Living in reduced circumstances

Corner of the "Garden", aka back yard

 

The attraction of French property is that you get so much more space for your money: and French provincial houses seem to be built on a larger footprint in any event.  Moving back to a house that is 40% of the size has taken some getting used to.  But I remain amazed by the ability of the human brain and psyche to adapt - and after three months I am so used to our smaller house that I have stopped making comparisons. 

 

You don't need to be aware of the latest discoveries of neuroscience to know that the decision to buy a house is made by the subconscious.  There is that "click" that happens when you walk into the right place.  In the case of the Shoebox, the click did seem to fly in the face of sense.  I am 65, and enjoy cooking and gardening: the Shoebox offers me a kitchen the size of a cupboard and a garden that is no more than a back yard.  What is more, at a time when my contemporaries are thinking (rather unnecessarily, I feel) of transferring to single storey dwellings, we have moved to a house on four floors.

 

So why did we do it?  For two main reasons.  First, the location.  We are on raised ground, in the lee of the East Hill.  This means we can stroll into the centre of the Old Town in two minutes in one direction, while in the reverse direction and in more or less the same amount of time we can be in the wide open space of the Country Park.  Secondly, the light.  The light in Hastings is hard and glittering when the sun comes out - as it does quite a lot.  The sea is always changing colour.  And each of our rooms other than the cupboard kitchen has windows on two walls, so this wonderful light just pours in, while we look out onto fabulous views of the Old Town and the sea..

 

Meanwhile the kitchen is to be totally rejigged, which I am looking forward to.  And the garden - well, I'm still getting used to that.  However, if we are in one sense reduced, there are already a lot of compensations.  The subconscious is rarely wrong. 

 

Antony Mair

     

Fresh from the Paralympics

Goalball - Iran -v- Algeria

 

A kind friend got us a couple of tickets for a goalball match at the Paralympics this morning, so we parked the dogs at their local hotel yesterday afternoon and went up to London for the night in order to be at the Olympic Park bright-eyed and bushytailed this morning.

 

We had watched a fair amount of the Olympics on the television, but were not prepared for the sheer scale of the venue: the investment has been colossal.  The various locations for the events are in some cases a good twenty minutes' walk from each other, but when you bear in mind the size of the crowds that has to be accommodated the space is not too large.  The architecture of the buildings themselves is in some cases stunning - the main stadium is of course impressive because of its vast size, but the curves of the velodrome and the aquatic centre are beautiful.



 

We landed up at the goalball in the so-called "Copper Box", which is much as the name suggests.  Goalball is a game in which two teams of three players face each other across a hard-surfaced pitch, at each end of which is a goal spanning the whole width.  The players are either wholly or partially blind, and to ensure they have no vision they wear tight-fitting eyemasks.  The aim of the game is to throw the ball into the opposing goal.  The defending team are obviously unable to see the ball so have to judge where it is by hearing it.  (We had been told the ball had bells in it, but we couldn't hear any.)  They block the ball by lying full-length in front of the goal.  The ability of the players to orientate themselves was little short of astonishing.

 

We then caught some wheelchair tennis, which was also astonishing.  Serves were being delivered with a speed of 120 mph, and the players' ability to manoeuvre their chairs at speed was remarkable.

 

Much is being spoken of the legacy of the Paralympics in the form of a change in social attitudes to the disabled.  It's tricky, I find, to get the right balance between acknowledging special needs and treating the disabled as no different from anyone else.  But the achievements of disabled athletes in the Paralympics can only be positive.

 

Antony Mair   

Mustering the support staff

Looking down Tackleway to the sea - the Shoebox is the house by the lamp-post, with the blue front

When you move country you forget that it's not just a question of switching residence: there's a whole network to re-establish.  It's only after three months that I begin to feel we're getting there.  I'm not talking about friends and acquaintance: it starts with the need for tradesmen - electricians, plumbers, joiners etc. - and the places to shop for daily needs - a decent butcher, vegetable shop and  supermarket.  But where do you go for shoe repairs? or dry cleaning?

Then there's the question of personal maintenance - the doctor and dentist and - last but not least - a decent hairdresser (less a problem for me, since it's a once-over with the clippers, than for Paul with his flowing locks).  But there's also the osteopath, the acupuncturist and - ideally - a decent masseur. 

And that's just us: there are the dogs to consider as well: registering with a local vet; finding a decent shop for leads, beds etc.; and then locating a groomer and a dogsitter.

We now have a pair of cleaning ladies who come in each week to give the Shoebox a once-over; the fishmonger is beginning to know me; and the dogs are delighted with the canine hotel we've located when we're away for the night.  As I say, we're getting there.

But the formation of new networks goes with nostalgia for the old: our dear cleaning lady, Agnès, our electrician Bruno, and the ever-charming Dr Picard, to name but a few of the people we became fond of during our stay in Ribérac.  It's not absence, but familiarity, that makes the heart grow fonder.  Out of sight, perhaps, but never out of mind.

Antony Mair

 

Waiting for that groomer!

The royal buttocks

The shoreline below East Cliff, Hastings

 



I've been thinking a lot about privacy recently, particularly the way in which, through Facebook and Twitter, people are happy to sacrifice their personal privacy for the perceived benefit of belonging to a group.  Big Brother does something similar: the "housemates" give up all privacy for the time of their internment, knowing that their every move is being televised. 

Several things bother me about all of this.  Research is now showing that an increasing number of young people are suffering from depression and anxiety as a result of the conflict between the public image they are (or feel they ought to be) projecting on social networks and their real selves.    Cyberposing is rampant, with Facebook entries or tweets that say things like "In Rio, overlooking Ipanema beach with a daiquiri" or "Recovering from an evening in the bar of the Ritz in Paris".  Per-lease.  We know the truth: you're in your semi in Bromley, with a life as mundane as everyone else's.

So far as Big Brother is concerned, it's not just the being televised at every moment that bothers me: it's the removal of all the normal props of any sort of internal life, such as books, newspapers, television, even - yes - computers.  How do the housemates cope?  how does someone as intelligent as celebrity housemate Julian Clary not go bonkers in twenty-four hours?

The answer is, I suppose, that, unlike subscribers to the social networks, who are motivated largely by peer pressure, there is the attraction of filthy lucre (for the celebrities) or five minutes' fame (for the rest).  But do they really understand what they are letting themselves in for?

Which brings me to the royal buttocks.  The furore about publication of photos of the princely posterior is hugely artificial.  In spite of the 3,600 complaints to the Press Complaints Commission, I really don't think the majority of people care.  Anyone with half a brain cell must have realised that pictures of the event would find themselves onto the internet and into the press before you could say "download".  If the prince had wished, he or his minders could have frisked participants for cameras beforehand.  As far as I can see, his sacrifice of privacy was entirely voluntary.  Like the Big Brother contestants, however, he may not have realised the full extent of the consequences. 
  

Antony Mair

International Composers' Festival, Hastings

The portico entrance of Saint Mary-in-the-Castle, Hastings

 

 

We had a terrific surprise this weekend, when we attended the final concert of the first International Composers' Festival in Saint Mary-in-the-Castle, Pelham Crescent.

 

Pelham Crescent is a decayed but stunning Regency crescent facing the sea just beyond the edge of Hastings Old Town.  At its centre a white portico on Ionic columns is the only visible exterior part of the former church of Saint Mary-in-the-Castle, built at the same time as the crescent.  The interior is beautiful, comprising a semi-circle built against the cliff, facing the portico, behind which, originally, would have been the altar of the church.  Parishioners sat either at ground level or in a raised gallery.  It is now the perfect performance space. 

 

The composer Polo Piatti, who lives close to us in the Old Town, was the guiding genius of this event.  We had not heard of him before, but thought the event worth a visit.  In Hastings, you should always be ready to be surprised.  The concert comprised a series of pieces by participating composers, all accessible, and superbly performed.  The festival ran over two days, with a series of talks, discussions, rehearsals and performances, and the seating was arranged informally round tables downstairs.  We found ourselves in the gallery, where the accoustic was fantastic.   

 

More exciting even than the music itself was to be in touch with yet another artistic initiative.  "If it's not there, make it happen" seems to be a recurring refrain in Hastings arts circles.  In these days of cuts and austerity, it's impressive to see it succeed.

 

Antony Mair

The experience of blogging

Old fishing boat beside the fishermen's huts on the Stade, Hastings

 

 

I started this blog about six weeks ago, as a way of keeping in touch with friends in France - and indeed elsewhere in the UK and the rest of the world.  Otherwise there's a danger of losing contact: and friends are too important for that.  However, the blog seems to be developing a slight life of its own.  I'm a tad taken aback to be told by blogger.com that I've had over a thousand page views in that period: and when I look at the audience figures I see that, in addition to the UK and France - which I would have expected - people seem to be clicking in from the USA (25% of the total).  Flattering though this is, I can't believe these are all people I know.  What interests them about my little ramblings?  perhaps they'd let me know.  The other surprise is the number - just under 5% - from Russia.  Now I know nobody in Russia at all.  I'm flattered, though slightly alarmed.  I am not going to be drawn into disclosing my views on the Pussy Riot question, for fear of some cyber-retribution.

Of course this whole thing has gone slightly to my head.  I have added some tweaks at the end of the blog, which enable you to be posted as a "follower", and - I think - to have the blog sent to you by email.  But since my technical expertise is severely limited, none of it may work.

I shall continue to fire postcards into the ether, since somebody somewhere is clearly enjoying them  Perhaps there's a single person out there who's been logging on a thousand times in the past six weeks.  If so, I'm delighted to be giving at least one person something to do!

Antony Mair   

 



Beyond Eastbourne...

View from the Shoebox, with Beachy Head in the distance

 

Before we moved back to the UK I subscribed to the Financial Times on my Kindle.  At a time when I was deeply concerned about where the euro was heading the FT was a useful addition to the French media.  And the FT was great, although as time wore on I felt more and more ignorant about economics - there seemed to be as many theories about the euro's fate as there were economists. 

 

When we returned to the UK I subscribed to the Guardian, again on my Kindle.  It seemed fine at first: less targeted to a readership comprising solely teachers and social workers than I recollected, and the broader coverage was welcome.  However, as time wore on it became clear that the foreign section was woeful.  Or perhaps I mean, in particular, the European coverage.  After several weeks of reading the Guardian I felt my grasp of European politics not just slipping, but disappearing altogether.  Syria, China and the US got ample coverage.  M. Hollande, Frau Merkel and S. Monti didn't get a look-in - let alone Brussels and the EU at large.

 

Thinking it was a problem with the Grauniad alone, I bought a hard copy of The Times.  Perhaps it was too much to hope that a paper forever tarnished by its Murdoch ownership would approach the status of a journal of record that it once had.  In brief, it was the same: Syria, China and the US.    

 

As I look out to sea from the Shoebox I can see Eastbourne in the distance, and Beachy Head beyond it.  If I were to turn my eyes further to the left I should be able to glimpse the French coast.  I haven't succeeded yet, but I'm told one can sometimes see it.  Perhaps someone could alert the UK press that it's still there.

 

Antony Mair