Maybe I need not worry about the Windows 10 support withdrawal

Only ten months now before Microsoft turns off support for Windows 10. 

MS has been hustling every user of Windows 10 (and earlier versions of Windows) to upgrade to Windows 11. I gather that the latest OS is awkward to use in some respects, and is not popular. But in any case, the new architecture that comes with Windows 11 means that older devices - and some bought only a couple of years ago - cannot run it. So 'upgrading' involves buying a new laptop or desktop device at considerable expense. 

This, understandably, is unwelcome to a lot of people. There is resistance. In my own case, my present laptop - a Microsoft Surface Book that was posh and fairly cutting-edge in 2016 when I bought it, and is still working perfectly well - is stuck with Windows 10. I can't install Windows 11 on it. So what should I do?  

In the immediate period, there's nothing I can do. The money I'd set aside for a replacement laptop sometime in early 2025 - £2,500 - has been swallowed up by dental treatment and some other necessary things. I can't conjure up further cash, because my savings accounts are depleted, and replenishment is slow while the monthly car repayments persist. I can't do it all. 

The car repayments end in October 2026, but I need not wait until the hire-purchase balance reduces to absolutely nil. It'll be financially safe to buy a new laptop sooner, in mid-2026. I could treat myself to a shiny new Surface Book (or something of similar refinement) for my 74th birthday in July 2026. But that's still a year and a half away. Will I be exposed to online security threats from October 2025 to July 2026? It's a concern.

MS have said that they will continue to support Windows 10 after October 2025 if a user pays for hitherto-free security updates. I should therefore be able to buy a year's cover. I don't know what the cost will actually be. If only £30, it's probably a no-brainer. But MS will have a gun at users' heads, and may feel that they can ask for £100, or even £150. If they do, I'll be wondering whether I can instead rely on my Android phone for all Internet access, and use the laptop offline-only.   

But now a thought has occurred to me. Both phone and laptop are currently protected by my annual F-Secure antivirus and malware subscription. That would continue for at least the phone. So if, as now, I tethered the laptop to the phone, wouldn't I be safe, even without Windows 10 security updates? In other words, wouldn't the phone trap incoming viruses and malware, and not send them on to the laptop? 

I have researched this a bit. I've read that viruses and malware designed to exploit vulnerabilities in Android will do nothing to a Windows device, as the OSs are so different. The harmful code should just lie in the laptop, unable to do anything. And that if there is extra protection (F-Secure's software in my case), then malicious code will be neutralised or expunged on the phone before it even crosses over to to the laptop. This is reassuring. I do hope it's true. But there are other points to make. I don't surf the web indiscriminately. I take care, and stick to 'proper' websites (F-Secure vets them for me; so indeed does Google itself). Furthermore, I'm not on any kind of social media, which drastically reduces my risk of getting into difficulties. And in any case, most of the time I use the laptop offline, predominately for photo-editing. 

So to conclude, I think that after the plug is pulled on Windows 10 in October 2025 I will still be able to use my now-elderly laptop to safely access the Internet, providing I do it through the phone, and not directly. Just as if I were away on holiday. 

Mind you, I will definitely look forward to having a modern laptop during 2026, simply to have more speed, and perhaps a larger screen. A faster machine will improve my photo-editing workflow, and greatly speed up my backups to external storage media. 

But I can wait for the right machine, purchased at the right moment. 

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A horn for Christmas

Christmas Markets have long been very popular. I quite like them. They are so atmospheric, especially once it starts to get dark. And opportunities to take great photos abound, whether it's pictures of the stalls or the merry throng of people stopping to see what the traders are selling. Occasionally there will be an unmissable shot - for instance this one, which I took at Winchester Christmas Market next to the Cathedral in 2011. The stall was a 'live' display of the nativity scene, complete with a goat (I think it's a goat). I can't remember what Mary and Jesus were doing at the time, but here's Joseph on his mobile phone, to God presumably. I captioned the photo thus: Joseph queries surprise baby with Higher Authority. 

It's the incongruity of the phone, of course, that makes the picture. But supposing they did have phones back then, it would still have made a good shot because I'm not sure that Mary would have prepared Joseph for the arrival of a holy child. How could she possibly explain it? 'Oh by the way, Joe, the Archangel Gabriel popped by while you were out, and as a result I'm pregnant! Isn't that incredible?' It might not have gone down well. So she'd keep silent until the birth was imminent, and only then explain. But it would turn out fine. Before Joseph could ask probing questions or express any misgivings, a super-bright star would flare in the sky, amazed shepherds would knock on the door, three richly-clad kings from the Orient would arrive with gifts, all the animals in the stable would cluster around the glowing cradle, and a heavenly chorus would sing loudly. Joseph would naturally take all these things as infallible signs of divine intervention. Wouldn't you? But later, when he had a quiet moment, he might have given Heaven a bell, just to check that this was all kosher, and that there was no mistake. And I've caught him making that call.

This year I was at the Christmas Market in Canterbury with my cousin Rosemary. The usual scenes.

But we saw one stall we hadn't seen before. The man was selling goods fashioned from animal horns - drinking horns mainly, but all kinds of other articles, some decorative, some useful, but all rather attractive.

It was fascinating to look at. The horns were real, with natural patterns on them. And we were assured that they were, in the main, cow horns from Africa. Neither of us knew enough about African cows to dispute that. Certainly they weren't rhino horns. We both ended up wanting to buy something. I chose a shoe horn costing £8. Though a humble purchase, it was a thing of beauty. The man wrapped it up carefully in tissue paper. 

I use a shoe horn pretty well daily, to get lace-up leather shoes and boots on, and I already had a perfectly good plastic shoe horn that I bought from Timpson the shoe repairers in 2023. That would now become my spare. Henceforth, I'd make this posher version - made, as I said, from the horn of an African cow - my number one shoe horn, the one I'd carry around in my bag. 

Back home, I unpacked it and inspected it more closely. I hadn't been diddled. It really was cut and shaped from a piece of natural horn. Its surface was smooth and polished, but with little bumps and some pitting, which I don't think would have been present if just a moulded plastic shoe horn. It was slightly translucent, as I could see by holding it against a light. 

Next morning, in daylight, I had an even closer look. 

LXV (my Leica X Vario camera) has reproduced the colours precisely. I think it looks very attractive indeed, a feast for the eye, particularly on the convex side (the lower shot). 

Here it is, compared to the now-superseded plastic Timpson shoe horn.

They are almost the same size, seven inches long. The new shoe horn is slightly heavier, but also more substantial, and likely to last longer. Although functionally no better than the plastic Timpson article, the African Cow version wins hands down for looks and style, in my opinion. 

The natural pattern on each side of the new shoe horn reminded me of some photos I'd taken. For example, these recent shots of a sunset at Shoreham.

But more especially of the subtle colours that gradually developed during a sunrise in New Zealand in 2007, at a little place called Karitane, on the coast north of Dunedin, in South Island. I can't help showing the entire sequence of pictures. It was such a lovely sunrise. These were not Leica shots. I was using a Canon G6 compact zoom camera, with a sensor of only 7 megapixels. But didn't it do well.

In the last shot, you can see where we had parked the campervan overnight, at the head of a little beach, right by the tidal water. I remember hearing the roar of the tide only feet away from the campervan during the night. But it was the spectacular dawn that I most wondered at. And some of those colours are reproduced in my new shoe horn.

In some ways the shoe horn also conjures up the appearance of certain shells, and mother-of-pearl. New Zealand in 2007 again.

Let's get even more fanciful. The shape of this shoe horn also reminds me of the jade weapon called a mere, used by the Maori warriors of New Zealand in past centuries. Here's a sequence I shot in the Southland Museum at Invercargill.

And this was a modern replica I saw on sale in Auckland.

The mere was a serious close-combat weapon. The jade used for the best of them was very hard, and would easily break bones. It was used in a upward jabbing fashion, aimed at head, neck or ribs, and as the opponent fell, a sharp downward thrust on his head with the hilt would deliver the coup de grace. Warriors would of course have to face up to each other at very close quarters, and running away was considered so shameful as to be inconceivable. Personal and tribal honour depended on either killing one's opponent cleanly and skilfully, or accepting a killing blow if that opponent had the advantage. Yes, it has already struck me that a stiff shoe horn could be used in the same way, though hopefully not with lethal effect. But I dare say the police would take a dim view of using such an article in any way other than the normal one! 

Me, I can find other, less martial uses. For instance, here I am, recreating that Pop Idol moment. 

Pity I can't sing!

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He thinks I'm young, confused and struggling

Substack is an online platform for writers who wish to target potential new readers with intriguing free content - news, opinion pieces, essays, and life-experience articles - and then get them to upgrade to better stuff with a paid subscription. They want your money, and offer a kickback if you refer your friends to them. More grist to their mill, of course. The writer's aim is to generate sufficient subscription income to make a nice living out of it. There's a review of how Substack works for the writer here: https://selzy.com/en/blog/what-is-substack/. 

Writers who sign up for a Substack account need to build a following who will subscribe to their regular emailed output. So the articles they produce must be appealing and relevant to the potential reader's point of view, their prejudices, their beliefs and their self-perception. 

I've been targeted by one of these writers. A first email came four days ago, followed up by an email each day since. They all came from this email address: lifeuplift@substack.com, and the author was someone called M Hamza Ibrar. 

First email on 22nd November (moved to spam box)

Title: You're on the list! 

My reaction: This looked suspicious. I marked it as spam. Google moved it to my spam box, where future emails would now be diverted. 

Second email on 23rd November (straight to spam box, but I checked it for content)

Title: Ever Since I Was 13, All I Wanted Was to Be in Love

Subtitle: A surprising lesson in why waiting to find "the one" is okay - and maybe even necessary

My reaction: It was an essay, apparently written by a woman author and now republished, about why - for various important reasons - one should wait for the right person to love. If I were young and craved a relationship, this might be worth reading: but neither thing applies. Disturbingly, there was this notice embedded in the email:

Deep Mind? It sounds sinister! I don't think it's Google DeepMind. And what was that 'other platform' I was 'moved' from? I'm still on Google Blogger, and that's the only place my posts have ever appeared. Hmm! I'm on my guard.

Third email on 25rd November (straight to spam box, but I checked it for content)

Title: Comfort Is Killing You! Honest Advice to Someone who Feels Behind in Life

Subtitle: Think you're not ready for success? This surprising shift will have you taking action immediately

My reaction: An essay on getting out of one's comfort zone and doing what needs to be done to achieve an end, without waiting for perfect conditions, and without worrying about other people's bad reactions. Again, were I feeling sorry for myself, afraid of consequences, and trapped in a rut, the advice might help. But none of that applies.

Fourth email, later on 25rd November (straight to spam box, but I checked it for content)

Title: Why You Should Become a Paid Subscriber and Get Even More Value!

Subtitle: Unlock Exclusive Insights, Social Media Tips, and Personal Growth Strategies That Will Take You to the Next Level!

My reaction: The author explains what he's offering for a modest $5 a month subscription. I won't paraphrase it. Here are the actual screenshots:

It speaks for itself. I think he must be targeting young, insecure people with low self-esteem - malleable and easily-led people. I don't know why he thinks I'm one of them. Do I come across - in my Blog or in my Flickr photos - as ineffectual or confused? I hope not. And 'real life' is not to be found in 'books, movies and TV shows'. Only fantasy, fiction and escapism.

The admission that his Medium account was suspended is a source of concern. Medium is a similar platform to Substack for writers. What happened? What did he do? Did he infringe their rules in some way? Whatever it was, it doesn't reassure me, and I won't be bringing him to my friends' notice. 

I remain wary. There's no compelling reason to have anything more to do with these emails, not even to have the satisfaction of getting to the bottom of it. I think there's an influencer at work here, feeding ideas to the kind of immature person who hasn't yet learned to be discriminating and worldly-wise. And what if those articles are in fact AI-generated? If so, the subscriptions would be money for nothing.

I haven't responded to any of the four emails received so far. I don't want to see any more. So how to stop them coming, when (a) they are unsolicited, and (b) I'm certainly not subscribed. There's an 'unsubscribe' option I can click on, but is it safe to use it? It will confirm that my email address is a live one. That could have unwelcome consequences.

I'll see what happens. He may note that I remain unresponsive, and therefore not worth further powder and shot. I hope so.

SEQUEL on 27th November 2024

I carried out further (cautious) research on the Internet, to learn a bit more about Substack, Medium, Deep Mind and M Hamza Ibrar. I became satisfied that Substack was a proper platform for writers offering all kinds of content, including advice on getting one's life in gear. A kind of social media feed, if you will. 'Deep Mind' seemed to be a nom-de-plume of M Hamza Ibrar. His misdemeanour on Medium remained obscure, but his web pages there were inaccessible and the word 'investigation' appeared in the standard brief explanation for no access. Hmm.

This morning (27th November) I received a fifth email from him. Another article, about letting go and moving forward from failure and self-blame. Not a personal concern, although relevant enough for anyone crushed by mistakes they had made and the consequences that flowed from them. But all of the 'advice' could have been AI-generated. 

I concluded that this was at worst a low-level scam to extract a subscription from me and thousands of others. I decided to 'unsubscribe'. 

It looks as if that went through without anything bad happening. Fingers crossed there are no unwelcome future developments.

I remain wondering how I got onto this author's emailing list in the first place. I generally stick to favourite bookmarked websites on the subjects that interest me - such as websites on photography - and I don't trawl the Internet searching (for instance) for the meaning of life, or how to turn myself into a better person. But I must have been a blip on someone's radar screen, and perhaps they sold my email address to this author. 'They' could have been Google itself. Who knows. 

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How the other half lives - posh tiki bars for the garden!

Yesterday, having shot Storm Bert rampaging at Newhaven Harbour and Seaford, I dropped by at Paradise Park, where there is a dinosaur garden for kids and a rather good garden centre for adults. Rather good? It was a lot better than I expected (I'd never been there before) and perhaps worth another visit. I'd scorned going there before, thinking that - this being Newhaven - it wouldn't be anything special. But I was quite wrong.

Off at one end was a large display of garden structures, way more than just simple sheds. Many of them were decidedly upmarket. 

A cluster of furnished wooden shelters with a round or oval-shaped footprint caught my eye. These were styled 'breeze houses', but in common parlance would be called 'tiki bars for the garden' because users would clearly sit inside and enjoy exotic tropical drinks with umbrellas in them, or whatever tipple was appropriate for the season. Maybe, after frolics in the hot tub, one might adjourn - while still in one's wet bikini - to one of these domestic tiki bars for Sophisticated Conversation. I wouldn't know. 

These particular tiki bars were unglazed and doorless, so that you could be inside, and in the shade, and yet enjoy fresh air and sunshine. But if there was a nagging cold wind, blinds with transparent windows could be unrolled and secured with studs and toggles. They were clearly meant to be wired up too, so that deep into the evening one could converse and clink glasses under soft lighting and even gentle heating. I should think you'd still have to think how to best situate them in your garden, so that the prevailing wind and rain would hit only the back of the structure, leaving most of it dry and undisturbed. Doubtless finding a suitably sheltered spot wouldn't be difficult in the kind of garden a prospective buyer might have. 

Intrigued, I took some shots. First, the smallest option, costing a mere £14,357.

There wasn't actually a cocktail bar within, just shelving, and the occupants would be knocking knees. Not much comfort really. Personally, I'd pass this one up.

Next, a larger faux-thatched-roof affair that cost £23,517, but had a proper bar and a lot more space.

Ah, a much nicer proposition. And it had the proper Polynesian Look. You could get blotto with style in something like this. Convincing. But it still wasn't the best on offer.

No, aspiring Lotus Eaters needed this. A spacious and luxurious tiled-roofed outhouse for all-season entertaining. Only £42,818.

That was me in the red jacket, behind the bar, although I'm not bartending but reflected in the mirror. 

Well, this was a superior 'breeze house' and no mistake! In fact, really much too far removed from that Polynesian vibe to be called a 'tiki bar', even though designed with serious drinking in mind. But look: there was a dining table, and a settee with a low coffee table in front of it, and a carpet. It was still an informal space, but civilised - the retreat not of wild youngsters but of their staid parents, and definitely not somewhere to get drunk in. It was too nice for that. 

But 42 grand...you could buy a lovely used car for money like that, or a respectable new one. Then again, if you did have the money, and the right house and garden, then why not? 

Once again, I found myself feeling thankful that, although I consider myself comfortably placed, I haven't got any spare cash. I wouldn't want to feel tempted to buy something like this. It's not in any case my idea of high-level living. No, my personal situation forces me to budget and make down-to-earth choices. My unswerving top financial priorities - beyond day-to-day stuff - have to be holidays, healthcare (mainly dentist and optician), next-car finance, and house maintenance. Other things must await their turn, and will get bought only when I can afford it. The next laptop, for instance.

So a tiki bar for my back garden? I think not.

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Merry Christmas! Let's discuss your death and cremation!

What do I get through my front door? I may get a few birthday cards in July, and a few Christmas cards in December. Twice a month I get free Club magazines. There's a constant, but not overwhelming, stream of junk mail. Then there are local booklets, leaflets and fliers delivered by an unseen hand. And plastic charity bags delivered in the same way, to put my unwanted clothes into for collection, that I consider to be scams and ignore. (I take such clothes personally to the charity shop of my own choice) Occasionally, I'll get small items I've ordered online. 

This all cumulatively sounds a lot. But really, compared to many other households, I get very little post through my front door. I've made it that way. I want as much as possible - certainly everything that would once have been put into a typed or handwritten letter - sent electronically as an email, or as an attachment to an email. This makes sense for me, as I'm away from home so much. I need to be able to read communications while out on the road, when holidaying far from home, and not wait until I'm back.

Proper paper letters - if I get them - are often impersonal, addressed to me as 'the Occupier' or 'the Resident'. It's a little unusual to get something addressed to me by name. If it happens, it'll likely be something from the DWP about my State Pension, or from HMRC about the PAYE coding for my Civil Service Pension. Something important. So if any sender addresses their paper letter to me using my proper name, I'll assume it's essential to open the envelope carefully to see what's inside.  

Well, a couple of days ago I got just such a letter. It was addressed to 'Ms L Melford'. (How I hate being called 'Ms'. It's 'Miss'!) It began thus:

This winter, here's an easy answer to a difficult question - and something important you should know.

Dear Ms Melford,

As the nights close in and 2024 begins to draw to a close, our thoughts turn to family, friends and what the future may hold. Which may be why at this time of year, more people choose to put their funeral plan in place - and you may wish to as well. Having a funeral plan in place can be a huge relief, and means you can rest easy over the coming festive period. A funeral plan ensures your wishes are respected, your funeral arrangements are guaranteed and you don't need to think or worry about it ever again.

It was from a company called Pure Cremation. It was urging me to apply for one of their simple, no-frills cremations. (The credit agency Experian had pointed them in my direction - they were quite open about that)

The cost? If I died suddenly, without pre-purchasing their plan, but my 'loved ones' bought a Pure Cremation funeral for me themselves, they'd currently pay £1,645. That's certainly much less than the usual price for a funeral. If I applied now, myself, while still alive, it would cost me £1,895, with the plan effective immediately. But I could spread the cost over as much as 120 months - ten years - at only £24.99 per month. Although the total paid would then be £2,998.80, and I'd not be covered for the first two years.

Well, these amounts don't seem unreasonable, and are attractive if simplicity and low cost are of paramount importance. But I have no plans to bale out this winter. Nor, if I have my way, at any time before my 100th birthday in 2052. Nobody knows what the body-disposal options will be that far into the future. And I reckon Pure Cremation won't be around by then anyway. So this is one for the bin.

To be honest, I'm not really interested in what happens to my lifeless remains. I will have ceased to exist, and can't possibly care. I do however fancy having a commemorative bench seat somewhere, perhaps in a country churchyard. Although a seat with an estuary view (as at Padstow in Cornwall) would be even nicer! There'd be a plate on it that said 'Lucy Melford. 1952-2052 (or whatever the year of death would be). A free and independent woman who loved photography. Remember her.' 

Pure Cremation must know their market, and are not wrong to suppose that winter weighs heavily on many elderly people's minds, even if not on mine. Certainly, many oldies do not enjoy good health, and fret a lot about inflicting the cost of a sudden funeral on their family, even if I don't. And certainly, the cold and dark months are the likeliest for deaths in old age. So I don't think their writing to me is in any way out of order. They can't know my state of health (pretty good), nor my circumstances (no family to worry about). 

But I do hope cremation plan letters don't become an annual event. It won't be such a merry Christmas if I'm pestered with things like this.

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ELO or not

A band I liked very much from the mid 1970s to the early 1980s was the Electric Light Orchestra, aka ELO. Originally a joint venture between Roy Wood (of Move fame) and Jeff Lynne (of Idle Race fame), it soon became solely Jeff Lynne's creature. He wrote a string of great albums and several chart hits, all using traditional orchestral instruments alongside modern electronic ones. I bought all the vinyl albums, and later on the CDs too, which enabled me to rip the music off them and have it forever on my successive digital devices, current phone included. (And not just on my phone. As many as four backups exist of my music at any one time, regularly refreshed)   

Although it evolved, ELO's sound was always very distinctive and recognisable. Each album had a theme, generally in some way other-worldly or futuristic. Speaking personally, I think ELO's output has stood the test of time quite well, not dating in the same way as (say) much of the Beatles' output has dated. I was, and remain, a Beatles fan; but they are very much tied to the 1960s scene and the social changes the 1960s brought about. On the other hand, if you want to evoke the spirit of Britain in that key decade, an era that perhaps now needs re-evaluation, who better to express it? 

But ELO wasn't fixed forever in the 1970s or 1980s. The 'ELO sound' could be adapted to other kinds of music. A striking example is Not Alone Any More, a song Jeff Lynne wrote especially for Roy Orbison when both were members of The Traveling Wilburys in the late 1980s. A masterly meld of the ELO sound in maturity with Orbison's wonderful, unique and so well-remembered nasal voice, it served as both Roy Orbison's comeback vehicle and his very last great hit. Apparently he was staggered by the welcome his appearance in the Traveling Wilburys lineup brought forth from the public, having for twenty years written himself off as irrelevant and without contemporary appeal. It led him to consider the possibility of a revived solo career - an unwise decision that quickly killed him. If you have never heard Orbison singing Not Alone Any More, do it now: it may sound like ELO in the background, but the song has the tempo of Pretty Woman and the sunset anguish of It's Over. It is so, so reminiscent of the Big O at his best. A fitting farewell recording, surely.

I lived in Southampton in the 1970s (with London within easy reach by train), and in London itself in the 1980s; but despite that, only two bands ever saw me buy tickets to see them with a friend: Brian Ferry and Roxy Music, and ELO, and only once each. That was - I think - in 1979 and 1981: I'll have to go through my old bank and credit card statements to check. I never saw another band after that. In fact, I've not gone to any kind of pop-music stage performance since 1981. Not for for over forty years. Getting married in 1983 evidently turned a fresh page for me!

But in July 2025, Jeff Lynne and a reconstituted ELO are going to give farewell performances in a few places around the country (Birmingham among them, of course), culminating in a grand final concert in London's Hyde Park. Will I get tickets and attend? 

I'm tempted. I've gone so far as to look up the price of tickets on the official ELO website. It would cost me hundreds of pounds: and with rail fare and food for the day included, the whole thing would probably leave me out of pocket by £1,000. That's way too much. Besides, my cash resources in 2025 are already committed to the big Orkney holiday, new glasses and, inevitably, further dental work.  

But then there's another thing. Do I really want to see a band led by somebody several years older than me? 

I don't think so. I want to remember ELO (and all other bands and individual artists I once so admired, even ABBA) as they once were, and not dilute or confuse that memory by seeing them as they now are. It's generally fine to celebrate the musicians and artists that one appreciated ten or even twenty years ago, because they remain much as they used to be. But forty years on? It can't possibly be the same. I have no doubt whatever that Jeff Lynne, aided by the session players and sound engineers in his stage team, would ably recreate the characteristic ELO sound, and it would be a definite Occasion, in its own way unforgettable. But I don't want a recreation. I want what I heard in 1981. Which I can play for nothing, whenever I want, on my phone-and-speaker combo. 

The wider question is whether I would ever pay to see a geriatric artist who was famous when I was young, and has not yet died. Mick Jagger and the remaining Rolling Stones, for instance. Am I being cruel? Shouldn't I, as an ageing person myself, with my own wrinkles, aches and pains, and lesser powers generally, be empathetic? And disregard what time has done to these people? After all, time has done the same thing to me. 

But I don't want to feel saddened, nor moved to tears, by seeing somebody long past their best. Nor do I want my ears making regretful comparisons with the recordings that excited me so long ago. Nor even try to be blind and deaf and deceive myself. There is a time for an artist to quit and never perform again - or at least not perform the stuff that first made them famous in the same way they did back then. 

Besides, if I'm shelling out as much as £1,000, I want proper value for money. Can a nostalgic performance, long after the glory years, ever provide that? Some might say yes; but I might easily be left feeling that the artist was merely passing round the hat, so to speak, to better fund their retirement. Speaking as a fellow old age pensioner, I rather wish I could do the same. I'll grant that Jeff Lynne has always had talent and musical ability that I do not possess, and if he can still monetise it then - of course - good luck to him. But it's perfectly reasonable for me to weigh the benefits of attending a concert against its costs (and the personal wear and tear from going there).

There is a further thing that makes me hesitate. I don't want to get scammed over buying the ticket, as can happen so easily nowadays. An experience to avoid. 

It would be just one ticket: I don't know anybody else who likes ELO and would want to come. But in any case, this would be a very personal pilgrimage, something for myself alone, referencing memories I couldn't possibly share. And it would be a photographic opportunity I'd want to make the most of. I'd want shots of the audience as much as the distant stage. It would be incredibly frustrating to stay fixed in one position, unable to move freely about. But that's probably how it would be. Sat down in one spot for many hours. My right knee wouldn't stand up to that. 

To cap it all, I hear that nowadays some indoor venues won't let you buy only one ticket. That could apply to Hyde Park too. 

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