One thing in particular: how did I get to my mid-twenties without knowing that it is possible to murder a plant by overwatering it? Water is the elixir of life. I did not think anything could be bad about water.
The popularity of pot plants has risen in the past decade or so. This is mocked as a hipster affectation rather than being seen for what it truly is – a relatively cheap and easy way for the masses in rental apartments to put their stamp on a place. And to make it feel homely, when tenancies are often insecure and painting the walls can result in losing thousands of pounds in a deposit.
It seems slightly uncouth for elders, sitting on property assets, to mock my generation for enjoying a spider plant in the sitting room, a baby fern in the bathroom, a cactus in the kitchen. Add to this the fact that it is scientifically proven that contact with nature and greenery (any contact – even a view) is beneficial to mental health, and the boom in pot plants is even more understandable. Pot plants have been found to increase people’s productivity by up to 15 per cent.
Did I ever think I would become a person who got excited about a weekend trip to a garden centre? Reader, I did not.
I may not have learned the scientific (i.e., Latin) names for most plants, but then I can also listen to albums all the way through and not know the titles of the songs I love. And aren’t we supposed to be living in a time of diminishing importance of labels?
As for my plant-caring skills, the turning point came when an ex-partner bought me a bonsai (I named him Yury; I don’t know why but he is definitely a he). I have managed to keep Yury going for two years, which was longer than I managed to keep the relationship alive.
THREE-MINUTE POP SONGS
I used to be a huge fan of Phil Spector. Then he was convicted of murder, which rather took the shine off things. But Spector, I’m afraid, remains for me the king of pop. Spector is the king because his ‘wall of sound’ production formula gave us the doo-wop gems of the Ronettes and the Crystals and went on to influence surf-pop unbeatables the Beach Boys.
While I’m keen on a dramatic eight-minute epic to close a rock album, a pop song should come in at between two and three minutes (as almost every track on Pet Sounds does). That’s why, when Madonna brought out a song that was four minutes long called ‘4 Minutes’ she was not as clever as she thought she was. Also, the radio edit was not four minutes. Also, it was crap.
The three-minute pop track is a legacy of the 78rpm of shellac and then vinyl records, a single side of which lasted between three and five minutes. Now, with no such restrictions, tracks can tend to bloviation. Most of the truly great bangers still come in at under three minutes. The raucous teen energy of Arctic Monkeys’ debut single ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor’, at 2 min 54 sec, is a perfect example. However, I have come to allow circa 3 min 30 sec as an acceptable length. That is because of Xenomania, the production outfit that worked with Girls Aloud throughout their career. As anybody with taste knows, Girls Aloud were the best pop group in decades. Thanks to Xenomania, they pumped out hit after hit. ‘Biology’ – which owes much to the doo-wop sound – is essentially three songs in one, all in a neat 3 min 35 sec.
The pleasure of shorter pop songs is the simple prioritising of quality over quantity. A techno masterpiece that has a five-minute intro of glitches and ear-ruining bass is right up my street; but a long running time for a pop song instantly signals dull filler effects or a lot of ‘Uh, yeah!’ interludes.
Pop songs are mini-stories and should be the audio equivalent of Raymond Carver’s finest. There is a reason radio edits last about three minutes: because that is how songs should have been born. Is it a coincidence that Abba’s ‘Waterloo’ and the Kinks’ ‘You Really Got Me’ are both under three minutes? It is not.
If you really want to show off, you could follow Queen’s example: ‘We Will Rock You’ comes in at a stupendously slender 2 min 2 sec. It leaves you wanting more, and that’s precisely what the perfect number is supposed to do. Three minutes, repeat ad infinitum.
COMPERSION
The words jealousy and envy are often used interchangeably, but they mean different things. Jealousy is when one is anxious or fearful that someone will take away what one already has – which is why we talk of jealous partners.
Envy is wanting what another has. We say we are ‘jealous’ when we see someone’s holiday pictures on Instagram, but in fact we are envious. It’s an antisocial emotion, and one we’ve all felt.
Some psychologists recognise, however, something known as ‘benign envy’: rather than stewing and wishing the downfall of those who have things or experiences we covet, we are inspired by their success to work harder and achieve the same.
Then there is something even more benign: feeling actively happy about someone else’s success, divorced from any self-interest. There’s a lot of humour to be mined in a friend squealing to another, ‘I’m so happy for you!’ but dying inside with a brought-to-the-boil feeling of: why not me?
Feeling genuine joy at another’s joy is a thing. It’s known as muditā in Buddhism. (There’s also a German term, Mitfreude, which would serve as the opposite to schadenfreude.) The fact that the former is not widely used, but the latter is well-known worldwide probably tells us something. Recently, another term has emerged, in English, for this vicarious pleasure: compersion. Meaning empathic pleasure.
Sometimes compersion is easy. I don’t want children, so if a friend announces they are pregnant, then, OK sure, I’m slightly pissed off at the thought of losing another one of my pals to nappies, but it’s not difficult for me to be genuinely happy for them. But if one is unsuccessfully trying for a baby, it would be natural to feel envious.
As adults we are meant to be better at handling jealousy and envy. Perhaps that is why I have stood beaming at so many friends’ book launches and been thrilled to attend house-warming parties at homes I could never afford. Of course, the temptation is there to lock the new owners in the bathroom and squat in it, but most of all I am happy for them. And, more importantly, I mean it.
VIDEO GAMES
As a kid, I wasn’t outside playing football or tennis, I was playing them inside on a PlayStation, or a friend’s Nintendo or X-Box. I loved video games. I used to play alone a lot, by which I mean I spent more time with an avatar of pro-skateboarder Tony Hawk than with some of my actual family members, but it was playing with friends that was the most fun.
These days people do not need friends to be in the same room for them to play video games together. Many people play online with strangers across the world. But back in the late 1990s, this, and multi-player platforms, was not a thing. Back in the late 1990s, it was all about jelly shoes, troll dolls … and the secondary controller.
Consoles came (and probably still do) with a single controller. Purposely, as it meant that consumers had to buy another. Often this meant that players had one official controller and one generic version that had been bought at half the price. There was definitely a power dynamic to who got the official controller and who got the knock-off. A visiting player knew their status; and that was the user of the unofficial controller. There’s basically no difference whatsoever, but it still seems rude.
I distinctly recall the thrill of shuffling into a cross-legged position, setting down a fizzing glass of soda, and waiting for the homescreen of a game to fire up. The arcade sounds bursting into life as characters, teams and settings are swiped across onscreen and choices made. Important choices. Choices to alter the next few hours of your life.
There was no more wholesome high than mashing the buttons of a controller, feeling its vibrations against the palms and wiggling a thumb around a joystick – all while telling your parent over your shoulder, that, no, neither of you or your friend are hungry, but thank you for asking, many, many times.
I grew out of video games, but any time I end up randomly playing them with a friend in their house, that same thrill comes back. I no longer have any talent or understand the tricks and tips that m
ake a player accomplished, but somehow semi-screaming ‘no, no, no, no’ as the car you are virtually driving skids towards the barriers of the track is exhilarating. Somehow the swagger of a computerised football player during his goal celebration translates to real life and rushes from the screen, down the wires, into your own body.
During the pandemic lockdown, I considered buying a console, but I realised that I wouldn’t find it fun enough by myself. That I longed to just muck about as a pal is half-frustrated with me being, really, really bad, and half-elated by knowing they will win. One day soon, we might even be allowed in each other’s houses, at which point, I will gladly lose all over again.
AIRPLANE MODE
I remember, because I am petty, an argument I had with an air steward years ago. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to turn your phone off while we take off,’ she said. ‘Oh, it’s on airplane mode,’ I replied. ‘Yes, but while we take off, you’ll have to turn the device off.’ ‘But it’s on … airplane mode,’ I said again. ‘This is what it’s for. This situation. That’s even … that’s the name.’ She wasn’t having it.
Being British, ‘aeroplane mode’ would be a more accurate description, but because Silicon Valley has now swallowed the Earth and we’re all just addicts being buried alive, the American ‘airplane mode’ is what most of us call the setting that prevents signal transmission, thereby disabling calls, text messages and wifi. It is the way we switch off – without actually switching off. It allows us a pause in the constant chatter of life. It is a deep breath of the analogue. It’s a small toggle that allows the brain the equivalent of kicking one’s shoes off when home and sprawling across the sofa.
Of course, having the healthy option on offer doesn’t mean we choose it. Quite often, I let the choice of airplane mode drift. I tell myself I won’t look at my phone for a little bit, but I don’t actually go the full mile and turn on airplane mode. What if there’s an urgent message (by which I mean an amusing gif)?
But the rewards when strapping oneself in, tightening the belt and committing, are sublime. Take a walk when airplane mode is on and pull your phone out every now and again to alter music choices, or snap pics, safe from news-app push notifications and missed calls. Safe from the WhatsApp discourse pinballing on to the lockscreen.
Airplane mode needs to fulfil its potential; it should not be confined to cinemas and theatres, concert halls and examination rooms. And, well, airplanes. Airplane mode needs to spread its wings and take us under them. More and more, I feel we need the protection of the natural, or the unplugged. We need to step over cables. Not via a tech-free villa in Ibiza, but with some self-discipline.
Airplane mode is one of the few things that facilitates this. It’s better than a distraction, because it shuts the jaws of the thing itself. I don’t know whose idea it was, but I’d like to shake their hand and take them for a drink – strictly no phones allowed.
A LAST-MINUTE GOAL
As a homegrown and lifelong Liverpool supporter, their extraordinary 2019/20 season was nothing short of ecstasy.* I am unfortunate enough to have been born just as our 1980s period of domination ended and so have had to suffer fierce rivals Manchester United lording it over us in the league (and overtaking us in number of league titles won) ever since. But in 2020 Liverpool finished eighteen points clear at the top of the table. The season before that, we lost the league by a single point. We had one Premier League defeat over the entire run: to Manchester City, who then went on to win the title. That game is the perfect example of the incredibly thin margins that matches, in any sport, can hinge on. Liverpool lost 2-1. A deflection off a City player went into the goal – but was judged not to have wholly crossed the line. We didn’t just lose the league by one point; we lost it by one centimetre.
It is high-octane situations such as this that make sport so thrilling. The heart leaping at the umpire’s call. The sweaty palms waiting to see which colour card a referee will brandish. But my god; nothing beats the last-minute – sometimes the last-second – winning goal. In 2012, City became champions in not just the last minute of the game, but the last minute of the entire league. The ninety-fourth minute, in fact. The jubilation for those fans!
We love sport because it takes us out of ourselves. It builds communities and forges connections. It entertains. Though it can bring us hot tears of frustration, it can also bring us immense pleasure. A millisecond of time in return for a gigantic triumph, conduited by a twenty-year-old local lad. Or perhaps a kid from the other side of the world, who honed his or her skills in rotting trainers and made it out against all the odds. What could be more soul-lifting?
The joy of a last-minute goal is a similar feeling to sliding on to a train just as the doors are closing. Or running, shoes and lungs pounding, to catch a bus – and making it. Or hitting a deadline with moments to spare. I can’t scientifically explain why this is so much more satisfying than achieving something in good time, but maybe it’s the excitement of living on the edge. And what could be more exciting than a football rippling the back of the net, when all appears lost?
* Suffice to say, the 2020/21 season I did not find ecstatic.
A CUP OF TEA
I am not sure what I’d do without tea. 70 per cent of the Earth’s surface is water; 70 per cent of my body is tea. Hook me up to a hospital drip of the stuff and I doubt I’d notice the difference.
As I write, I have a mug of it at my elbow – we keep close the things we love most. It’s an Earl Grey number, my brew of choice. This, despite previously dismissing it as having ‘very strong notes of soap’. (I may have been using a bergamot body wash around the same time I first tried it.)
It’s not just Earl Grey I enjoy. A classic builder’s is a familiar pleasure. Camomile helps me unwind in the evening. Green grew on me. I like to throw in a forest-fruit blend now and again, just to mix it up. Black with lemon I picked up from living in Russia. Sometimes I consider moving to America and three things so far have stopped me: the jaywalking laws, the dismal healthcare system, and the fact that no one there owns an electric kettle.
The best things in life – people, places, ideas or things – are adaptable. That is the thing about tea, too: it’s appropriate in many situations. The popular imagination is au fait with tea as a comforter, of course. (How do teachers of English as a second language convey that ‘I’ll stick the kettle on’ contains multitudes?) I’ve even had a policewoman make me tea in my own home.
There is also debrief tea: a round of mismatched mugs in a friend’s sunny garden, a bunch of you having stayed over after a party. There is procrastinatory tea (seven in the space of an hour). There is tea to warm you and, although you wouldn’t think it, tea to cool you down. Tea to help you think. Tea to stop you thinking. Then there is tea as a helpful marker of character. You should see some of the colours of tea I have dated.
I hold in my memory certain cups over the years as little vignettes. I could paint them. The high-poured waterfall of mint in Morocco, just as it hits the coloured glass set upon a silver tray. Steam rising from a chipped red mug set on a wall in Cumbria. A full, stone-cold cup on a certain person’s kitchen table.
But the most important tea is constantly regenerating. Because the most important tea, whichever flavour, is the first brew of the day. Aaah, it seems to say. Aaah, you repeat. The day has stretched its arms.
POLLING DAY
It cannot be said that voting is a small thing. Democracy is one of the most important things in life, up there with love and art and watching beautiful sunsets. However, there are also the minutiae of the voting process – and that is a true pleasure. The little polling card slipped through the letterbox (even though you don’t actually need it). The fact that the polling stations I have been assigned throughout my voting life have been primary schools. The short five-minute walk back into childhood, but with the responsibilities of adulthood. The tiny chairs and tables. The phonebox-sized voting booths. The teensy pencils. The small talk all day in the office, r
evolving around the question: ‘Have you voted yet?’
There is always a weird frisson of excitement on election day – a wholesome sense of doing one’s duty. I experience this even when I know the outcome is likely to go against me. It’s a strange sort of thing: everyone keeping a secret, together. A conspiracy, but out in the open. Though these days people tend not to keep their votes private or, more often, their politics are obvious. Sometimes I long for a commemorative sticker, I VOTED, like when I got my Covid vaccination.
Some colour code their outfit to the party they are voting for. Obviously, there are the politicians themselves in team-colour ties, but I am thinking more of nineteen-year-olds with red roses painted on their nails. There is the soul-boosting social media trend in recent years of #DogsAtPollingStations. Grinning dogs with blue or red or yellow rosettes. (What do dog breeds say about a person’s politics? I am convinced: something.)
There are the small acts of (slightly self-interested) kindness: people offering lifts to the elderly or those in rural areas. The texts friends send at 9.30 p.m.: ‘It’s not too late!’ The volunteers, far better citizens than me, who give up their time to work the phones and the tellers who conduct informal exit polls.
Then: the nerdiest house parties in existence. The all-nighters pulled, not in cool warehouses with exposed piping and drugs you don’t even know the names of, but sat in someone’s living room with crisps in bowls and wine in cups watching the swingometer. The flagging at 2 a.m. The second wind at 2.30 a.m. The ironic cheers that go up for the novelty candidates, dressed in costume, who win 233 votes. The three-minute interviews with newly elected MPs, trying to look statesmanlike, in front of gym basketball hoops.
The Joy of Small Things Page 7