Driving Licence Blues

Not a Lead Belly song from the 1930s. It's about that sinking feeling when you think you may have been caught - yet again! - by a speed camera. 

But first, the good news. Being over seventy, and approaching my seventy-third birthday, it was time to go through the regular process for getting a renewal driving licence. You have to do this every three years. This one would take me to 2028, when it would all happen again, and repeatedly until I eventually gave up driving, or was forced to. 

Right now it's done by self-certification. And it's all too easy to be dishonest about (for instance) how adequate one's eyesight is. So far as I know, nobody checks. As it happens, I have no reason to be in any way dishonest, but you can imagine how some elderly people with very dodgy vision, who refuse to go to an optician, might be reluctant to own up to their impediment and risk the withdrawal of their driving licence. Well, the loss of mobility if their eyesight were too poor for driving might be very awkward indeed for them. But they shouldn't become a menace on the roads, and I think the government could rightly insist on elderly applicants proving that they've had a fairly recent eye test, and that they wear any glasses found necessary.

Back to my application. You could fill in a paper form (and one was sent to me), but I could also do it online with the DVLA, via the gov.uk website. It was a longish job, not because the online application form was complex or especially lengthy, but because so much care was needed to correctly tick all the boxes. It was essential to get it completely right. 

Well, I was finally satisfied, and clicked on the 'submit' button, getting an immediate acknowledgement. Online applications are supposed to be processed inside a week, but I'd heard of long delays for paper applications, and so wasn't too hopeful for the ones made online either. But I was too pessimistic. My application was on 16th April, and the new plastic card with my picture on it came in today's post. So it took six days. I'm relieved because the DVLA asks you to snip the old licence in half and send it back. I did that at once, first class post, because I reckoned they would not release the new licence before the old one had been returned. So for a few days I was without a licence to show. And had the new one been delayed, I might have had to go off on my long holiday to Orkney and back without a driving licence. It probably wouldn't have mattered, but you never know. But now the new one is tucked away in my bag, and I need not worry.

Next, the not-so-good news. It's nearly time to renew my car insurance. I will probably get this year's quote by email from LV when travelling north next week. Last year everyone's car insurance practically doubled. I myself paid £1,041 to insure Sophie - although in addition to the general increase, my quote partly reflected a speeding offence in January 2023. To keep future insurance costs down, I have since then been paying great attention to my speed when driving, and had been expecting to hold this year's quote down as a result. 

But now the bad news. Another speeding offence looms, and it will shoot the cost up to £1,500 or more.

Incidentally, I consider myself a responsible driver, and I don't scorn speed limits. But I occasionally I exceed them by accident, or circumstances make me. The January 2023 incident was a simple error. I joined a dual carriageway (the A24 north of Worthing) from a side road, and assumed that I could drive along it at 70mph, the normal speed limit for a dual carriageway. But in fact I'd turned into a short stretch limited to 60mph, and a speed camera recorded my mistake. I went back later to check: sure enough, there were 60mph signs that I hadn't noticed. There was nothing I could do except pay the fine and accept the points. And report it to LV, who upped my premium on renewal. 

So what has happened now? Why do I think I may have been caught speeding again? Well, it was dusk, and I was on the westbound M20 in Kent, travelling home. A white car had been tailgating me, clearly wanting me to go faster, although I was doing a steady 70mph and wasn't going to be hustled. Then it changed into the inside lane and tailgated another car instead, who, like me, was driving at the maximum speed allowed. That lane became a slip road off the M20, but it was a long one, and for several hundred yards we remained in a close parallel formation, with the white car off to my left, driving aggressively and showing every sign of impatience. A potentially dangerous situation. I put on a little extra speed to get away from both of them. I saw 74mph on my speedometer. At that moment a speed camera flashed. Who had triggered it? I assumed it might be me, but we were all going at much the same speed, and the white car had been the one misbehaving.

I drove on with a sinking heart. Another speeding offence, willy-nilly.  

That was a week ago. The Kent Police have not yet been in touch. But I won't be in the clear until a fortnight has passed, and by then I'll be on my way to Scotland. 

The nightmare scenario is that a stern missive requiring a rapid response arrives while I am away on holiday, not to be seen by me until I return on 5th June; meanwhile my apparent silence has triggered unwelcome consequences. But I will ask Jackie my next-door neighbour to check my post, and email me a photo of anything sent by the Kent Police. I can then get them to put things on hold until I come home again. It will spoil the holiday though. And the insurance company will have to be told. Sigh.

UPDATE Saturday evening, 26th April. Nothing heard from the Kent Police yet. They are leaving it rather late in the day to send me a penalty notice. But if it's already on its way, I won't now see it before I depart for Orkney two mornings from now. To be on the safe side, I will definitely have to get Jackie next door to examine my post when she gets home from her own holiday. Tsk. 

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Future posts

I've been writing here since February 2009. The earliest stuff was taken down in 2018, as it didn't cover the subjects that most concerned me from 2015, when my income increased, my social life took off, and I simply did more. 

And yet by 2015 the blog's heyday was already over. I kept it going because I liked to write. But my photography (a particular interest of mine since 1965) took precedence. It was my dominant leisure activity. I built my holidays around seeing places and taking pictures. And in between those holidays I always had a camera to hand. No day passed without a crop of shots to deal with. By the end of 2022 I was taking more than 20,000 pictures a year. The time needed to process all those shots ate into my waking hours. It was - and remains - a labour of love, but photography has increasingly crowded out blogging. Nowadays publishing something here is very much a secondary activity.

So what is the future of this blog? I still want to write, and apparently I still have readers. Besides, the blog is a place (Flickr is the other) to showcase the pictures I take. I'll keep it going, but won't feel compelled to write often. Certainly not to meet some personal writing target, whether it's the number of posts per month, or how many words for each post, or whatever. It's not as if I'm paid to churn out posts. Thank goodness I have never monetised my blog, nor accepted sponsorship in any form.

I'm sure it wouldn't matter two hoots if I just stopped altogether, and took the blog down. But I know that I would still feel the need to write about the things I do or see, or affect me, at least occasionally, and this is a ready-made platform. So I'll keep the thing going. 

I maintain an ever-updated list of subjects I can write about, which I consider daily, though often without taking any action. I have to be in the mood, and not minded to get on with anything else. Putting a post together takes at least two hours if it's illustrated with pictures. At least an hour if it's all text. This is assuming that I have a good flow. Basically a morning gone, or an evening gone.

I'm becoming ever more aware than ever before that subjects need to be chosen with care, lest there is an unwelcome comeback. I well recall spats with counter-opinionated people way back, and want no more of it. Not that they can easily vent their displeasure here. I don't allow public comments, so there can be no public name-calling, vitriol-throwing or point-scoring. They can only send me a one-to-one email from my profile page, and that deprives them of an audience. Nor can they look me up on social media and fire verbal missiles at me, because I'm not on it. But adverse comment on the acts or attidude of a foreign regime might clearly hinder future travel to that country, if my words were picked up by that country's security staff.

I'm sure that any post about my personal adventures and concerns will be safe. Likewise posts about getting old, and the various impacts of climate change. But posts that are bound to trigger a poisonous reaction from the hidebound and touchy are not safe. And I think it would be silly of me, in these over-sensitive times, to have a poke at fanatics and extremists or anybody who might be able to do me direct harm. 

On the other hand, why blog at all, unless one is going to provide an interesting read? So there's a balance to be struck between expressing a definite personal sentiment and fanning the flames of some controversial debate. 

Of course, even if there are no readers, a blog can be a published personal diary of whatever caught one's attention and seemed worth taking a view on. So if all readership drops away, I will at least have maintained a public record that may outlast me - unless Google introduces rules on how frequently blog posts must be made, or begins to charge for server usage. Then I'll sign off tout suite.       

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Beards

I'd better be careful about what I say in this post. I might give offence (potentially dangerous in these hyper-sensitive times). It's about beards, those hairy growths on men's faces. And when I say 'beards' I'm including moustaches and prominent sideburns - any facial hair at all.   

More than once in recent months it has occurred to me that there are many more men around sporting beards of one kind or another than there used to be. It was once the case that you could identify a person by referring to him as 'that bearded bloke over there' and because he'd be the only one, there would be no mistake. Now, when so many men are bearded, that won't do. There are thankfully still a lot of clean-shaven men around - I don't think they are yet in a minority - but it is my perception that being clean-shaven is nowadays most likely the mark of a middle-aged man: young men have taken to beards in a big way, and surely more old men seem to go bearded than hitherto.

Assuming I'm right, why is this? 

I'm pretty certain that many (if not most) women dislike beards, whether it's untidy stubble, a carefully-trimmed creation, or a luxuriant growth in the style of Charles Darwin or the guru of your choice. The simple reason? Beards tickle if soft, and scratch if wiry. You really do not want to dance cheek to cheek with a bearded man, nor kiss him. I suspect that a high percentage of men who are unsuccessful with women are bearded, and are automatically less desirable for this simple reason. If I were ever interested in dating, a bearded man would be a non-negotiable no-no, as much as if he smoked or vaped. 

I can't be unique in my aversion to facial hair. It's a turnoff. So why do men cultivate beards? Are they quite unaware that it's not generally attractive to women? Well, I think they do know. Perhaps, then, they grow beards not primarily to win female company, but to impress other men. 

Let's see. A bearded man would presumably assert the following.

(a) Beards, whatever else you might say, are natural. They indicate the natural man, the straightforward man, the reliable man.

(b) Beards are a sign of maturity. They indicate the adult man, the serious man, the wise man (as in ancient Greek philosophers and thinkers, all with beards).  

(c) Beards are a sign of virility. Facial hair growth indicates strength, capability and potency. 

(d) Beards are a badge of authority. A bearded man is a dominant figure. He is unafraid, undaunted by problems, and likely to be noticed and obeyed. At any rate, someone not to be messed with.

(e) Being clean-shaven is to artificially maintain a childish appearance - bad for credibility, and fatal to achieving supremacy within a group. 

(f) In any case, real men should not look like girls.

I expect that I am wide of the mark on some of these things. But otherwise it's hard to see what the rationale is for having a beard. (I don't want to say that the main reason so many men wear beards is because they are too lazy to shave, or want to conform to the current fashion, or are vain)

Rebels, revolutionaries, mercenaries and mountain men: all usually bearded. Popeye shaved, but Bluto had a beard. Rapacious men generally have had beards. Vikings did. I think it's rather telling that misogynistic men like Andrew Tate are also bearded. As were may of the Proud Boys who backed President Trump when he incited his followers to storm the Capitol in Washington in January 2021. 

Against this, most of the top leaders in the world are clean-shaven. Perhaps they think a shaven face is a political asset, conveying the illusion of honesty and openness, whatever the actual facts. Certainly, a beard can hide a lot of things, including giveaway facial expressions, and I for one would trust a bearded man somewhat less than a clean-shaven man. But there's also another thing: beards add age, especially when flecked with grey. Therefore a world leader, anxious to seem young and full of vigour, needs to use that razor.

No bearded man will get my vote. Nor any of my social time. I'll be polite to him, of course. But he has to realise that his facial fungus, whether grown to bolster his standing with other men, or just an affectation, is anything but cool.

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Death in Paradise: one for those who are not afraid of something different

Two nights ago I watched - on my laptop, in the caravan - the last episode of Series 14 of Death in Paradise. It's the one in which the 'new' detective played by Don Gilet (a football-loving Londoner who for most of Series 14 has wanted to get home again) finally discovers an over-riding personal reason to stay. It's also the one in which the close-to-retirement Commissioner (played from the very beginning by Don Warrington) decides not to accept the offer of his job back after it was snatched away in a cost-cutting exercise. In both cases, the course taken is difficult, but potentially cathartic. And I for one want to see what happens in Series 15.

This is a show that (like Vera) I first watched during the coronavirus lockdowns five years ago. I was quickly hooked by the premise: the fish-out-of-water British detective suddenly plunged into a Caribbean murder investigation, and proving himself to the local force (and the formidable Commissioner). Always a British detective with an unusual personality. And the crimes also unusual, generally oddball, always baffling, and yet happening in an idyllic location - not what one expects. It has worked. And I have always found Death in Paradise well worth watching, a series to look forward to. 

Yes, the main plots seem to proceed according to a formula. You know almost to the minute when the British detective will have his moment of brilliant insight, and announce that he has the answer. I don't mind that. The solution is always intriguing, and often completely unguessable. But there are also ongoing subplots connected to the other characters, that go forward from episode to episode, and indeed series to series. These deal with the personal circumstances and development of the local officers, and to my mind supply as much interest as solving the crime. Then there is the exotic backdrop, the lush island St Marie (in real life, Guadaloupe). And in every episode, insofar as they serve the plot, glimpses of ordinary life and ordinary people on the island. 

How authentic is all this? It's hard to tell. I have never been to a Caribbean island. I'm sure the location shots are genuine enough and need little embellishment. But I can't say how real the overall picture is. So long as I treat it all as entertainment, the question of absolute authenticity may not matter too much. But I do have a yardstick for these things. The offshoot show, Beyond Paradise, has Looe in Cornwall as its Honoré, and I know Looe and its surrounding area pretty well. So I can judge somewhat.

One thing that had however become questionable about Death in Paradise was the notion of a foreign police detective officer being parachuted in. Was there no closer talent, perhaps in Jamaica? It looked uncomfortably 'colonial'. The new detective was always white, always male. Did Britain have no other kind of officer to fly out? And why always so quirky? 

Of course, the incongruous and eccentric British officer went with the premise; and there were obvious story-lines to be exploited. The officer would find himself missing his old life, but eventually liking the new, and possibly becoming romantically attached to a local (Caribbean) girl. All good stuff. But it was pleasing to see that, from the beginning, the local Caribbean personnel were not treated merely as colourful extras. Their own histories, problems, emotions and romances were revealed. Gradually, series by series, the local staff and certain other local characters became as important to the life of the show as the British detective. 

So I was pleased to see a logical development in Series 14: the detective, now played by Don Gilet, was black. Aha! For the first time the entire police department at Honoré was ethnically the same, for it turned out that the character Don Gilet was playing originated from St Marie (his murdered Mum lived there). We also found out as a cliff-hanger that he had a brother on another island, whom he will no doubt meet in Series 15. So he was in the strange position of a person hitherto alone in the world, now discovering a close relative he had never before heard of. How will that pan out? 

Standing back a bit, though, it struck me that I couldn't think of another keenly-watched primetime TV drama that featured an entirely 'Caribbean' cast. This is one of Series 14's achievements. No white face in sight, apart from the tourists. This is amazing, something to celebrate. And not just if you happen to be black. The show will resonate with any person who feels different, is in a minority of any kind, or whose life is even slightly at odds with what it means to be conventionally British. Which includes me: my life is different, and not at all conventional. And I assert my intention to remain that way. 

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I wonder if I could have your personal point of view?

Have you ever been stopped in the street by someone with a microphone, and asked to give your point of view on something topical? 

It's happened to me only once. It was in August 2016. I was at Bridgnorth, in the West Midlands. A man from the local radio station, with a microphone and some kind of professional-looking recording apparatus slung over his shoulder, was strolling along the High Street, clearly looking for people to interview. I thought about avoiding him, and walking the other way: I wasn't eager for stardom. On the other hand it was an intriguing situation. Suppose he accosted me and gave me the opportunity to speak? Would I be equal to it? Would I be able to assume a confident air, and discourse eloquently on some important issue of the day? It would certainly be a novel experience. In fact a test of coolness and quick thinking. But I wasn't sure. 

Fate intervened before I could escape. No doubt it was inevitable. Perhaps I looked exactly the right kind of educated person who could string a few words together. And if I only spouted incoherent tosh, he'd still be able to edit out anything that made no sense. It would be all right. At any rate, I was accosted. I prepared to be the ideal interviewee, a lively, good-value Person In The Street, well worth his time.  

But he totally threw me. He wanted to know what I thought about the Olympic Games then going on at Rio in Brazil.  

Poor man: of all the persons he could have stopped and interviewed, it had to be someone who took no interest whatever in sport. No, I hadn't watched any of the Games. No, I didn't know the name of any competitors, nor how they had fared. No, I couldn't care less who had won, nor what the tally of medals was. Really, I had no opinion at all about the Games. 

He saw he had made a mistake about me, but he persevered. Did I think the Games were an inspiration to young people? Yes, I supposed I did; but I couldn't go on to say why or how. Did I think it would be a matter for great national pride? I supposed so, if the British Team did well. What might it mean for the West Midlands, and Bridgnorth in particular? I couldn't say - I was here on holiday. I had no local or regional standpoint.

He couldn't get blood out of a stone, so we left it there. I was quite certain that my few words would be wiped. I didn't mind that. But as I walked away, I found I did mind his thinking that I was an idiot, oblivious to world events and current affairs - emphatically not true - or that I was snobbish or superior about the Games and what they meant. I almost blushed with shame for my indifference, for I was certain he'd have judged me to my detriment.

That feeling soon passed, obliterated by the excitement of riding down Bridgnorth's cliff lift, and then photographing from an overbridge the spectacular steamy happenings at the Severn Valley Railway's Bridgnorth station. 

But later on, I pondered what had happened. I felt a dim sense of injustice. Why should anyone pay the Olympic Games - or any other sporting event - any special attention? Did we - or specifically myself - owe the athletes anything? No. I hoped they did well for themselves, and fulfilled personal ambitions, but that was all. Was I being unpatriotic? No; not when I felt that the Games - and international sport generally, football especially - was dishonestly conducted, far too political, and a waste of national money and resources. 

My one and only radio interview, a failure, left no lasting legacy except to make me very wary of ever doing the same thing again. It's much too easy to seem foolish or ignorant when speaking on the fly. And nowadays there is the added risk that someone will find one's stumbling words objectionable, with dire trouble ensuing. No thanks.

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Custard pies and days out in Calais without a passport

Only one post in February! I have to go back to April 2009 to find a month in which I wrote so little. The constant happenings in America have distracted me. 

King Donald has been chipping away at normality every day. Clearly a man in a hurry to make big changes while he can. And all suavity and pretence have now been discarded. I was appalled to see President Zelensky spoken to so cruelly, and then hustled out of the White House, probably never to return. This very public humiliation of a visiting head of state may well show how all other leaders will be dealt with in future. Sir Keir Starmer - whom I think is proving more capable at foreign diplomacy that I'd have believed a year ago - had better expect to hear some blunt words when - or if - he next meets King Donald. Actually, such a meeting may be left to Mr Vance, who shows a clear talent for calculated viciousness and diversion from the expected agenda.

Should the state visit (King Donald meeting our King Charles) go ahead? Actually, yes: it will be interesting to see how a pretend King copes with a real one. He is bound to trip up on protocol. Besides, in the name of honesty and free expression, I'd like to see several well-timed Hollywood-style custard pies hitting King Donald in the face. It would make 'great television', and I fully expect King Donald to laugh heartily at the joke. The throwers should, of course, get either diplomatic immunity or a Royal Pardon. 

The world is realigning. I expect to hear soon that there is to be a European Alliance to succeed NATO, composed of the UK, the EU, and all other like-minded states in what is geographically Europe. It won't include America or Russia, simply because they are not 'in Europe'. To facilitate this new Alliance, and fund its own destiny, Europe will have to integrate. I think that, for Britain, this will undo much of what Brexit achieved (if it did in fact achieve anything). Back in 2016, I voted enthusiastically for Brexit, on the sole point of having our own sovereignty and the ability to go our own way. But things have now changed, and I would feel happier and safer living in something like a United States of Europe. Naturally I want Britain to be a key player in that entity. It's a second-best for 'independent sovereignty' but a chance to re-connect with the continent and get necessary things done. 

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