December 2005

Thursday 8 December

Imagine there's no heaven,
It's easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky,
Imagine all the people
living for today...

Imagine there's no countries,
It isn't hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
living life in peace...

Imagine no possesions,
I wonder if you can,
No need for greed or hunger,
A brotherhood of man,
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one,
I hope some day you'll join us,
And the world will live as one.

The death of John Lennon is supposed to be one of those defining moments for which everyone can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. But the only thing I can remember about that day 25 years ago today is that they played the whole of Imagine on the TV news, and for a brief moment, under the influence of that haunting, lilting piano accompaniment, it almost seemed that the shock of his death might indeed move people to join the dreamers so that the world could live as one.

It didn't take long for cynicism to set in and for people to start scoffing at the naivety of imagining a world without war, greed or hunger, or at the hypocrisy of a man who had more money than he knew what to do with singing about imagining having no possessions. But I don't see anything wrong with having naive aspirations, and I try to hold on to that vision even if it is an impossible dream.

And in some ways the world is moving towards a brotherhood of man, to an extent that would have seemed impossible at the time of Lennon's death. The big news here in Britain at the moment is that the Civil Partnerships Act 2004 comes into force a couple of weeks from now, allowing gay and lesbian couples to register a relationship that amounts to marriage in all but name. (In fact, it is already being referred to as gay marriage, and that is what it probably would officially be described as if it wasn't for the diehard opposition of some of the churches.) The really encouraging thing about this, even more so than the passing of the legislation, is the cheerful and positive attitude towards it among the general population. The gossipy press had latched on to the fact that Elton John and David Furnish will be married in the same place as Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles, and the whole country seems happy for them. Even the rampantly homophobic Daily Mail carried a chatty and reasonably friendly article about it here. This is the same paper that was foaming at the mouth with indignation when the legislation was going through parliament. But the publishers know what their readers are thinking, and the editors have had to fall in with their mood.

Perhaps it's not so totally unrealistic to imagine all the people living life in peace...

Thursday 15 December

There's always some kind of buzz about doing a thing for the first time. Whether it's the first day at a new job, or the first visit to a new country, you're bound to feel a tingle of excitement, or apprehension, or perhaps a bit of both. But what do you feel when you do something for the last time? One obvious difference is that you often don't know whether a thing is happening for the last time. When we left Copenhagen after visiting it earlier this year, I wondered if I would ever see that city again. But there's no way of knowing.

Last Friday I gave my last undergraduate lecture. I imagined that after 40 years of teaching, standing in front of a class for the last time would seem like a special occasion, and I wondered how I would feel about it. Nearly a week after the event, I'm still wondering. In fact, it just seemed like any other lecture. I'm neither glad nor sorry that it's all over. I have enjoyed teaching, and both the courses that I taught this term have gone well. I wouldn't mind doing them again next year if I was asked to. But I'll be just as happy doing other things. Actually, the only thing I felt when I came home from that last lecture was that I'm glad not to have to contend with the morning rush hour any longer.

We had our departmental Christmas lunch today, and there was a presentation to a recently retired member of staff. (I'm officially still on the books until next September, so my retirement presentation will not take place until this time next year.) Several other retired lecturers and professors were also invited to the lunch, and it was interesting to see how relaxed and cheerful they all looked. Evidently there's something to be said for retirement.

Strange how one's perspective changes. My Dad took early retirement from his job in a London insurance firm, tired out after years of commuting, with continual train strikes and the choking smogs of 1950s London. I thought at the time that it was sad to see him lose the enthusiasm that he once had for his work, and I was sure that would never happen to me. When I started my present job in 1980 I was annoyed that the retirement age was set at 65. In my previous post the retirement age was 67, and I felt that I was being cheated out of two years of work. But now that I'm coming up to 65 things look very different, and I understand how Dad felt. I'm grateful that my job has been much more rewarding and less stressful than his was, but I'm not sorry that it's coming to an end. It's time to move on and do other things.