A light bulb moment

How do you review a vacuum cleaner filter and a light bulb?

I recently purchased a filter for my vacuum cleaner and some LED light bulbs from an online retailer. I’ve just received an email inviting me to review my products. What on earth do you say about a light bulb, let alone a vacuum filter? It does what it’s supposed to do. Ergo, I am satisfied. I am not averse to customer reviews. Indeed, when purchasing a new smart box for my TV I was considerably influenced by them. My previous device, which served me well for three years, had finally died – not bad going considering I bought the cheapest available at the time with no consideration for the competition or feedback from other purchasers. This time the market was much more crowded and much more confusing. Google TV didn’t exist three years ago for a start. This being an unplanned purchase and finances being tight, I was keen to spend as little as possible. However, the consistency of poor reviews for the cheaper devices led me to spend a bit more on a version with uniformly good reviews. I may be on a budget, but I don’t believe in false economies and I want value for money.

This all makes sense, and the democratisation of product marketing through customer reviews is to be welcomed. In my review of the device, I mentioned that Google TV does not support the BBC Sounds app. I can access the BBC stations and podcasts I want via other apps, so it’s not a deal breaker, only a minor disappointment. But it might matter to someone else. I would probably still have bought the device anyhow, but I wish I’d known in advance. I might have reconsidered Google TV. But it does not make sense to review a light bulb. Possibly there is a difference in the total lifespan of a well-known brand vs. a cheaper, no-name alternative. But this will not be apparent within a week of purchase. The filter for my vacuum cleaner is even more of a commodity. It does what it does until it needs replacing. End of story.

I’m all in favour of the consumer revolution. We should not have the wool pulled over our eyes by clever copywriters and inflated claims. But most of us have better things to do than review a light bulb, and missing out on loyalty benefits because we don’t engage with such pointless requests (not always the case but it does happen, e.g. your review enters you into a prize draw) is just another form of corporate tyranny. The real purpose of these reviews is not to help other customer but to provide fodder for big data. The more information you give away about yourself, the more of your privacy you forego.

Think about that the next time you are asked to review a light bulb (or any other commodity item you have purchased).

Optical illusion

Can we please stop using "optics" when we mean "appearance"?

A former colleague used to call me, affectionately, the “pedantosaurus”. While I objected to the implication that I was a very old creature, I embraced the sobriquet because I am a proud pedant, at least where the English language is concerned. However, given that “pedantic” is generally used pejoratively, denoting an obsession with “formal rules and small details that are not important”, I prefer “purist”. I believe the rules and details of English grammar, usage, punctuation and spelling ARE important. English is an incredibly rich language, with its mixed-race heritage of predominantly Latinate and Germanic tongues but other influences such as Old Norse and Celtic thrown into the mix as well. English is considered to have one of the largest vocabularies of Western languages, as a result of its varied linguistic history and the number of words borrowed from other languages.

As English speakers, we have so many words at our disposal. We have synonyms that mean nearly the same thing except for a shade of difference, where other languages have to make do with a single word. Think of “use” (to put something to a particular purpose) and “utilise” (to use something in an effective way, often meaning to use something for a different purpose than originally intended). Why, then, do we hijack words and use them in a way that has nothing to do with their meaning? Don’t get me wrong. Language is a living thing and it is constantly evolving. We don’t speak the way the Victorians did and even less like the Elizabethans did. English has become much more informal even over the last 50 years. And young people will always adopt idiomatic terms that seem to contradict dictionary definitions (e.g., “sick” to mean “cool”; indeed “cool” in the modern sense was only introduced in the 1930s and initially identified the speaker as counter-culture). But, although “cool” is an exception, idioms come and go. When my kids were teenagers, “rad” was part of their vocabulary (made popular by Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). The word has not entirely fallen out of use, but its heyday has passed. This is part of the texture of the language. I’d have to be a linguistic Luddite and totally lacking in imagination to object to these types of metamorphoses.

No, my objection concerns the contrived misuse of a word by people who use language professionally – journalists and broadcasters – in an effort to sound enlightened. Specifically, my bile rises every time I hear the word “optics” used out of context, which seems to happen a lot these days. I first came across it in a podcast in August, referring to a situation that happened on a particular stage of the cycle race, La Vuelta a España. Then I started hearing it on the BBC. Then, this morning no less, in The Guardian…

The journalist writes: “Yet another advert for an anti-bloating health supplement has popped up on my Instagram feed. Like many others, it shows a skinny young woman furrowing her brow while patting her distended midriff. The intended optics seem to be that a subscription to this tastefully packaged product would restore one’s ability to wear a crop top and leggings without cause to frown.”

“Optics” means: 1. Of, relating to or connected with the eye or with the process of vision. 2. The branch of physics that deals with the properties and phenomena of visible light (and by extension other forms of electromagnetic radiation). 3. The study of light and of instruments using light.

What the author of the above text means is the intended impression the audience is meant to glean is that a subscription to the product in question will do as indicated. Or she might say that the appearance or the message is that…etc. Physics, light, and the anatomy of the eye do not come into it! Because, pedant or purist, I know my opinion is just that – an opinion, I did a bit of digging in an attempt to understand the derivation of this seemingly bizarre application of the word. And I found:

US informal

The public's opinion and understanding of a situation after seeing it as the media shows it, and the possible political effects of this:

The political optics of this are horrible for the GOP.

Use of optics in this sense seems to date to the late noughties, in the sphere of private equity in the US, from a blog. So an informal, probably off-the-cuff, possibly tongue-in-cheek use of a word by a blogger on the other side of the Atlantic – note, not even a journalist, i.e., a professional writer – has become part of the lexicon of the BBC and the quality press. Of this I despair.

The BBC accent, also known as “Received Pronunciation” or RP, is long gone, even if the UK is nowhere near the “classless society” to which John Major aspired. But we still expect our institutions to play a role in upholding certain standards of English. Newspapers produce style guides to ensure their journalists follow a consistent style when writing content. The style guide does not mask or obscure the views and personalities of the individual writers; rather it ensures the publication is cohesive and its values are clear. The BBC also has a style guide, which provides guidelines on aspects of writing, including terminology.

With everything going on in the world today, worrying about the improper use of a word may seem trite or even self-indulgent. But there is more at stake than mere pedantry. Language is the most important tool we have with which to communicate clearly and effectively. Body language can be interpreted in multiple ways. Actions can be misunderstood. Our gift as humans is the ability to explain ourselves, to ask questions, to “convey what it is to be human”, to quote linguist David Peterson in his TED talk, “Why language is humanity’s greatest invention”. When the tragedy unfolding in Gaza finally ends, the two sides are going to have to talk to each other. Communication becomes even more important – and more difficult – when the communicators have diametrically opposing views. If they are speaking through interpreters or using a second or third language of their own, the challenge intensifies. Words have definitions for a reason – so we have a shared sense of what we are saying and hearing. Even when we know the words, we don’t always understand the meaning of the discourse. How much more room for error is introduced when our terminology is sloppy and inaccurate?

I know many will disagree with me. And that’s fine. The ability to disagree agreeably is a good thing. Language lets us do that. But I stand my ground on this. “Optics” does not mean “impression” or “message” or “appearance”. Can we please do away with this optical illusion now.

I get to write this blog post

How the shift from one little word to another can change your entire outlook

There is a school of thought that suggests that those who keep a gratitude journal…or in some way express gratitude daily…are happier than those who do not. How “they” collect this data is a bit of a mystery to me, and I’m not sure it stands up to scientific scrutiny. But it makes sense. I recently read a thought piece by Oliver Burkeman, an author who writes about the psychology of time management and happiness, in which he expounded upon the attitudinal shift that occurs when we move from telling ourselves “I have to…[do this, go there, etc.]” to “I get to…”

I’ve tried it with some of my activities that I, deep down, enjoy, but which always loom over me as an obligation. One example is my weekly swim. Now I love swimming. I was a competitive swimmer in my youth and I’m a water baby. The sight of an empty swimming pool makes my heart leap, and I can’t wait to dive in. I swim 2500 metres every Friday – that’s 100 laps in my local 25-metre pool, or 50 on the rare occasion I get to swim in an Olympic pool. As soon as I’m in the water, I’m happy. I swim up and down, up and down, a flip turn at each end, and it’s a form of meditation. Because of the need to keep track of my laps, I can’t let my mind wander too far, or I lose count. So I may use the time to think about things, but never too deeply. After my swim I have a 15-minute sauna. The whole experience is a highlight of my week. I never fail to be glad I’ve gone. Why, then, is there a little niggle in my mind every Friday morning: “I don’t feel like swimming today”? Why do I procrastinate and get to the pool a little bit later than I would ideally like? Is it because I am so disciplined that this has become something I have to do, another duty to perform?

So I decided to test out Oliver Burkeman’s hypothesis, and told myself, the last couple of Fridays, “Today I get to go swimming.” As I arrived at the gym, I looked at the pool shimmering in the sunshine and said, “I get to swim in that. I get to spend the next hour moving my body and not worrying about anything else.” And that led to a sense of gratitude (unintended) that “I get to do this, because I’m able to, physically, and because I’m self-employed so I can choose to take every Friday afternoon off.” Lots of people don’t get to do this.

I had the same thought on my bicycle yesterday, climbing a hill into a fierce wind – not my ideal conditions. I had of course chosen to go cycling and it’s something I love, but there are times when I (and all cyclists, if they’re honest) wonder what on earth I’m doing! I reminded myself that I get to do this. I can afford the equipment. I am healthy and strong. I have agency to choose how I spend my Sunday morning. Somehow this mindset transforms the whole experience. No longer do I “have to get up that hill”. Rather, I get to ride my bike up that hill and savour the view from the top.

When I woke, as I often do, at 4.00 am this morning, I tried the same thought. Rather than, “I have to go back to sleep” (or I’ll be exhausted tomorrow, etc.), I told myself, “I get to go back to sleep for another two hours,” as if that were a privilege. Did it help? I’m not sure, because then I lay there thinking about writing this post! But I did go back to sleep eventually.

There are many things in my life that aren’t perfect – as I’m sure there are in yours. It’s easy to wallow in the negatives. And comparing ourselves to “those less fortunate” may be worthy but it’s not helpful. We all live in our own realities. We have to get through each day of our own lives. If you’re having money worries, it doesn’t actually help to remind yourself that some people don’t have enough to eat. That’s unfortunate, but it doesn’t change the fact that you have your own financial crisis, even if you have food on the table. But I find that thinking of my challenges, my obligations, or even just my daily grind, as things I “get to” do, rather than “have to” do, really does change how I feel about life. Unwittingly, it brings a sense of gratitude and a renewed appreciation for the choices I have made and their consequences. It’s also a useful values clarification exercise. If I say, “I get to do x”, and my internal response is, “yes but I still really don’t want to”, then is it something I should be doing? I may have no choice. If I have committed to deliver something to a client, I have a professional obligation to complete it. But maybe next time I won’t take on that task. Or I will remind myself that at least I get to earn a living from it.

Try it. Let me know how you get on.

In acknowledgement of and with thanks to Oliver Burkeman.

I'm researching a book. Will you help me?

Twenty years ago, I had the pleasure of attending an audience with one of my favourite actors, Malcolm McDowell, at the Edinburgh TV Festival. The venue was the Traverse Theatre, a new writing theatre distinguished by its transverse staging – the audience is seated either side of a central stage,  with seats rising from stage level. Sitting in the front row, I was only a few metres from the hero of my youth – Alex in A Clockwork Orange and Mick Travis in O Lucky Man! How beautiful the young Malcolm McDowell was! Though no longer in the first flush of youth, at age 60 he was a handsome man. Today, age 80, he is still a handsome man. He gave a two-hour monologue on his work with Lindsay Anderson, and the talk was peppered with anecdotes and recollections of the great director’s quirks and predilections and their tempestuous but highly creative relationship. But one sentence has stuck in my mind to this day: “I look in the mirror, and I wonder who that old man staring back at me is.” I was 44 at the time and very much in my prime. More than 10 years divorced, I had a successful career and was a very attractive woman. I wouldn’t have said that then, but I can say it now, because hindsight is a wonderful thing and because, now over 60, I am invisible. No one would describe me as attractive now. If only I’d appreciated what I had. But I knew I had pulling power. I could pretty much walk into a room and decide who I wanted to sleep with and make it happen. (I sincerely hope my children are not reading this!) I did not consider myself attractive, but I knew I had sex appeal to men. As a regular gym goer and runner, I was fit. I was in my 40s but regularly mistaken for 10 years younger. My children were in their teens, which always shocked new acquaintances to learn. Ageing? Not me. I chuckled at Malcolm McDowell’s remark but it had no meaning for me.

It has stayed with me because that is exactly how I feel now. Who is that old woman in the mirror? She is not me. I don’t have lines around my mouth, sagging upper arm skin, and jowls. Who is she? Now it’s time for some full disclosure: I am still fit. I cycle 150-200 kilometres every week. I swim 2500 metres once a week. I practise yoga faithfully and can stand on my head for five minutes or more and do the splits. The only reason I can’t do a handstand anymore is because of a plate in my elbow, the result of a cycling injury, not because I am no longer physically able (I can still do it if someone supports me so my elbow doesn’t collapse). I am blessed with genes that mean that, even at 64, I have minimal grey hair. And people still think I look younger than I am. But, in spite of this, I hate what age has done – is doing – to me. I hate my face. I hate my body. I hate the fact that I struggle to keep up with the group I cycle with, even though they are mostly male and all younger than I am. One woman is exactly half my age. She is a stronger cyclist than I am, and so she should be! If, at 32, she couldn’t outpace a 64-year-old, she’s the one who should be concerned, not me! But rational understanding doesn’t preclude the emotional reaction I feel, the sense of inadequacy and decline.

No one talks about this. Ageing has become the darling of the media lately. The press is full of articles about ageing well, about people who have made a new start after 60, about what to eat and how to behave to live to 100. There are self-help books about how to enjoy retirement. The cover usually features an attractive, well-coiffed grey-haired couple striding purposefully together on a country path, enjoying a drink in a perfectly manicured garden, or lifting a (smiling and well-behaved) grandchild in the air. News coverage of elderly people struggling to make ends meet and living in one room in the winter because that’s all they can afford to heat tends to focus on the failure of government or society to “look after our old people”. Where, in either of these tropes, is the voice of ageing? What does it feel like?

There is a lot of advice available on how to age well (spoiler alert – start 30 years ago, both in terms of financial planning and a healthy lifestyle). There is more acknowledgement and acceptance of the fact that the post-career stage of life should be fulfilling and rewarding, and not simply a waiting room for death. And this is to be welcomed. Older people should not be seen as a burden – either on society or their families – nor as a free childminding service. Retirement should be a time when life can be savoured, interests can be pursued, and a lifetime of working can be cast aside and one’s time is one’s own. But…no one talks about what ageing feels like. This is the elephant in the room. Much is made of the happiness curve: supposedly from the time we are adults we become gradually less happy, and the trough is in the 40s (definitely NOT my experience – my 40s were unequivocally my happiest decade). Then as we settle into our 50s, levels of contentment take off again and by our 60s, we’ve never have been happier. I’m only a sample of one, hardly statistically significant, but I disagree. And I think I’m not alone. However, it’s socially unacceptable to admit this, because we’ve been fed a diet of wisdom and contentment accompanying our later years, which is supposed to compensate for the loss of so much else, like our looks and youthful vigour.

I miss being young. I grieve for the years that are gone, and am staggered by how fast they went. I miss having young children. My son and daughter, now in their 30s, are wonderful people and I’m proud of them and thankful for them. But I loved having children around me. (Grandchildren are unlikely.) And I fear what’s ahead. I fear the next 30 years passing as quickly as the last 30 did, and my life being over, without having done so much that I want to do. My mother is 97 and my grandmother lived to 99. I have good genes. And I’m in rude health. But I still fear the gradual loss of capacity, even if just means I get slower and slower on my bicycle, which is inevitable. I dread my minimal grey hairs becoming more marked, the lines around my mouth growing deeper. I’m happy being single, but I would enjoy some company from time to time. The likelihood of meeting anyone now is pretty remote – heaven knows I’ve tried enough dating apps. It makes me sad that I will probably never have sex again, and even sadder that I’m not entirely sure I want to – the thought of revealing my ageing and decrepit physical form to anyone new fills me with horror. What will they think? I never used to worry!

Am I alone? I truly don’t think so. But I want to find out. Does ageing scare me because I am not financially secure? Or because I am unlikely to have grandchildren to bring me the joy everyone talks about? Or because I am single and don’t have someone to share experiences with? I don’t want to write another “how to age well” book. But I do want to find out what drives satisfaction and contentment in later life, and what prevents it. Financial security, social networks, satisfaction with one’s career, a healthy and loving relationship with a partner, relationships with adult children, mobility, health, physical activity, hobbies and interests…these are all the factors I want to explore, correlating them with levels of happiness and contentment. Is there a magic formula? I doubt it. But can we find out what it means to age well, and how people do it? Maybe if we have more understanding about what contributes to or detracts from happiness in later life, we will have more control over it.

If you’re over 50 (preferably over 60) and would be interested in being part of my research, take the survey here. It will only take about 10 minutes to complete. It is anonymous, and results will be aggregated and only percentages will be used (e.g., 60% of respondents reported x). Any comments used will be completely anonymous. You can skip or opt not to answer questions. Required questions will contain the option “prefer not to say”, so your privacy is protected at all times. I hope you will come on this journey with me.