Gerrards Cross

My wanderings usually take me through wild footpaths and unpretentious housing estates. I’ve had no occasion to visit the village of Gerrards Cross, which “has a reputation for being very upmarket and exclusive, with house prices being considerably higher than average. Located in the commuter belt of London, the village is the most expensive postcode to purchase a property in the country outside of London. In February 2010, Declan Curry of the BBC described Gerrards Cross as ‘Britain’s richest town’” (Wikipedia). The other day I went there on impulse, reaching the main shopping street via the Common, a well-kept wooded area penetrated with with criss-crossing paths, and dotted with rustic benches.

After browsing in charity shops for old books, I felt the need to take a leak. In the absence of a “Public Convenience” I went in search of a pub, a McDonalds or even a Starbucks. Couldn’t find one. In pursuit of this mission, I happened to glance down a side street, saw a small Odeon cinema. I remembered going there once. It didn’t seem to have changed at all.
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In 1965 I was starting my career in IT, back in the days when it was called DP. It stood for data processing. I’d been sent to the company’s training centre for a five-month course. One evening, four of us drove nine miles to Gerrards Cross, to see a film at the Odeon.

Our class had been learning how machines could process punched-card data. In one of our lessons we learned the deeper meaning of AND, OR and NOT, words you’d think would need no explanation, even to a small child who doesn’t seem to understand the the meaning of DON’T. Our lecturer insisted on the capitalization, and prefixed them with an adjective: logical AND, logical OR.

This tickled the imagination of our little gang of four. A conversation over breakfast the next day went like this.

“AND, OR—why not take it further? There should be a logical BUT!”
“How would that work?”
“Show me an AND, then I’ll show you a BUT.”
“Roses are red AND violets are blue.”
“All right—Roses are red BUT Hitler is dead.”

We laughed. To me, it’s as funny as the first time. That must be memory’s rose-tinting. What happened to those three comrades? Have they survived the last 45 years? Do any of them remember that trivial conversation, that trip to the cinema? It was a lively journey, with many a wisecrack and imitation of our lecturers’ mannerisms. I’ve no recall of the film. Time is a swift stream, and here I am at the edge, panning for gold, rinsing away the mud for a few grains of bright metal. Now I see that those comrades might have been precious friends, had we kept in touch. I don’t even remember their names.
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I’d have gone to inspect the Odeon at close quarters, and taken a photograph, if the mission I mentioned above hadn’t gained in urgency. So I returned to the conveniently wooded Common.

If I’d found a pub, I’d have sampled its ale while I was there. I don’t think Gerrards Cross would tolerate a Starbucks or McDonalds within its parish, but if I’d gone in to use their restroom, I would not have been tempted to stay and sample their beverages.

Like men through the ages, I have a fondness for ale. In the children’s playground at the back of my house, it’s not uncommon to see a man sit with a can of beer for his breakfast. It’s not unknown to see one staggering through the streets when it’s scarcely noon, can in hand. What’s the difference between him and me? I could say: “I only drink in moderation”. Suppose by a quirk of fate I were down and out, with nothing and no hope. I’m confident I wouldn’t be an afternoon-staggerer. Why? “Self-respect”, I reply. So how does one acquire that?

Can people change that much? Could I become a down-and-out? Could every down-and-out, serial killer or sex-criminal choose to reform? What is “fault”? What is “blame”? Society as reflected in our legal system has a tentative answer. If you could have chosen otherwise, you are judged sane. If you couldn’t help it, that is, you had no choice, you are insane, and judged differently.

Can someone in either of these categories change, if he is given the right help? Is there any point in hating such an outcast? Isn’t it simply a matter of protecting ourselves against society’s deviant, and helping him if it will do any good?

Then I remember the perennial conundrum: freewill or predestination? It doesn’t help, doesn’t answer any question. I wonder if the world can be improved. I wonder if, under different circumstances, I might be the owner of one of those grand houses in Gerrards Cross. I realize that I am without envy. I am happy with the throw of the dice.
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PS
I did find a picture of the Odeon, taken in 1969, but it’s done up for a film, called Carry on Camping. It will have to do.

Later
On further reflection, “throw of the dice” is the wrong metaphor. Something tells me that (by a mysterious process) I got what I wanted. You could call it choice.