Author Archives: Tim Lenton

In such a safety-conscious society as ours, it is surprising that anyone is ever urged to do anything dangerous.

Scarcely a week goes by, however, without someone saying that the latest change to the transport system, however weird and irritating, is good because it will get people on their bikes. Or to put it in a slightly less ambiguous way, persuade them to take up cycling.

But cycling is indisputably dangerous. This is not just my view: confirmed cyclists are always saying so, and using that argument to try to compel drivers of motorised vehicles to slow down.

The danger, however, does not come just from cars, buses and lorries. Any regular watcher of the Tour de France will be aware that cyclists are likely to come to grief as a result of road conditions or indeed because of the behaviour of other cyclists – or, sometimes, spectators.

Cycling is dangerous of itself, because it enables you to reach quite high speeds in areas whether others are going at markedly different speeds, and you have very little protection.

So why encourage people to cycle? It’s supposed to be good for your health, though it doesn’t do much for knee joints. Is it healthy to cycle through gales, storms, ice and fog? I suspect not. In every case walking is much healthier – and safer.

How can we reduce the danger? Well, cycling evangelists are inclined to show us pictures of idyllic cycling scenes in enlightened continental towns. What they rarely point out is that the cyclists we see there are not Lycra-clad Tour wannabes with helmets, gloves and video cameras, hurtling along as fast as their 20 gears can take them. They are the gentler cyclists that those of us of more advanced years remember from our schooldays, when cycling on pavements (dangerous to pedestrians then and now) was likely to result in a sharp encounter with a local bobby, an official warning or a fine.

So why encourage people to cycle? Not because it’s safe, but because it’s fun. I suggest the problems we experience with some cyclists nowadays arise because cycling has been promoted as something morally superior – something safer and cleaner. As always, those who seize the moral high ground rapidly become obnoxious, because self-righteousness is no more attractive than self-justification.

Cycling is an indulgence, but that’s fine. In everyday life it can be useful; as a sport it’s undeniably exciting. But it’s not a religion, and it’s not politics. If we view it as either, we are opening the door to conflict. Going the wrong way up a one-way street and jumping the lights at the other end.

I am a little confused about amnesties.

I know I should be writing about Jeremy Corbyn, refugees or pigs, but I think they are being more than adequately covered. Commentary on amnesties, however, is somewhat sparse at present.

My local council is keen on them. I say keen, but that may be overstating it. They are keen in a lackadaisical, intermittent sort of way.

Every now and then they emerge from a kind of dream-state and think: Wait a minute, we don’t allow people to get rid of paint, wood preservatives, weed killers, thinners, varnishes and household cleaning products at any of our tips. Strangely, they think (I am surmising here), there seems to be an increasing amount of paint, wood preservatives, weed killers, thinners, varnishes and household cleaning products dumped in the countryside. Can there be a connection?

And then they think an amnesty would be a good idea. So they arrange “weekend-long” events at remote waste disposal sites where such items can be left for free. The bold type is theirs, as if it is a huge privilege for us to travel to these remote sites and deposit items which we quite legitimately own and cannot get rid of in any other legal way.

As far as I am concerned, a proper amnesty involves pardon and forgiveness. Why do I need pardon or forgiveness for owning paint? Or household cleaning products? Isn’t it simply that the council have failed to provide a proper service for getting rid of these items and are trying to pin the blame on us?

By calling it an amnesty they are transferring guilt from themselves to us. I am sure you will agree with me that this is shocking. Free the paint owners! Give us a tip! Sign here. I would start a petition if it was not too much trouble.

I may or may not take part in a Household Hazardous Waste Amnesty event. If I do, it does not mean I am going along with this travesty. I am simply dumping paint. Or household cleaning products. Do not read anything more into it than that.

On those surprisingly frequent occasions when someone asks me what I’m doing in my retirement, I cannot help but hesitate – because what I’m mainly doing is writing poetry.

If I admit it, a glazed expression comes upon them, because poetry has unfortunate connotations to the average consumer. That’s because it’s such a catch-all word, covering anything that more or less rhymes and has shortish lines.

The subject matter in much poetry is often one-dimensional, and rarely goes beyond the descriptive. It may use flowery language, but it is rarely creative. It is often self-indulgent and only accidentally surprising.

One of my favourite poets, P J Kavanagh, who died recently, put it well: “Phoney-rustic bards / Spare us your thoughts about birds.”

But there’s a catch, because I’ve noticed that quite mediocre poetry may be well received, especially if it rhymes and contains key words, like sunset or God. And if it evokes some kind of favourable reaction in the reader or listener, doesn’t that make it good?

I’m not sure it does. A lot of unexceptional writing gets favourable reaction from some people – and makes others tear their hair out.

Maybe there should be two different words: verse and poetry. Verse is easy, harmless and can make you smile. It may be good on its own terms. Real poetry, however, is – well, I would call it magic with words.

If a poem pulls a rabbit out of a hat, saws a lady in half (and puts her together again), makes the heaviest things float in mid-air, waves a wand, surprises the audience and moves quickly enough to deceive the eye, then it has achieved something. If it simply reminds us that beautiful things are beautiful and birds are nice to look at, there is no magic.

Real poetry is an art worth cultivating. It can turn your world upside down. It contains truth and something beyond. Always something beyond. It’s what I’m always aiming at, though whether I ever achieve it is for others to say. As Leonard Cohen put it, “poetry is a verdict, not an occupation”.

When I say I’m writing poetry, “magic with words” is what I would hope might come into people’s minds. Sadly, I suspect it doesn’t.

Never trust a man who reads his poetry aloud. There is no telling what else he may be capable of.

I did not say that. Someone else did, but I have not been able to recall who it was, and my research has failed to uncover it. But it seems to me a fair point.

So there is no telling what I may be capable of, because I do read my poetry aloud – mainly in Suffolk.

I know that my home city, Norwich, is a UNESCO city of literature and has a proud heritage. But it is Suffolk poetry groups that have mainly invited me to read, and last week I found myself in Walpole Old Chapel, near Halesworth, doing just that.

In Suffolk I have read in various places: a café and a library in Halesworth, a theatre in Lowestoft and the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket. I have also read in Bantry, Ireland, and several venues – mainly large houses and the odd church – in Norfolk. But Suffolk seems to be the centre at the moment, and Walpole Old Chapel is the kind of bizarre event that you could not make up.

Each year large numbers of mainly Suffolk poets are invited to Walpole on a summer Sunday afternoon to read their “three finest poems” – a euphemistic phrase employed by the admirable organiser (and fine poet) Mike Bannister.

This year we could tell by the number of cars parked down a grassy lane opposite that many poets had flocked to the scene. This was good and bad. The bad was that with a large number of poets all reading three poems, it did not take a genius to work out that it would be a long session.

And I was on last.

The building is a poem in itself: an early nonconformist chapel preserved with all its idiosyncratic gated stalls and most of the original dust; two pulpits (of which the higher was considered too dangerous); and a gallery with creaking stairs.

The event started at just after 5pm and lasted (with a break for refreshments) until well after 8.30, with dusk turning rapidly into night. Someone found an electric light, and the last three of us managed to complete the performance. But not before a bird flew into the building and could not find its way out: so there was a counter-attraction as it flew swiftly and anxiously from one end of the ceiling to the other.

Still, despite the chill in the air and the wearying limbs, it was a privilege to be there. The bird was eventually freed to fly, and so were we. I shall undoubtedly be back in Suffolk soon. Trust me.

Since turning 70, I have been giving some thought to my lifestyle, and particularly to things that I feel are unnecessary in my sphere of existence. I am starting to make a list of things which I could definitely do without and, at the risk of upsetting people with different views, I have decided to share it with you.

I will undoubtedly add to it in the course of the next few days or weeks; so if you keep popping back you can get more and more annoyed at me. Hence the last item. Anyway, here we go. Things I would rather do without:

Entropy
Speed limits, speed cameras and speed bumps
Dogs
Caravans
Tents
Impotence
Soaps on TV or radio
Reality shows
Strictly Come Dancing
Silly sponsored events
Fun for all the family
Coathangers
Opera
Allergies
Cyclists wearing Lycra of any kind
Airports
Queues
Activists
Computer problems
Humourless advertising
Punctuation and spelling errors on signs
Unnecessary road closures
Ticket barriers
Righteous indignation
Hold-ups on the M25
Lemon curd
Liver and kidneys (to eat, that is)

There are undoubtedly more. Now here’s a list of things you could all do without, and probably will in the not too distant future:

Tim Lenton

Now that I am 70 I shall not wear purple, partly because I am not a bishop. Not yet, anyway.

However, I feel that as a first step I am now permitted to move diagonally and am hoping that this will make a significant difference to my life.

There are certain restrictions in moving diagonally, of course, in that you have to stay on the same colour squares. This does not worry me. I know my squares, and they know me.  But I shall be able to sweep backwards and forwards from one corner of the board to another, and I am excited about that, while slightly concerned about speed cameras.

While staying on squares of one colour, I shall of course pass very close to squares (not to mention horses) of a different colour, and I am hoping this will be an exhilarating experience. Blue days, black knights, for instance.

I would however like to take the opportunity to confess that I have been using drugs, and this has made quite a difference to my performance in the last few years. At one point (in hospital) I was using morphine, but I came off this after I had a nightmare in which I found myself in King’s Lynn. Now I stick to occasional paracetamol, with a dash of perindopril and amlodipine when I need them. Which, my doctor tells me, is every morning.

Obviously I cannot tell you everything, but I do take something else as well. If I reach 80, I may have to confess what it is. Some people feel that I should have random drug tests, but I am resisting this, as I believe it may affect my poetry, and this would not necessarily be a good thing.

My diagonal travels will take me from left to right and vice versa, and I am hoping this will not confuse people too much, as I have already spent time on both sides of the board, often simultaneously, though this is difficult. Some people find it impossible. Some people find me impossible, but that is a different matter.

Anyway, I shall continue to play the game and try hard to concentrate. Please tap me on the shoulder if I drift off.