was crushed under the wheels of a bus, a cursory glance through the contents of my wallet would reveal that I was a member of the Magistrates' Association and a friend of the Tate Gallery. I have no Nectar card.

However, there is still one glaring gap in my bourgeois credentials: I don't spend my holidays in France.

Indeed, my knowledge of France is de graves lacunes. Apart from two day trips to Bolougne and a couple of weekends in Paris, I know nothing about France.

This year I intend to remedy this state of affairs, but I don't know where to start. Like Mr T, I don't like flying and so my options are limited to northern France, but where? I will be accompanied by two young boys, my wife and her mother, all of whom have very different requirements.

I decided to start with Brittany, which I typed into Google Images. Unfortunately I didn't realise that Brittany is a popular porn star name in America, so I ended up with a very different sort of trip.

Filtering out the "adult" material helped, but I was still left with hundreds of websites, none of which answered my main question: where can I guarantee my children a magical holiday without being utterly miserable?

And this is where I turn to my fellow bloggers. If there is anyone reading this blog who knows somehwere in Brittany, Normandy or even further afield, that has sandy beaches, far from the madding crowd, and is also reasonably near decent resturants and old things, please let me know.

I feel overwhelmed and would appreciate some expert opinion.