Spectator Life

A year or so ago my mum, 90, took her cat to the vet. She left an hour later, relieved of nearly £800. Her aged cat it appeared needed tests, a scan and various medicines. My mum lives in a poor area of London and is on a state pension. She has little spare money, but she loves that cat and when a vet says he needs tests, who was she to say no? Most of the other people using that vet are in similar circumstances. I was outraged so rang the HQ of the firm and got through to the medical director who told me he made no apologies for his company offering a ‘Rolls-Royce service’. I wonder in what world do regular moggies need an annual checkup? And there we have the problem with vets. Across the country, sole-trader vets have been swallowed up by a number of very big firms.

Street robbery has become an epidemic. Horrible thugs are stealing luxury watches and jewellery in broad daylight. The number of luxury watches stolen almost doubled in England and Wales between 2015 and 2022 – with 25,802 stolen in 2022. The problem is particularly bad in London, where the Metropolitan Police have set up a special unit to tackle the problem. Even the greediest thief isn’t about to strip your suit off your back It's an unforgivable crime. Lock the muggers up and throw away the key. Of course people should be free to walk the streets, decked in gold and silver. Oh for the legendary days of medieval England when you could supposedly leave a bag of coins nailed to a tree for a year and no one would steal it.

I recently had the pleasure of spending some time with my two teenage grandsons, who live in Dorset – 16-year-old Dylan and Isaac, who is 14. Listening to them chatting with their friends, I slowly realised that, half the time, I hadn’t a clue what they were on about. Peculiar words I’d never heard before peppered their ‘convos’. What, I wondered, could be the definitions of ‘leng’ and ‘peng’? What was the meaning behind the mysterious expression ‘SN’? And why did they sometimes exclaim: ‘That’s beg!’ As is the way of the world, a whole new slang vocabulary has been created by their Gen Z. Ah, the groovy bygone days so fondly remembered by us hip Baby Boomers This was, of course, a case of history repeating itself.

My annus horribilis was 1992. I was in fifth grade (aged ten) and had impulsively cut my hair short over the summer. I turned up to school with auburn ringlets billowing out and up from my head in a wavy sphere. Boy did it get the boys going: constant insults, including ‘Ronald McDonald’ (McDonalds’ clown mascot, known for his garish red hair), and heckling with the curiously racist insult ‘electric Afro woman’, shortened to ‘Zofro’. There was no laughing this off: it was a barrage, which came with volleys of burrs thrown at my hair and other projectiles. Only physical violence, months in, quietened it down: I had to kick a shrimpy but tenacious tormenter to the floor of the school bus. Have I ever brushed my hair? Ever washed it?

Defeat stares me in the face every time I walk down my north London street. Decorating the knocker of a house a few doors along is a blue rosette announcing it’s home to the winners of the street dog show. Whenever I go past with my cockapoo Honey, she is nonchalant, barely bothering to stop for a sniff of the doorstep. I, on the other hand, am still seething – because until that sunny day almost two years ago, Honey had been undefeated. She was a champion, if not at Crufts, at least on the local dog show circuit where she has racked up certificates, rosettes and vast supplies of free dog chews, in everywhere from Hampstead Heath to Crouch End. Honey had seen off countless rivals, from cavapoos to bichon frisés, huskies to sausage dogs.

It’s generally considered sensible for adults of sound mind to make a will. Many don’t bother. It’s a nuisance. They’ve scribbled their straightforward wishes in a letter at home. They think they’re too young. They’ve told a confidant their final wishes. Or they believe they have nothing to leave, or make assumptions about who’ll automatically inherit their estate, rendering a will unnecessary. It’s not easy to convince a court to deviate from someone’s written last wishes The topic of making a will is sometimes taboo. But given humans’ mortality, even those with modest means and no family would be wise to write a will, if only to take control of what will become of their physical body or of where particular treasured possessions should go.

More proof, if it were needed, of the gastronomic generation gap. It seems one in ten young persons has never had a full English/Irish/whatever cooked breakfast and one in five only has it once a year. They are, of course, missing out on one of the pleasures of life. The cooked breakfast and afternoon tea are, with pudding, the great contribution of these islands to food. As to what constitutes a good breakfast, I refer you to what I consider the perfect cookery book: The Cookery Year, published by the Reader’s Digest in the 1970s. There, Theodora Fitzgibbon, a wonderful Irish food writer, briskly summarises it thus: Porridge or cornflakes may be followed by fried bacon and eggs, with sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms.

To understand Sadiq Khan’s tenure as Mayor of London, you need only ride one of his buses. Eight years of repeating that he is the ‘proud son of a bus driver’ have not yielded a single improvement to the experience of travelling by the famous red bus. In fact, many things are worse.  she suggested I couldn’t have lived in London for very long and then burst into tears Tap your card and find your way to one of few seats unsullied by chicken bones, unfinished soft drinks and disposed of vapes. Sit down and endure the tinny sounds your fellow passengers deem acceptable to broadcast from their handheld portals to hell. Request that they use headphones and risk being stabbed. Even if you can avoid all this, you can’t escape being infantilised by the recorded announcements.

Not everyone likes The Beatles. That said, trashing cultural icons is a modern phenomenon amplified by social media and done, largely, to attract attention. Yet whether you hate them or love them (yeah, yeah, yeah), their influence on pretty much everything pop music has offered since is, surely, undeniable. Sixty years ago they left an indelible imprint on both music and film that continues to this day. In April 1964, John Lennon and Paul McCartney sat down in a hotel room and wrote a song to accompany the title of the band’s first (and best) feature film, ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. The song itself is typical of their early output. A sugary song about love, less than three minutes long yet its significance cannot be underestimated.

An exhibition dedicated to 20th century British crime fiction has opened at Cambridge University Library. The artefacts on show range widely through the history of the genre, from items associated Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins and Conan Doyle right up to modern exponents of the form, Val McDermid and Ian Rankin.  Lurking somewhere in many of us is the awful capacity to commit the worst of crimes What’s surprising about the exhibition in a way is that it’s so relatively unusual – when, after all, was the last time you heard of a show dedicated to crime fiction? It remains the biggest seller by genre and continues to inspire some of the most popular television and film.

Lonely children often grow up to be lonely, not to mention anxious and depressed. In one study, after factoring in profession, parenting style and relationship, sleep patterns, and dietary habits, only children were more likely to display symptoms associated with anxiety and depression than those with siblings. One, it seems, really is the loneliest number. Friendships come and go, and chances are our parents will leave this earth long before we do but, through it all, siblings are there by our sides The western world is already consumed by a loneliness epidemic. Our falling birth rate and the rise in single-child households likely makes this worse.

When I was a teenager, my grandmother would pick me up from school every week and drive me to the orthodontist, the aptly-named Mrs Crabbe, so she could stick more pieces of metal in my mouth, tighten something up, or twist some new jazzily-coloured elastic bands onto the brackets glued onto my teeth in a vain attempt to distract onlookers from the horror that was my metal-adorned smile.  Don’t expect me to be able to talk properly, and be prepared to be spat at A buck-toothed child, with overly large teeth for my mouth, I had years of orthodontic work, from the age of about 12 until I was 16 or 17, at which point the braces came off and suddenly I was able to smile with my mouth open – a total revelation.