The Public House

Since arriving in the UK, I have joined Meetup (www.meetup.com/) - see the footnote for an explanation of the organisation (if it can be called that!). My daughter Annie suggested I look it up, and I discovered a whole host of different groups that use Meetup as a sort of hub to suggest interests, and find others who are of similar mind.

I've joined three so far. Some of my friends won't be surprised to know that I've joined a humanist group, a skeptics group, and (actually this might surprise a few!) a non-fiction book group.

Where do these groups meet? Mainly pubs. And since I've attended, I've become reacquainted with just why we call them "pubs". Because they are "public houses".

On Tuesday nine people attended the non-fiction book group, some having read the book all the way through, some about half way through, and some not at all. There was no supercilious attitude towards the non or part readers. They were welcomed for their contribution that fed off other material brought to their to mind by the discussion. 

On reflection, we seemed to spend an equal amount of time discussing the book in question (Daniel Kahneman's "Thinking, fast & slow" - quite fascinating in bits), other books that might be like it or better, miscellaneous subjects, and finally, and perhaps most importantly to some (not me, of course...), the merits of the "malt of the moment". 

Our meeting place is the Blue Blazer pub in Edinburgh. As I half listened to the conversations around me, I glanced around the room we were in. I realised that the previous meeting also featured the same groups of other people in the room. There was a group discussing a European film they had seen at the Filmhouse Theatre down the road; a small group of men were discussing fatherhood; and finally there were a group of young women earnestly discussing gender orientation and implications. 

All of us had chosen to use this "public space" in which to meet together to discuss ideas, support one another, and to develop bonds. The fact that social lubrication was consumed - in apparently responsible quantities judging by the behaviour - perhaps made the discussion flow more freely. 

I had been told that British pubs were different to Aussie pubs, and finally it has dawned on me how important these places are to so many people. Of course there is debate raging in Britain about binge drinking and over-consumption of alcohol, and those problems are evident in some of the local bars around where I live. However, when used in the best spirit (pardon the pun) the pub can be a "public house" for education and friendship, and a place to encourage new ideas. 

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Contrasts

Second to the Edinburgh Castle, the Scott Monument dominates the centre of Edinburgh. In the two weeks leading up to Remembrance Day on Sunday 11th November, I noticed that the garden around the monument, was gradually populated with little crosses, each bearing a poppy. Each cross was reverently placed into the soft turf by volunteers, and every now and again there were signs denoting a particular area in memory of the fallen for a region, a battalion or other special group. Visitors wandered around the paths, obviously moved by the display.

For at least a week the air was filled with the sounds of mournful bagpipes as volunteer pipers busked for donations towards the poppy appeal (www.poppyscotland.org.uk). Bus shelters showed pictures of injured soldiers, kilts became commonplace, and even the homeless begging on the streets changed their cardboard signs to indicate they were returned soldiers.

The day culminated in marches, the obligatory minute's silence, and even more proudly-worn kilts and knobbly knees. I was impressed just how the spirit of sacrifice was observed, how seriously it was taken, how reverently people remembered the fallen. I confess I was out on the water at 11am that day, and too busy trying to get the jib trimmed just right...

Imagine my surprise the day after when I alighted the 26 Clerton-bound bus outside the Scott Monument to see cardboard boxes strewn around the grass, with those tenderly placed crosses being unceremoniously rooted out of the ground and dumped into the boxes. I paused in astonishment to confirm that there was definitely no reverence, tenderness or respect. They had done their job and it was time to dispose of them. I was, to say the least, surprised.

The following day, the bus I was on followed into town what appeared to be a fairground truck carrying a carousel. As the bus ground to a halt outside the Scott Monument I realised that the carousel truck was turning into the monument gardens ahead of us. When I looked further I noticed that not only was the carousel truck in the gardens, but that all the garden benches had been collected into a pile, and there were collections of panels, portable toilets, and more machinery all over the gardens. As the next few days progressed a massive Ferris Wheel took shape alongside the monument, as well as various other fairground attractions.


I was quite literally gob-smacked. All the reverence and care leading up to Remembrance Day was wiped out within a few hours and replaced with - frivolity? 

It has taken me a while to get my head around it. At one level it seemed something akin to sacrilege to treat the gardens in such diametrically opposed ways. I have come to resolve it as a powerful demonstration of what has been made possible through the soldiers' sacrifice: peace in this country, and the freedom and safety to enjoy oneself. I'm not sure what you make of this tale. Perhaps others will have perspectives that help me understand it further.

Perspectives

A week ago I was sailing on Sunday. The morning race was a relatively gentle affair with light winds filling our sails. The afternoon saw the winds almost completely die off, and the race became more of a barely controlled drift. We repeatedly sought to sail against the incoming tide, only to lose whatever distance we had gained when we tacked across the river and drifted sideways at an alarming rate. 

As most of the crew sat on the side of the boat chatting among ourselves, one of the crew remarked "This is rubbish, we're going nowhere!".

A little later, as seals were bobbing their heads out of the water to take a look at our unproductive efforts, another crew - a man this time - was heard to say "Where is a club when you need one".

I found it quite ironic that just before the exclamation about "rubbish", I had been sitting on the side of the boat admiring the Forth Rail Bridge that we were unsuccessfully trying to pass underneath, and thinking what a beautiful day it was for being out on the water. I wasn't negative at all about the lack of progress, in fact I was quite entertained by our progress/backwards drift/progress/etc. The sky was blue, I was snug inside my four layers of clothing, and I was on the water. That was my perspective.

On the matter of the seals, I had been thinking moments before I heard the above comment that they were quite cute with their whiskery faces, and were incredibly graceful in their watery element compared to their comical clumsiness on land. I wasn't looking for a club, I wish I had a camera!

There are always more than one way of looking at life. I acknowledge that I don't possess the competitive drive exhibited in the first example - I simply choose to enjoy any opportunity I am given to be on water. I haven't had my fishing bait stolen by seals as I have tried to feed my family. Those that have may look for a club when they see a seal. My experience is purely to marvel at the grace and inquisitive nature of these extraordinary animals. 

That's my brief perspective on perspectives.

The little rough graphic below gives you an idea of our lack of progress until we simply gave up, lowered the sails, fired up the motor and returned to the club for a beer! Oh, by the way, the rounding mark we were heading for was somewhere to the right of the picture, pretty much off the screen!

Boom, bang & whistle

Since arriving in Portobello 10 days ago, most mornings I wander down to the promenade to have my morning coffee. Along the way I noticed a few houses with driftwood piled in the front yard, and assumed they used it for art or a log fire. I didn't think too much about it. I've more concentrated on the coffee awaiting me at my new favourite coffee house, the Beach House(www.thebeachhousecafe.co.uk). 

Over the last few evenings I have heard the thud of fireworks, but not understood their significance. Last evening I went for a walk about 6.30pm, and noticed a lot of booms, bangs and whistles. I followed the sounds and arrived at the promenade, where a surreal sight met my eyes. Dotted along the beach were 20 or 30 bonfires burning, hundreds of families with children playing on the sand and running along the promenade, and groups of parents standing around the bonfires chatting. In the midst of all this there were rockets, roman candles and catherine wheels going off! What a sight! 

Along the shore of the Forth to my right I could see some serious fireworks going off at Mussellburgh, and to my left the bonfires and fireworks extended all the way along to Leith. I could even see them across the other side of the Forth towards Fife. Thousands of people out (in 4 degrees!) having a jolly good time. Families were lighting little burners in miniature hot air balloons and watching as they rose high in the sky, eventually fading from view and, as the fire died, falling back to earth who knows where.

Finally I remembered it was November 5th - Guy Fawkes night. Remember? Something to do with a plot in 1605 to blow up the House of Lords at Westminster in London. We used to celebrate it. Before the nanny state kicked in, and kicked fireworks out. Now, the closest we get to a penny banger is at some festival or another where the organisers pay exorbitant sums to have licenced "professional" fireworks display personnel light the explosives, while we are carefully kept outside the exclusion zone.

I hung around the promenade for several hours, and eventually noticed, a few hundred metres down the beach, the biggest bonfire I've ever seen, as yet unlit. As the temperature fell further to 2 degrees, a gathering crowd waited for the match to be applied. Finally the bonfire, generously dowsed with petrol, roared into life to the cheers of onlookers. People stood around, warming their faces, ears and hands, with a friendly atmosphere pervading the whole scene. Finally, as the fires died down and sleepy children were carried off to bed, people dispersed, leaving behind a hard-core of teenagers determined to make the most of the fires, festivities and fireworks. Even after I was in bed, I could hear the occasional rocket launch after midnight.

I remember bonfires, penny bungers, roman candles, tom-thumbs and catherine wheels from my childhood. On occasion people were injured. On occasion frogs and tuppenny bungers had unfortunate encounters (I admit nothing). The Aussie answer was to ban them altogether. The British answer is to educate children to handle explosives carefully, encourage parents to supervise them properly, and to allow the community an excuse to simply get together and have fun. Perhaps there will be a few burnt fingers and singed eyebrows this morning. Perhaps they are a small price to pay compared to the enjoyment Aussies have lost to to the nanny state.

Ups and downs

When I was preparing for this - jaunt, adventure, mid-life crisis version umpteenth, whatever it is called - I warned myself not to expect everything to be perfect. Because life isn't. Perfect. And I'm glad I pre-warned myself, because not everything has gone to plan.

Take the lady on the plane who inconveniently decided to have a heart attack just after we'd flown over Sri Lanka. Oh wait, we'd better make an unscheduled stop at Colombo. Doesn't matter that it causes us to land two hours late at Abu Dhabi and we miss the connecting flights to Dublin, then Edinburgh. Its okay to enter the UK in Manchester instead of Dublin, isn't it? Flying FlyBE to Edinburgh, who announce the gate about 10 minutes or so before boarding time. With me lugging my baggage seemingly from one end of the airport to another.

Or take my carefully organised access to cash with a Cash Passport card. I dutifully transferred most of my available cash to it and changed it online into British Pounds. Because I was told the PIN can't be changed, I carefully recorded it in a secret location, then filed the original advice deep in my records in the storeroom at home. Then when I landed in Edinburgh I went to retrieve my PIN number... and it had disappeared, vamoose, apparently gone forever. I could order another card, but in the meantime... thank goodness for credit cards, shame about the exchange penalties.

Or my attempts to set up a bank account. "So sir, do you have a passport?" "Yes". "And do you have a second means of identification, like a driver's licence?" "Yes". "And do you have proof of your address, like a rental agreement, or utility bill?" "Will a mobile phone account do?" "No". "Well, actually, no I don't have proof of my address". "Well sir, when you do, come back and see us". She was very polite and professional. But apparently helpless in the face of the bank's policies and procedures.

I could go on.

Thankfully, I did get to Edinburgh in one piece, albeit seven hours late. And I have managed to retrieve my PIN through the very helpful people at Cash Passport. And I have found a far more accommodating bank (HSBC) that is willing to allow me to use the address on my licence as my "home" address, and my address in Edinburgh as a correspondence address.

Through all of this and more, I have been thankful that I am educated (although some may doubt it), that I speak the same language as those with whom I am dealing/negotiating/arguing/pleading (although at times I doubt it), and that I have access to secure accommodation and alternative forms of cash. As I reflect on this, I am humbled as I consider the tenacity and courage of the refugee or migrant for whom the opposite of all these factors is so often true.

Friends

Most of my adult life has been spent away from my immediate family - my siblings tend to be scattered by geographic and personal difference. This has led me to rely on friends that I have developed in whatever location I have happened to find myself, for companionship, mentoring and, at times, for rescue. In places disparate as Melbourne, Canberra, Sydney, and more recently Northern NSW. Over the years I have developed friendships based upon mutual interests. Many of these friends have remained close. Some have faded into the background only to resurface when opportunity arises. Others have moved into my life and passed naturally out again as circumstances dictate.

Often friendship networks are taken for granted. We don't necessarily think "I wonder what would happen if that person wasn't in my life?", and nor should we. It is enough to enjoy their presence.

The last week or so has been personally instructive as I have prepared to depart Australia. I have enjoyed many "farewell" meals with friends and discussed what it means to uproot oneself and travel 150 degrees around the world, along with canvassing mechanisms available to allow us to remain in touch. I have been surprised by friends who I have known for years butt haven't spent much time with recently, and yet who have taken the time to seek out an opportunity to "break bread". I have been humbled by the concern of some who have offered material support prior to my departure or in the event of a future emergency. Mostly I have been gladdened by the reality that my life is rich in companionship and love.

It is usually only in circumstances of imminent departure that we have the opportunity to review our networks of love and care. Too often that opportunity is an end-of-life necessity foisted upon us by fate. I have the privilege to experience this as a result of my own desire for an adventure that happens to create a separation from those I love for an indefinite period of time.

If you are a friend who happens to be reading this, I would like to thank you for being in my life. I look forward to many years of friendship, whether in close proximity or from afar.

"You leapt into the abyss, but find
It only goes up to your knees" 

So goes Nick Cave's song "Babe, you turn me on". 

This year has I have experienced a number of personal and professional leaps into the abyss, but like Nick Cave's song goes, have found it has only gone up to my knees. 

The two great motivators for change are discomfort and opportunity. In the first case, we sometimes find ourselves in situations which aren't so terrible that we are compelled to get away, yet we know deep within that we are not satisfied, fulfilled or content. We remain in the situation, motivated by hope for a better future, or for fear of a future unknown, or maybe a combination of both. And so time rolls on, the situation remains unsatisfying at best, damaging at worst. 

In the case of the other change motivator, sometimes an opportunity is so potentially satisfying that we are prepared to sacrifice all that we have for the treasures that await. In this circumstance change is not seen as negative, but exciting, invigorating and life affirming.

For many people, the opportunity motivator is the less likely of the two scenarios outlined above. Far more common is the brooding sense of unfulfillment and dissatisfaction. I know it has been for me.

My leaps into the abyss commenced early in 2012, and are culminating in less than a week as I prepare to leave the country for an indeterminate period. 

Why am I doing this? The motivation goes back a long way - 37 years. As a young man I dreamed of travelling to the United Kingdom and elsewhere. At the age of 19, my love for a young lady derailed my intentions, and so I shelved my plans, became married and started a family. From that point onwards family responsibilities, insecurities and lack of opportunity kept me in Australia. Don't misunderstand me - I take full responsibility for my choices in life. In retrospect I am very aware that I could have made different ones. It is just that finally I am in the life situation where I can do the things I could have, or should have, done many years ago. It is interesting that some of the same themes that I experienced so long ago have arisen this time around, forcing me to consciously work through insecurities and relationships issues  uncannily reminiscent of so long ago.

I don't know how long I will be gone - hence the one way ticket. It may be a few months, or longer. I don't know what awaits me, good or ill. I only know that I am doing something I have waited 37 years to do. And it seems that the abyss only comes up to your knees.

Clouds

We've recently enjoyed several weeks of clear blue skies with balmy temperatures in the mid twenties. But... one day last week it wasn't so. Instead, the southerly buster had descended, the sky was leaden, and it seemed the mood of those around had adapted to match the sky.


Suddenly I heard a plane taking off from the local airport, and I imagined that it would soar not only above the ground, but also above the clouds. As it made its way to Melbourne, the passengers would experience not the leaden skies of my terra-firma-bound current experience, but those clear blue skies that I love.


The experience reminded me that just above the clouds there is always a clear blue sky and the sun is shining bright and warm. If we can traverse life remembering that it only takes a breath of wind to blow the clouds away, whether literal or metaphorical, then deep within will be hope that springs eternal. No matter how dark the clouds we experience today, the winds of change can blow them away, bringing fresh warmth to our life, and clarity of vision in the bright sunshine that follows.

Emotional Pornography

Emotional Pornography

The current crop of reality television shows demonstrates a new low in modern society. Most people, in western societies at least, circumscribe boundaries around what they will expose of themselves. For this reason anyone who undresses in public, or exposes what are generally considered to be "private parts" of themselves, tends to be viewed as odd at best, and pathological at worst. The recent tragic breakdown of the director of Kony 2012 is a case in point: his very public nude exposure was seen by most to perhaps be driven by drug misuse, or serious mental illness. Many people smirked at his antics, partly because they were so unusual.

Most people maintain personal boundaries that are well defined. We see the spectrum from those who wouldn't be seen dead" in anything but full covering. Many Islamic women are, if you like, one end of the spectrum. In public they are covered head to toe, including their face. At the other end of the spectrum others may simply be clothed in very short dresses or shorts and singlet tops covering the minimum body area deemed to be "decent". The recent case of Lara Bingle being photographed nude through her window as she closed the curtains, and resultant furore and debate about personal privacy, is an example of someone who often makes her living by wearing the least amount deemed decent, yet was scandalized by the invasion of her privacy.

Physical exposure is not the only area where society establishes boundaries. Emotions too are generally circumscribed, and again there is a spectrum of exposure deemed appropriate. Think about the term "wears his heart on his sleeve". This is an example of someone whose personal emotional disclosure is at the end of the acceptable spectrum. Anyone who is indiscriminate about their emotional disclosures can make others around them squirm with embarrassment or pity. They are seen as socially awkward or simply weird. Of course at the other end of this spectrum are those we would describe as stoic or emotionally inhibited.

Shows such as Biggest Loser and Big Brother take television to a new low of emotional disclosure that I can only describe as emotional pornography. The directors of these shows and their ilk spend a great deal of creativity and money contriving situations where individuals are broken down to a point where their personal boundaries become trashed and they lose sight of what is normal. They are quarantined away from the rest of the world, their family, support networks and the world. Twenty four hours a day they are spied upon with secret cameras, bullied, and emotionally manipulated for the capricious delight of audiences who don't give a damn about the self worth of the individual, so long as there is some new titillation to talk about with their friends, and that to make them feel supercilious because they aren't that “stupid". The irony is that while they spend their time bolstering their own ego, they don't realize that they have just participated in the humiliation of another human being who has been (often willingly) manipulated into trashing their personal boundaries.

This is a sad low to which modern humanity has descended. I can only hope it is a fad with a short life-span.