Modern life (Part 37)
Completely by chance, the other day I found myself ruminating upon which was the exact moment at which I began “falling off the pace” of modern life.
This was against a background in which, in casual conversations over past decades, I have long used 1985 at my answer to this question because – through my answers in responding to a second periodical informal survey of people’s musical tastes conducted by my brother in 1993 – it was then I realised that, consciously or otherwise, I had given up bothering to listen to “the latest” pop music about eight years previously.
Having said that, I nevertheless came up with a new answer this week – the original movie in what became the Hollywood franchise of The Matrix (1999), starring Keanu Reeves.
It was in 2002 or perhaps 2001 that my kids both separately recommended that I go to see it because it was “the latest and hottest thing around”.
I therefore booked a ticket at my local Odeon cinema – then purchased a soft drink and a vast box of mixed sweet and ordinary popcorn at an eye-watering price – and took my place in its small-sized Screen 2 theatre in order to “take in” this highly-rated spectacle.
Dear Reader – I kid you not – it was one of the longest 136 minute periods of my life.
The visual aspects of the movie were indeed impressive, but the plot completely unfathomable. From start to finish, I couldn’t for the life of me understand what was going on, or why, and – from that perspective – the dialogue resembled nothing more than a machine-gun succession of words being spouted at random. And to no discernible effect.
I emerged into the street afterwards in a state of advanced shell-shock.
Separately this week, I have had other clashes with life as it is lived in 2021.
Regular Rusters will be aware that I am currently serving a six months driving disqualification having amassed 12 points on my licence for “unfair” speeding offences – that is to say that, for most of them, whilst I admit that I was proceeding technically at a speed in excess of the permitted limit at the time, I was however driving safely (and with due care and attention) a responsible distance behind the vehicle in front of me, and otherwise minding my own business.
I also had my 70th birthday in October.
Shortly afterwards I received a formal letter from the DVLA pointing out that I would have to re-apply for my driving licence because I had reached the age 70.
I did nothing about this at the time, figuring that – because I was disqualified from driving until February next year anyway – for the time being the matter was irrelevant.
On Tuesday, flicking through one of my boxes of “current correspondence to be dealt with”, I came across the aforementioned formal letter from the DVLA.
It occurred to me – with nothing much else on my agenda to achieve that day – I might as well ring the DVLA and just check with them that my failure to apply for a new licence (because of my disqualification) was the appropriate/correct thing to have (not) done.
That’s where I came up against UK 2021.
Having run the DVLA number given for inquiries relating to applications for driving licences, I immediately joined an automated answering system in which a lady told me, not only that my conversation might be recorded for training purposes, but also that call-traffic was intense at the moment and therefore why didn’t I try going online to the DVLA website where the answers to most queries could be found?
I declined to do this because I’d already done it, so instead I “hung on”, waiting to speak to someone. After three or four more minutes of muzak playing in the background, the same “automated” lady came on the line and suggested that – in view of the ongoing heavy call-traffic – perhaps I might like to ring off and try again later.
And then she cut me off.
I did try again later that day – three times again the day after that, and again twice yesterday – and on each occasion all that occurred was a repeat of the same rigmarole.
And that’s my beef.
All I wanted was a phone conversation with a human being, lasting perhaps a maximum of two minutes, just to check that me not applying for an “Over 70” driving licence whilst I was disqualified from driving was the right thing to do in the circumstances.
And in the great, wonderful, modern world of 2021, “the authorities” cannot even provide the means to achieve that!
Then on Thursday – in something of a rain storm – just as I was contemplating nothing more than making myself a large G & T and sitting down to watch the 6.00pm BBC Television News – my step-daughter set off to drive to see her boyfriend’s mother in the next town.
Ten minutes later she rang to announce that her car had “died” not long after reaching the main local road.
This required us organising a posse of crack car-recovery experts to deal with the problem which eventually involved another member of the family and myself “pushing” my step-daughter’s Peugeot (with her inside it steering) fully half a mile back to our home in a monsoon and near pitch-dark conditions.
No sooner had we reached said sanctuary but the world suddenly went dark. The area around where we live had suffered a sudden electricity “black-out” that lasted two hours.
Two hours of total darkness – well, bar the light provided by three moth-eaten candles – plus a complete absence of being able to make oneself even a slice of toast as fodder – feels a lot longer than 120 minutes, I can tell you!
