Spectator Life

With the summer’s Test matches over, England’s cricket coach and captain will now be wondering how to avoid our usual trouncing in Australia this winter. Normally we try to win and we get walloped. On the last three occasions we’ve ventured Down Under, Australia have either whitewashed us 5-0 or beaten us 4-0 with one game drawn. And, weather permitting, Australia don’t just win – they usually crush us by massive, embarrassing margins: an innings and 123 runs, ten wickets, 381 runs… These humiliations show that on their home turf Australia are approximately twice as good as we are. Australia often score more runs in one innings than England can manage in two. Unless we take drastic measures, that could well be the fate that awaits us this winter too.

I’m sitting in a meditation class at a yoga studio in Chicago, neon lights pulsing pink and purple while the instructor talks over a movie soundtrack. I almost can’t believe I’ve paid $30 to be here. When she runs out of scripted wisdom about mindfulness and presence, she starts ad-libbing: ‘And that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t respect yourself…’ I try to tune her out, focus on my breath, but it’s impossible. She demands our attention. I went to six classes before deciding it was a waste of time. Each week, fewer people showed up. By the sixth class, it was just me and this 40-year-old instructor. Isn’t meditation supposed to train attention through silence and stillness?

‘August for the people and their favourite islands,’ wrote W.H. Auden. My own favourite island in Britain is the Isle of Wight, even though my introduction to it was less than ideal. I was seven years old and had been sent to the island for the ritual initiation for British middle-class males of my generation: immersion in a boarding school with around 50 other pre-pubertal boys. I was, in fact, the youngest boy in the school and this was the first time I had left home. I have already written in these pages about my five years at a boarding school on the island; bizarre and bewildering rather than the hell of paedophilia and punishment described by others writing about their prep school days. But I want to convey here the curious charm of the island itself.

Honey enjoys almost superpower status. It is credited with healing viral infections, cuts, hay fever and insomnia, to name but a few of honey-curing maladies. On a regular basis, a particular honey is discovered that bodybuilders swear by, or religious leaders have considered akin to holiness. I had never been keen, considering it an overly sweet inconvenience of a food: however fancy the spoon used to dispense it, it somehow always ends up on my hands (and my hair) before it reaches the yoghurt. I have tended to stick with a very good quality dark brown sugar when in need of something to take the bitter edge off English strawberries.

Don’t get me wrong: London’s transport system is still one of the best in the world. I’d sooner have a backstreet dentist with jittery hands pry my right molar out with a rusty wrench than wait for a bus in Naples or attempt to understand the New York subway map. But that doesn’t mean Transport for London is without fault. The mere thought of the Central line during rush hour is enough to turn the sanest of commuters into a babbling, dribbling, catatonic mess.  TfL customers are dissatisfied: staff are nowhere to be seen; criminals use the Tube network like a labyrinthian tunnel system, evading prosecution at every turn; and strikes and service disruptions have driven a wedge between commuters and transport workers. But it’s not just the Tube.

You could say my unfortunate track record with pets began in the cradle. At the time of my birth my Hungarian parents had a dachshund named Herr Doktor (because of the serious expression he always wore), or Doki for short. He was very put out by my arrival, as I received much of the attention previously afforded to him, and because my fastidious mother wouldn’t allow him into the nursery. So he upped sticks and moved in with the family next door. But as Doki was unfamiliar with the terrain there, one day he darted on to their driveway at the wrong moment and was run over and killed. While I obviously wasn’t to blame for Doki’s sad demise, I did play a role in it. And in time the incident seemed to fit into a pattern in my life.

Don’t women have a bum deal? Not only do we have to bear children and make our way on the harsh plains where second-wave feminism and rampant neoliberal professionalism meet, but apparently now we must also perform ‘emotional labour’ for our husbands. Sorry: husbands and partners. This emotional labour has been christened ‘mankeeping’, the latest feminist buzzword. Dreamed up by Angelica Puzio Ferrara, a psychologist at Stanford, it describes the heavy lifting that women in heterosexual relationships do to keep ‘the family harmony alive’.  And it appears to have struck a chord. ‘Mankeeping: finally, a word to describe the emotional labour of my 38-year marriage,’ declared a recent Telegraph headline.

I’ve been having trouble with my phone recently. I noticed it particularly while in France a few weeks ago. I’d flop on the sunbed with a book and then spend half an hour scrolling through ridiculous videos online. But then I do it at home, too – go to bed early thinking ‘Ooh good, nice early night with my book’. And then I see a video of a dog jumping into a swimming pool, or a chef cooking a Japanese omelette, or someone removing blackheads from their nose, or a clip of something that might be a cake but also might be a shoe, or someone else offering an improbable DIY tip involving a clothes hanger and a jar of honey, or a video of nail art, or of an influencer promising ‘THE ONLY RECIPE FOR BANG BANG CHICKEN YOU’LL EVER NEED’, and so on and so on.

Although a historian, until very recently I have been curiously incurious about researching my own slightly peculiar family. How was it, for example, that my grandfather, originally a penniless Welsh peasant, sired a dynasty that in three generations has spread to three continents and includes a squillionaire who founded a multinational club business with 75 branches in 42 cities around the world? And on the dark side of family secrets, why did my father marry a dying woman just released from Holloway jail after killing her own child? What diseases did my immediate ancestors suffer from, and are they likely to kill me too?

Over the years, I’ve made a lot of trips up and down the highway connecting the small Massachusetts town in which I grew up to a strip mall about ten miles away. In this strip mall is a branch of Trader Joe’s, the mid-range American supermarket chain known for its serviceable range of food, decent prices and workaday packaging. I do not drive, and nor do I live in America any more. But when I am staying with my parents, I like to accompany them on their shopping trips as I find American supermarkets fascinating, if freezing. Trader Joe’s is an OK option for my parents; not great, but fine. For good meat, my mother would go elsewhere, and the same goes for fish.

‘You can always tell a proper lover of cricket’, Michael Kennedy, the great music critic, liked to say. ‘It’s whether they can appreciate a draw.’ A hit, a palpable hit. By concluding a magnificent Test series at two matches each, after India’s victory in the fifth game at the Oval, even England’s disappointed players may nod in agreement. They fell seven runs short, but nobody lost. Everybody who took part in this contest of equals should feel proud. ‘Proper’ cricket-lovers will have no doubt, for this contest was one for the annals. All five matches went into the fifth day, and India eventually prevailed by the tightest winning margin in their history after Mohammed Siraj, their leonine fast bowler, took his fifth wicket, and ninth in the match.

That it has taken its sweet time getting here cannot be denied, but, at last, it has happened. More than 70 years after the novel by Josephine Tey became an overnight sensation in 1951, a stage adaptation of The Daughter of Time has arrived in the West End. Voted the greatest crime novel of all time by the Crime Writers’ Association back in 1990, The Daughter of Time is Tey’s most unusual but brilliant detective story. It’s her most unusual because its sees her Inspector Alan Grant – the central character in five of her detective stories – solving a crime from his hospital bed while recovering from a broken leg.

Every time I’m in Switzerland, where I grew up, I find myself madly squeezing as much rubbish as I can into a garbage bag. It’s a delicate and messy task. In Switzerland, every bag of non-recyclable waste comes with a price tag – and it’s expensive. You won’t be surprised that the Swiss have perfected the art of recycling, aiming to minimise the amount that ends up in those pricey bags. The system is both simple and ruthless. Across Switzerland – except for the canton of Geneva – every household is required to use government-sanctioned bin bags for anything that can’t be recycled. They’re not your ordinary supermarket variety – these bags are sold at a premium to cover the cost of waste disposal. The less you throw away, the less you pay.

At a time when Britain feels increasingly unstitched – with families queuing at food banks and sewage drifting from rivers to seas – it’s almost impressive that anyone has the emotional energy to be annoyed by vegans. Yet we continue to provoke strong feelings, and Katie Glass gave strong voice to them in these pages last week. So allow me to be annoying again, and disagree. Katie says veganism is becoming an ‘extremist’ lifestyle. But to be vegan is, quite simply, to opt out. We choose, as consistently as possible, not to hurt, kill or exploit animals – nor to induce others to do it on our behalf. That’s it. What’s truly extreme is the cruelty that vegans refuse to be part of. More than 92 billion land animals are slaughtered for food each year.