Carpe Diem

It is exactly a year since I left my last job. Like some politicians, I resigned to 'spend more time with my family'. My elderly mother had just moved to Lewes and my oldest son was struggling with a debilitating condition that prevented him from attending school, so I wanted to be near them.

However that wasn't the whole story. I also think I'd reached a crisis point where, in my mid-40s, I was no longer willing to tolerate the frustrations of working for other people. Ironically, it was probably the most successful job I'd had and I enjoyed a good relationship with my employers. But I felt ground down by the nine-to-five routine, the 25-mile commute and the grim environment - an open plan office on a drab industrial estate.

Although there was little danger of me regretting my decision, I made this short film to remind me why I'd left:


One year on, I feel as if I have become myself again for the first time in 25 years. It is as if I have been been deprogrammed after belonging to a rather unpleasant religious cult.

Some people find security in the routine of working so many hours a day, for so many days a week, for so many weeks a year, but I couldn't stand it and felt as if the best years of my life were ebbing away. I had watched my father endure years of hard work and a tortuous commute, only to succumb to heart disease within months of retirement. I wasn't willing to follow the same path.

The last year has been difficult. I have been trying to negotiate the thin line between self-employment and unemployment - time versus money - but I think I've cracked it. In a few weeks I will be starting a new project which should, hopefully, provide the financial security I need to deal with the challenges that lie ahead.

That's Plan A. There is no Plan B, so I'd better make sure that I get it right.

An Alphabet of the Empire

A Day Out

 

Whenever I go to zoos, I always see at least one young couple carrying a bemused-looking two-month-old baby. "Look at the elephant Poppy!" the father exclaims in the high-pitched voice of a children's television presenter. Poppy looks on impassively. For her, the large grey thing that she will later discover is an elephant is no more notable than the large brown thing that is a gift shop.

I did exactly the same thing with my first child. It was ridiculous, but I was so excited at the prospect of being able to take him on days out I couldn't wait. I probably wasted a lot of money on trips that my son has no memory of. With my second son, I have had the good sense to ration museum excursions and lower my expectations of the visit.

Yesterday I took my younger son to the Imperial War Museum. Normally, the word museum doesn't provoke a terribly positive reaction in my children, so I carefully said that we were going to the *mumble* Imperial *speak up* WAR *mumble again* Museum. My son look thoughtfully and replied "Cool".

I wish he wouldn't say that.

I like travelling to London on a Saturday. During the weekdays the trains are packed full of weary-looking people that hate their jobs, self-important businessmen who think the carriage is an extension of their office and lumbering NVQ students on their way to Crawley, with headphones pumping out cicada-like rhythms. On Saturday everyone's in a good mood.

The train arrives on time and to my relief, it is 12 carriages long. Occasionally, for reasons unknown, the train only has four carriages and an unseemly scramble ensues. It's quite amusing watching well-to-do people desperately running down a platform, trying to maintain their dignity.

I wonder how we will pass the one-hour journey. Sometimes my son is extremely garrulous, bombarding me with questions like "Dad, how many bullets would it take to kill a stegosaurus?" Today he is silent, possibly overawed by the experience of being on a train, so I'm able to eavesdrop on other people's conversations:

"I say she should be able to do whatever she likes, but she can't go around wearin' a bodice all day. I mean, it's not the Victorian age."

I look behind me and see two men in their late 20s. I was hoping to hear more, but they are drowned out by a recorded annoucement.

To my left, a man in his 60s is holding court to some people who don't seem to know him very well:

"Well I love looking at the boats in the harbour and seeing what the people are doing and if that makes me a peeping tom, then yes, I suppose I am. But they don't kow anyone's looking at them so there's no harm in it. I think people are fascinating. As you get older, you can get a bit cut-off being in the country. I'd quite happily live in the centre of Lewes, right on the High Street where I could watch everything going on, but Sheila says she'd miss having a front garden."

I am distracted by the trolley service. I don't know why, but having a tea or coffee on a train always feels like such a treat, I'll even buy one when I don't really want a drink. Like every other trolley attendant on this line, the young man who serves me is Eastern European. A few years ago, there used to be a man in his 70s who must have been one of the last people to have a real Sussex accent: "Tay, cahfee, beerrr..."

The man on my left is still talking:

It's an investment. They won't build any more like that. Last Sunday I was sitting in the conservatory, watching the thunder storm. It was the most spectacular storm I've ever seen. I saw three forks of lightning dancing along the top of the Downs..."

We arrive at Wivelsfield. The name always makes think of an obsequious, Uriah Heep-style character in a Dickens novel. No-one ever gets off at Wivelsfield.

The rest of the journey is uneventful so I read the Guardian magazine, which has an interesting interview with JK Rowling about her new novel for adults. I was one of the early supporters of Harry Potter, but grew disillutioned when it became a franchise. By the time of the fifth book, I was so sickened by the hype and the obligation to dress up as a wizard at midnight, I decided to liven things up with some real snakes and venomous spiders. That was a memorable book launch.

We stop at Gatwick,  where two men with beards, backpacks and flip flops board the train. One of them sits next to me and leans right into my body space. I glare and he shuffles away. Welcome to Britain.

 At Clapham Junction we change trains. I tell my son to look out for Big Ben, but the skyline has changed and we can't see a thing.

Waterloo is packed and I compare the station with a 1979 photo I posted recently, which shows a greyer, grimmer, half-empty concourse. We take an escalator to the Bakerloo line, where the tunnels are reassuringly shabby, and travel one stop to Lambeth.

The walk from Lambeth North to the Imperial War Museum is unremarkable, but I have a pleasant surprise:

 

 

I'm particularly pleased to stumble upon this house, as my sole contribution to my older son's home education at the moment is to study the mutiny on the HMS Bounty. We've already watched the 1935 Hollywood film with Charles Lawton. Next, we'll tackle the 1984 version with Anthony Hopkins and Mel Gibson.

Apart from teaching my son a little history and geography, I hope that it will get him thinking critically about the reliability of the narrative in historical films. Was Captain Bligh the sadistic brute of popular myth? With a screenplay by Rober Bolt, the 1984 film should be more balanced. If only they hadn't asked Vangelis to write the music.

The Imperial War Museum is a big hit, but my attempts to emphasise the pity of war fall on deaf ears: "Those guns are big! Could they destroy a whole house? Cool!"

On the way back to the tube station, I am subjected a stream of questions: "Who was on our side? France? But I thought they were our enemy. Why did they lose to the Germans? Was Spain on our side? Why not? Was Africa on our side? What weapons did they have?" 

We finish the day at the London Eye, where there are the usual people pretending to be statues of Michael Jackson. "Who's that?" my son I asks. I explain that it's a real person standing very still, dressed as Michael Jackson. 

"Who's Michael Jackson?"

What a difference three years makes.

There and Back Again

Yesterday I had to make a 200-mile round trip for a meeting that only lasted for a few minutes. It went well enough, but I wonder if, in the age of the internet, a couple of emails wouldn't have covered the following exchange:

Person: Is this the sort of thing you want? 

Me: Yes.

Person: Good.

Still, I suppose it is important to meet people face to face, shake hands and establish contact. I also quite like the opportunity to get out of the house and visit places I haven't been to, even if most of them seem to look exactly the same.

After planning my route, I realised that I'd be passing Aldbury - a village I'd wanted to visit ever since I watched this (try 1:16 to 3:20):



In this episode, Murdersville, Aldbury appears as 'Little Sworping In-the-Swuff' a wonderful name that is only slightly more absurd that those of many real villages I can think of. Was Aldbury as idyllic as it seemed and if it was, how much had it changed in the 45 years since that episode was filmed? Would I be like George Bowling in Coming Up For Air, searching for a land of lost content, only to find that it had been ruined beyond all recognition?

Fortunately, Aldbury seemed to be completely unaffected by the march of progress:

The centre of Aldbury is dominated by pre-19th century buildings, including several Tudor houses with thatched roofs. It's a picture postcard village, almost too perfect, as if it has been constructed for a film set. Unsurprisingly, Aldbury has appeared in 'Midsomer Murders'.

These stocks are next to the village pond, where Mrs Peel was subjected to waterboarding. Even today, it's quite a shocking scene and I pity her poor stunt double.

Up on the hill, there's a rather interesting looking building. I know that someone who grew up in Aldbury occasionally visits this blog, so I hope they might be able to shed some light on this mystery:

Almost every house I passed had something unique and eye-catching. I particularly liked this chimney, which seemed a little ostentatious for a small cottage:

This building below is the local primary school. Again, it's an unusual, quirky building, full of character.

I'd spent the previous hour driving through bland estates of cheap, badly-designed modern housing, so it was a relief to visit somewhere that hadn't been ruined by commerce and short-sighted pragmatism. But as villages and towns like Aldbury and Lewes become increasingly desirable to those of us who aren't completely enamoured with the modern world, the disparity in house prices becomes increasingly polarised.

When I saw one man waxing one of three 1960s MGs in his drive, I wondered how many of Aldbury's current inhabitants were born there.

On the way home, I listened to a podcast of an interview with Salman Rushdie and was delighted to discover to during his time in advertising he was responsible for this: