An important anniversary today

I had lunch today at Fields, Sidmouth's department store. Their café upstairs was packed. Why this should be so, on a cloudy, windy and rather chilly Wednesday in March wasn't clear. You'd think people would prefer to stay at home in the warm. But then most of those lunchers were obviously in their eighties, and I should think that Wednesday was their customary day to go into town, meet up, and have a light lunch before browsing in Fields or any of the many other nice shops in Sidmouth. For it really is a great place to shop, and a very congenial little town indeed. And I'm not having a go against elderly people locked into a pleasant habit, come rain or shine. I'm getting that way myself, and I'm still only seventy!

As I say, the café was packed. I was asked if I minded joining a couple at a table, if they agreed. I didn't mind one bit, and nor did they. We immediately fell into conversation. They had only just - the day before - sold their home in Sidmouth, and were now looking for a new one. Originally from Yorkshire, they had lived in various places around the country. Before Sidmouth, it had been Par in Cornwall. Next it might be Bude, also in Cornwall, an attractive Atlantic resort I loved to visit every time I came west, as it was only an hour from North Devon - but with the drawback that it was remote from the big hospitals at Plymouth or Exeter, something of concern if you were getting on in years. Also in the running was a return to Yorkshire - specifically Northallerton, an old market town at the foot of the North Yorkshire Moors. The draw there was to be close to family. I would bet on that being the chosen destination. 

So far as I could judge, both husband and wife were a little older than me, mid-seventies say, and still energetic enough for a big house move. Anyway, I felt comfortable enough to remark that most lunchers present (though by implication not me, and not them) were well into their eighties, making us distinctly young. They agreed; and shortly afterwards the husband let on that he had retired thirteen years ago, which suggested he might be seventy three. I responded by saying I'd retired eighteen years ago. Did he like retirement? Oh yes. It had taken him a couple of years to get completely used to it, but he'd never want to go back to work now. I said - by now munching through a baked potato and salad, and slurping a coffee - that I'd never missed working once I'd left, and it helped that I'd had two interests to turn to straight away, which both got me out of the house: photography (I indicated LXV) and caravanning, and I explained how I got into that. 

Afterwards I noticed an anniversary in the diary app on my phone. 22nd March 2005 - the date of the letter that told me my application for Approved Early Retirement had been successful. This had been the particular early retirement scheme that had suddenly been made available, following an announcement by the then Chancellor of the Exchequer Gordon Brown that two financial departments, the Inland Revenue (my department) and Customs & Excise, were going to merge to form HMRC. And that 12,500 staff would be surplus to requirements in the new setup, and would have to go. That was the pledge. Hence the scheme. The Labour government of the day was sure that discontent with pay and conditions, especially in the Inland Revenue, was such that the target of 12,500 early retirees would easily be met, and would probably be over-subscribed. 

This is what I said in the months after I left. It comes from an essay I wrote later in 2005 called The Pension:

When Tony Blair’s Labour government came to power in 1997 everyone wondered what the effect on the Civil Service might be. It soon became clear that the economies of the previous government were not going to be undone by New Labour. Few policies of any kind were undone. On the other hand, Labour had a mandate to improve public services. That ought at least to rule out further staff cuts. It suggested a period of stability. People continued to sit tight and watch events.  

The years went by, and it seemed that the government had embarked on a rolling programme of restructuring its departments, to eliminate unnecessary accommodation and save rents; restructuring the work, so that people worked more efficiently for the same pay; and imposing a freeze on recruitment. All this saved costs, yet preserved jobs. But inevitably costs rose and further economies were looked for. At length an announcement was made in 2004 by Gordon Brown, then the Chancellor of the Exchequer, that the Inland Revenue and HM Customs & Excise would merge in 2005. And that in consequence as many as 12,500 of their staff would be surplus to requirements, and must leave by the end of 2006. The unions were aghast. But, on reflection, how could numbers be reduced? There were to be no redundancies. If you were not going to force people to leave, you’d have to make them an offer so good that they couldn’t refuse. But how paid for? No special funding would be provided. So my opinion was (and colleagues agreed) that there couldn't be another retirement deal. We braced ourselves for less congenial measures to get rid of people, such as a programme of transfers, shifting staff around, making their working lives worse. This would encourage the required ‘natural wastage’ - people getting out to avoid inconvenient daily travel, or an unwanted change of duties.    

But then in early 2005 - completely out of the blue - an early retirement deal was suddenly offered to those over 50. Approved Early Retirement it was called. This included me. As a deal, it wasn’t universally attractive. If you were in a low grade, or had not built up many years of reckonable service, your pension would be small; and there was no lump sum unless you had stayed with the old 1970 pension scheme. I had opted for the new scheme in 2001, which gave me more pension, but no lump sum. Even so, the arithmetic came out well for me, and I immediately applied for early retirement on the basis offered.  

Another colleague, older than me, with a wife in the Revenue who would also be able to go - and both in the old pension scheme - stood to do exceptionally well out of it, and they applied too. But for others the decision was more difficult. Generally the pension would be too small for their needs. Most had family responsibilities, children still at university, or soon to go. Some male colleagues had younger wives who did not want to retire, so that they would be kicking their heels at home, with nothing in particular to do. They feared boredom. And some other people said the scheme was not nearly good enough for them; they thought that another would follow, a better deal altogether, and they preferred to wait for it. This seemed like looking a gift horse in the mouth. But belief in a succession of ever-better schemes was common. It was thought that if the government were serious about reducing staff numbers, they were bound to offer more and more in the way of inducements until they got the numbers they wanted. So it was almost foolish to accept the first deal, which was just to test the water. How wrong this view turned out to be!    

And yet it seemed obvious that any Inspector who applied stood only a slim chance of success. The staff most needed for the new HMRC were the experienced investigators, people like me in fact. Clerical staff were not needed so much, and in some areas would indeed be surplus to requirements. Clearly the cuts would fall first on the junior grades. And they were the lowest-paid, the cheapest to retire. In the light of this, people like myself - Inspectors with experience, on relatively high salaries - seemed unlikely to be released. Inspectors more senior to me especially so. The government wanted droves of clerical people to respond instead. It became known that London Region expected 1,000 applications for its area, and it published a pecking order in case the scheme were over-subscribed. I and my investigating colleagues were depressingly low down on the list. But, undaunted, we made our applications, sometimes in the face of dry comments from senior management that we were wasting our time, as we would never be allowed to go. 

It did not turn out as expected. There were 600 people in my office at Croydon, but only 18 there applied, most of them Inspectors. It was a similar picture elsewhere. The clerical people just could not afford to give up work, or did not want to.  

After a month of anxious waiting we 18 had our applications approved, amid whoops of joy. There was an immediate party atmosphere for not just a day, but for all my remaining time there. A feeling that the strain was off. Even those too young to apply, or who had refrained from applying, seemed full of goodwill and smiles. Amazed senior managers congratulated us on our wonderful luck. Even accountants (if we told them) more often than not offered their best wishes for the future, and regret at the severing of a good working relationship. I thought I detected some dark mutterings on other floors, among lower grade staff who had fallen victim to work restructuring. And I remember one accountant who made sour remarks about my wanting to shut down a case before I went, putting his client under pressure to agree to some settlement proposals. But these grumblings were not typical. On the whole we 18 were the darlings of all who knew us. Even senior managers could find comfort in losing us. Although awkward in some ways, our departure created a perfect opportunity to renegotiate targets reluctantly agreed with London Region.  

It was all a fantastic piece of good luck. Common sense told me to accept it. But I could not help feeling that, for me, the luck was not deserved. I had not been a star investigator, just someone who had stuck it out for thirty-five years, had no family to support, and could afford to apply. I had not ‘earned’ this reward. But I was making a basic mistake. Approval to retire was not a reward at all. It was just incidental to the government’s wish to reduce the staff figures. As long as somebody - anybody - accepted the deal, that wish was on its way to being fulfilled. Gordon Brown, Chancellor of the Exchequer, would have thanked me. But it would be thanks for making the government’s job easier at Question Time, not thanks for the work I did over all those years. My personal past performance, poor or perfection itself, was completely irrelevant.   

I heard in September 2005 that this particular early retirement scheme had turned out to be the only one that senior staff could freely apply for. It had been a unique chance. I didn’t feel smug at the news, just glad that I hadn’t hesitated for a minute. And glad that I hadn’t tried to be clever, or greedy, waiting for a better deal. 

So I wrote later in 2005, after months without the grind of the daily commute, and without any responsibilities at work. I wrote like this to work through a sense of having undeserved good luck. That downbeat feeling didn't last long. I soon grew to appreciate this new phase in my life. But it wouldn't be a long life unless I stayed off the couch and away from the TV, and pursued interests that would keep me on my feet. The fact that eighteen years later I remain in good health, and not too overweight, is surely some evidence that I have stuck to that intention. 

The actual retirement date was 31st May 2005, but my last working day was a week before, as I had some annual leave in hand. My last act? To sign some penalty notices on a group of companies. That done, it was down to the pub, and later a very thoughtful journey home from East Croydon station. It would have been even more thoughtful, had I had an inkling then of the events to come in the next few years, and how life would turn out, not all of it good. Still, here we are in 2023, still alive and kicking, and still able to enjoy lunch in Sidmouth (and some shopping to follow). I'm not complaining!

The date on the letter approving my retirement, 22nd March 2005, fixed the date in the month that my Civil Service Pension is due. Always on the 22nd.

Digital Photography Review bites the dust

Oh no! DPReview, one of my favourite online photography websites, is to close down on 10th April. It has been around for 25 years, and has a huge and very useful archive of photo reviews and articles. It still has clout and authority. But its ultimate owner, Amazon, has decided that, as part of its current slimming-down process - eliminating unprofitable parts of its empire - DPReview has to go. The decision was announced only a couple of hours ago. Already there have been howls of sadness and protest from website readers (and watchers of the YouTube channel). Everyone hopes that somehow the archive will be preserved, and not wiped. Or that Amazon will relent and sell it to someone else, rather than just shut it down. One or two commentators are however resigned to DPReview's disappearance, remembering other websites that were institutions but fell victim to unsentimental business economics.

I have been a follower of DPReview since discovering it in the early 2000s. Certainly, it guided me in the purchase of my Canon G6 in 2005, and every subsequent camera except my current favourite, my Leica X Vario. (DPReview didn't review that one; its launch price made it very niche) It was a reliable place to find a thorough and illuminating examination of a particular camera, and it was famous for its comprehensive tests, and carefully expressed opinions. I found DPReview's conclusions about a product realistic and balanced. This is not to say that there weren't many other good camera review websites - indeed there were - but DPReview was the complete one-stop shop, with buying guides galore, constantly updated, and a finger on all the latest industry news. 

One commentator wondered how the camera manufacturers would react. DPReview was one of their main showcases, and their sales may now suffer. And yet a DPReview 'rescued' and 'reinvented' by (say) a syndicate of camera and equipment manufacturers would lose its editorial freedom and integrity.

Well, we'll soon know what its fate will be. I personally believe that Amazon will kill it off without the slightest compunction or regret. 

Too many books

I once had an older male friend, a bachelor, called David. His hobbies included collecting antiques (especially commemorative china) and books. I knew him from mid-1985 to early 2009: twenty-four years. He was a very nice man, and I considered him as one of my best friends. 

He lived at the far end of Sussex, and from 1991, after my marriage collapsed and I was on my own, we started visiting each other once a month, making a congenial day of it. My confidence and self-esteem had taken a hit, and I was grateful to have safe, civilised and gentlemanly company to go around with. We didn't necessarily agree on everything: but we were like-minded enough to get along very harmoniously. We were both traditional grammar school products - although David's school had been Dulwich no less, which trumped my own less distinguished school in Southampton. Both of us had served in the Revenue, with old-school training, which was another background thing we shared. 

The routine was always the same. I'd drive over to him - or him to me - and after a tea or coffee we'd go out with a good lunch in mind, followed by a pleasant afternoon spent visiting somewhere interesting - a National Trust property perhaps - or browsing in antique shops and second-hand bookshops. The afternoon would include tea and cake somewhere. Then we'd go home and have further refreshment before one of us, the one making the visit, drove back. 

From the mid-1990s, another friend (M---) would usually join us. And occasionally I'd meet one or other of David's local friends. He had many interests, mostly to do with history - which chimed with me - and was treasurer of the local historical society. He was however no photographer, and was always puzzled why I took so many pictures of anything that caught my attention.

Our monthly meetups might have gone on forever. I was very sad when they came to an end. In theory we are still in touch, but he has never been able to resume the old routine. That's a pity. And more so because I have continued to visit National Trust properties, enjoy good lunches, browse in antique shops and second-hand bookshops, and refresh myself with tea and cake in the afternoons. But there it is. David must be in his eighties now, although surely still much as I remember him. 

We had a string of bookshops we might visit, mostly in East Sussex. The second-hand book trade has taken a hammering in recent years, and anyone with rent to pay must have gone under during the Covid lockdowns, unless they had established a lively online business. I suspect that some of our old browsing haunts have gone. But there are still some survivors, although it's hard to see how they manage to keep going. 

I looked in at one of these old-style second-hand bookshops recently: Camilla's Bookshop in Eastbourne. It has always claimed to house a lot of books - as many as a million - implying the best selection of old books around. That claim may well be substantially true. Certainly, it's easy to believe. 

The place has always been absolutely packed with books from floor to ceiling, at least on its ground floor. Fresh stock was clearly always arriving, left in piles with minimal sorting. Eastbourne, aka Geriatric City, remains a popular place to retire to, and when old people with hobbies die - particularly old men - their books tend to end up at a shop like this. If there was ever a rigorous system for dealing with fresh stock, and fitting it into what was already there, it had buckled twenty or more years ago, at least on the ground floor. So it was when David and I went there in the early 2000s. I don't think we ever bought anything, because the choice was overwhelming, and it was just too hard to find anything in particular. Only the upper floor was in any way easy to negotiate. Here it is in August 2005:

It wasn't a good idea to put books in piles. It made browsing hard, as only the topmost books in a pile were easy to get at. More shelves would have been a far better solution, but with fresh stock coming in all the time, managing acres of shelf space would become a huge job, requiring paid helpers with a good knowledge of the shop's subject geography, and a shop like this can't afford to employ them. 

Fast-forward fourteen years to August 2019, when I was in Eastbourne on my own.

Camilla's wasn't open at the time, but I could look in through a window. The ground floor looked stacked with books everywhere.

No doubt, somewhere among all that, were books one might yearn to possess. Perhaps the owners still catalogued every new arrival, and could say where it might be, in which pile. But the casual browser would be bewildered.

On now to 9th March this year. The ground floor was even more crowded with books. I said hello to the man behind the desk, who was completely hemmed in by stock, and carefully climbed the steps to the upper floor. That had been a place to walk around in back in 2005. But no longer. There was barely enough floor space left. 

I like second-hand bookshops, and bear no grudge whatever against this one. It's clearly an Eastbourne institution. But if I were seriously looking for a book or two on a particular topic, where would I begin? There were simply too many books there. Only the topmost or outermost volumes were at all accessible. The vast majority were not. And assuming a book I might want were visible, what would be the consequence of trying to extract it, if it were deep down in a tottering pile? Would that start an avalanche of books? Supposing I were pinned down or buried under half a ton of hardbacks? What if the shift in weight were the last straw for this old building, and the entire floor collapsed? I left well alone. 

It also occurred to me that, being elderly, or at least inclined to be clumsy, I might brush or stagger against these books and start them slithering around. That might well be the end of the place as a shop, if the upper floor became just a knee-deep sea of books, no longer in piles but strewn everywhere, and beyond the energy of the owners to tidy them up, and organise them again. Would they sue me? The thought made me nervous. I backed away and went downstairs. The chap at the half-hidden desk was in conversation with a very old man who had called by, clearly for a chat rather than to buy a book. I snuck past behind him and out into the street. 

I don't think I'll be back.

Fiona recovers from her winter in Pothole City

Fiona came back from her annual service and MOT last week. There was a lot of work to be done, and the bill was significant. She was with the Volvo dealer for eight days. This is what I paid for:

Service £355

MOT £55
Loan car for one of the eight days £20

plus

Nearside front driveshaft replaced (the clicks heard on full lock) £809
Nearside top suspension mount bearing and spring seat replaced (the creaks and groans) and a new clip for the offside driveshaft boot (leaking some grease) £373
Full wheel alignment £114
Two new front tyres £447
Rocker cover gasket replaced (it was leaking some oil) £483
New batteries for Fiona's radio-controlled 'key' £11
New rear number plate bulb £3

Total £2,662

Most of that £2,662 related to putting right the accumulated wear and tear on her front suspension, steering and transmission, all of which had taken a terrible punishment for a long time from the awful roads in my part of Sussex. This winter's bumps, cracks and potholes were the last straw! I had worrying creaks, groans and clicking noises, plus disturbing front tyre wear. If I wanted Fiona to carry on to 2030 fully roadworthy, and still completely safe to use for towing a caravan, then I had to get these defects seen to. I'd already, in recent months, spent money on:

Replacement front-to rear propshaft £1,624
Replacement steering track rod ends £324

And now this latest list of things as well. But I gave the go-ahead cheerfully. I knew it all had to be dealt with, and I had the necessary money put by. 

I've spent the last week and a half assessing the result. And I think I can say, hand on heart, that Fiona's creaks, groans and clicks have been fully addressed. She is now much quieter, feels tighter, and her handling and ride are as good as I remember them three or four years ago - say as much as 50,000 miles back. It's such a relief. 

I will definitely keep her going now until forced to buy a new car. She still looks good, inside and out. The posh interior hasn't become grubby with long use, although I'm tempted to pay for a proper professional valeting (it'll be Fiona's first) sometime in 2023, partly as a reward for my faithful friend, partly to cosset my passengers.  

Of course, I'm expecting all sorts of things, major and minor, to give trouble and require replacement in the time ahead. My car has, after all, covered over 184,000 miles already; and at 15,000 miles a year will surely now go to at least 275,000 miles during the next half dozen years. Volvos are known for their longevity and high mileages, so I'm confident I can run my car until diesel fuel becomes inconveniently hard to find, and unreasonably expensive. It wouldn't surprise me, however, if I have to shell out £2,000 or so in replacement parts every year from now on. But then, when I consider what I'd have to pay to have a new car of the same size, power, and comfort, the cost of keeping Fiona in fine fettle looks cheap.  

The Movie Theatre

Is it possible to squeeze a third post out of my TV woes? Of course. But once done, I'm putting the subject to bed. There are other things I want to write about.

My parents' Samsung TV was bought in 2008. It was a good set then, and still looked good. It was 'digital' and 'wide-screen', one of the early 'panel TVs' (though nowhere near as thin as modern panels), with a nice picture and good sound. But techwise it was long obsolete by 2023. Its picture wasn't even 'HD', let alone 4K or better, and it had old-fashioned connections, such as SCART. However, it had been working fine with its original setup - terrestrial aerial and Sky Box - and was amply good enough for my undemanding purposes. 

But without a signal from somewhere, it was useless as a TV.  

The terrestrial signal from the ancient aerial attached to the chimney had always been poor, even if boosted, and in recent years had become unreliable. Now, in 2023, I was getting nothing with it. 

The signal from the Sky dish had been perfect, and had became my go-to alternative, albeit with the rigmarole of using another remote control, and having to wade through the TV Guide pages to find a particular channel to watch. But now, with the Sky Box kaput from the local electricity supply outages and surges, I had nothing from that source either. I hadn't been subscribed to Sky since 2009, so couldn't elicit their help.

As they now served no purpose, and wanting anyway to change the appearance of my lounge, I'd put the TV, Sky Box and my DVD player out into the garage. They looked forlorn there.

I was especially sad for the DVD player. This was an old player, but hadn't been Mum and Dad's. Theirs had stopped working in 2021. This one, almost identical, had been donated to me my Coline, one of my friends in Scotland. Like my parents' Samsung TV, it had worked fine. Nevertheless, it used a SCART connector, and couldn't be used with a modern TV. I wasn't happy, having to junk her player along with my parents' TV. 

And then I wondered: could I repurpose the old TV as a dedicated screen for Coline's DVD player? And if so, where to put it? I wouldn't want such a thing in my now-spacious lounge. It wouldn't be used often enough to justify returning there. But in my study, now? I could rearrange things to make space, and I already had a reclining chair in there, the twin of the one in my lounge, from which to watch movies in comfort. I could create a kind of Movie Theatre. It was worth an experiment.

So I brought TV and DVD player back into the house, along with their remote controls and instruction booklets, and set them up in my study on the old TV stand, connected to nothing but each other. This arrangement gave me a place to store my photo scanner when not in use, on the bottom shelf of the stand.

It made my study look a bit more cluttered with stuff, but as the place was already bursting with books, maps, and files for paper records, it wasn't especially offensive to the eye. 

This was my DVD-viewing chair.

I'd had to reposition the table, but that was OK. The cable trailing on the floor was to provide power to the scanner, bottom left on the table, and wouldn't ordinarily be there. 

Right. TV and player plugged in and fired up. An old movie in the DVD tray. Ready to go, then. Would it all work? 

Aha! We have lift-off.

Excellent! The TV rides again! 

I now had a proper movie-watching setup in my study, for one person anyway. I thought it might now be worth buying more DVDs to add to my collection, some box sets maybe, and have a Movie Night more often than before.

Meanwhile, I could enjoy a decluttered lounge. Gosh, it seemed so large, now that the TV and its stand were in the study. (They had been right centre in the shot below)

And was it really viable to view selected TV programmes at home on my laptop? It was! Connecting to my phone, I streamed an episode of Bangers and Cash on the Yesterday channel, and watched it for an hour with the laptop perched on the tray I used for my evening meal, itself resting on a little table. It didn't make much of a dent in my phone's 160GB data allowance, and I ran out of buffer space - the picture momentarily freezing - only once, during the opening credits.

Well, this was fine for one person. A decent picture (about 3K) and good-enough sound. It wouldn't do if another person were around and wanted to watch with me. Or if I ever changed my habits, and began to watch a lot of programmes every night. But, for now, a great no-extra-cost solution.

I've put a string of freeview TV apps onto my laptop desktop: YouTube, All 4, ITVX, UKTV Play and (of course) the BBC iPlayer. Top left corner.

As you can see, two-thirds of the desktop is devoted to photo folders, where my shots go pending processing, filing, publishing or distribution. And relentless evening photo work is likely to crowd out any opportunity of watching TV programmes while on holiday - or indeed when I return home - unless I make a conscious effort to make the time for it. That's the thing really. A big expansion in photo work since I've been on my own (the last thirteen or so years) has weaned me off television. I don't think that's going to get reversed.

An odd sense of freedom

Following on from yesterday's post about junking my old TV, Sky Box and DVD player with no immediate intention of replacing them, and some regret for the passing of part of my parents' life, I have woken this morning with an odd but uplifting sense of freedom. 

I am now that much less encumbered with bulky tech gadgetry. Not that I am by any means anti-tech; but I prefer neat, sleek, unobtrusive things; they mustn't dominate the room I use them in, and take it over. The discarded items now in the garage had done that. My 'lounge' had become 'The TV Room', even if the TV itself wasn't regularly used. 

Now the room has reverted to being A Spacious Living Area, with quite different usage possibilities. I haven't filled the spot on the carpet where the TV stand stood: I'm letting my eyes enjoy the emptiness there, which will be a novelty for days to come. But I have already moved some furniture around. And, more significantly, Dad's old green throne of an armchair - now my throne - has been re-angled. It no longer needs to face the TV stand. Now it can face the settee instead, making it easier for me to converse with anyone sitting there. I don't have to turn my head or sit awkwardly. A victory for human communication! And with my throne re-angled, I now have a direct line of sight diagonally across the lounge, through the door into the hall, and onwards into my bedroom and to one of the front windows, through which - at this very moment - the soft morning sun is streaming. This new view gives me the impression that the dimensions of my little home are actually quite large. It's a nice illusion. 

So I have more physical space. Equally important is mental space. The old TV was a daily reproach. The blank screen had said 'If you don't switch me on, how will you keep up with the latest programmes that people are talking about?' But I didn't want the world tumbling into my peaceful home. I didn't want my eyes taken prisoner, nor my brain lulled by quiz and comedy shows, or worried unnecessarily by dispiriting scenes on the news. Now it can't happen. I do want to keep up to date, and well-informed, but I can accomplish that with the quite different media of the radio, the BBC News website, and the Internet generally. 

Happy days.