An accidental expertise

In the days when I used to sit in the old cafe at the railway station, reading the morning news, I was often struck by the phenomenon known as Gell-Mann Amnesia. Once in a while I’d come across an article on a subject I knew about. I mean really knew about, a subject where you know what you know, but also the limits of what you know, you are confident about your level of expertise. We all have them, a trade, a craft, a hobby. Practice and or qualifications collected over the years makes us think, this article has factual errors, or perhaps more often it leads you to say to yourself; ‘You’re missing the point mate, that’s not the issue, you don’t get what this is really about!’ We know we could have written a better article. Then we move on and return to that state of mind which, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, accepts everything else in the paper as fact, we take it at face value. That’s the amnesia. But of course, just occasionally you find yourself staring out of the window wondering, if I had specialised knowledge of all this other stuff, would I be thinking it was all just so much nonsense too?

What I want to write about is a particular form of expertise, an accidental expertise. In part it’s a product of age, of simply having been around longer than most of those around you. Often it is expertise based not so much on past interests but things you’ve simply been witness to. Or events you grew up around. Maybe for a while you lived in an area famous for a particular activity, at a particular time, and simply couldn’t help adsorbing your surroundings.

I was never was a train-spotter, although I’ve met a few! By which I really mean it was never the technology that fascinated me. But I’ve always enjoyed train travel and there are family connections too. So, in recent years, when sat in the old cafe at the station, I’ve often been distracted from my reading of the papers - the free ones available on my mobile - by ill-informed talk about the railways. From the historical, some nonsense spoken in response to the passing of an occasional steam special, to the very extent of the network itself, I learnt the geography of my own country from being a passenger! (And by country, I mean the whole of the British Isles, the network makes no sense unless you include ports, ferries and all the islands of the archipelago.)

All trains go up to London, or down from London. London trains leave from the Up platform, trains from London arrive on the down platform, which in the case of the GWR (God’s Wonderful Railway) is always platform one. In fact, with a few notable exceptions, odd numbered platforms always held down trains; even numbers, up trains. And already the past and present tense is confusing, because that’s the way it’s been, since about 1850. It’s a Victorian network. And hence the premier platform in the entire country (Empire?) is platform one at Paddington. The Great Western Railway built the line to Windsor and Eton. Ordinary couples may have met under the clock at Waterloo, royalty stood under the clock on platform one at Paddington - when they weren’t using Queen Victoria’s Waiting Room that is. Platform one at Newton Abbot looks today like a side platform for up and down local trains, it’s not. It is the principal down platform, because the principal main line always was, despite being in part a single track, the line to Kingswear, that is Kingswear for Dartmouth Ferry. Dartmouth station was the only station in the country with no trains, only a ferry. But you could buy a ticket to anywhere, because Dartmouth was home to the royal naval college.

However, before 1850 and the dominance of passenger services, the hub of the railway network was York. My father was born in York, his father worked first for the NER, then the LNER, mainly at York station. He was a railway clerk and worked in the office responsible for timetabling. That's the operating timetable you understand, the timetable the railway runs by, as opposed to the passenger timetable which is a kind of promise to travellers! Trains run on fixed, parallel lines, a relatively closed system and therefore partially predictable, it attracts those who believe they think and act rationally. Grandfather, father used to recall, when travelling by train with the family, using the benefit of the family pass, would, when another train passed, take out his silver railway watch from his waistcoat, and announce to the carriage at large; ‘Huddersfield train is running five minutes late’, or whatever. The first rail journey I recall was Newcastle Central-York, when I was about five years old, say 1964. I spent most of the journey sat on my mother’s knee, in a window seat facing. I recall her pointing out Durham Cathedral high on the river bluff above the town, the railway runs along the opposite hillside, quite the best view. At some point father showed me around the original York railway museum. So, when Andrew Martin, in the opening chapter of The Lost Luggage Porter, gave a long description of York Station circa 1906, I was right there. 

Do I remember the age of steam? Well kind of. The one rail journey we made on anything like a regular basis was when in half terms and holidays mother took us up to Newcastle on a shopping trip and we opted for the train rather than the bus. We travelled the circular coast line, up one way, down the other on the first-generation of diesel multiple units. They afforded the best views of any train I’ve known, especially once the upfront sections near the driver lost their First Class only designation, and were open to all. But the line occasional had freight and maintenance trains hauled by steam tank engines. It happened that our house bordered on to the railway, with a garden which backed on to an allotment on railway land. At night, when I had the back bedroom, they appeared as fiery monsters from time to time.

For a number of years in succession, we used the train to go on our summer holidays. Twice in the nineteen thirties my father and his brother had travelled from York to Leeds to join a cross-country train that went all the way to Bristol, Exeter and Kingswear. But they travelled in daylight. We drove to Newcastle Central in the evening, surrendered the car to British Railways, who drove it onto a two-tier converted carriage, then proceeded to a sleeping carriage and took up residence in two compartments, each with bunk beds! I remember waking-up at first light, turning up the corner of the blind, and seeing a sign that read Bristol Temple Meads, it was cream lettering with a chocolate background, I was used to seeing signs on an orange background. On a couple of those holidays the train terminated at Newton Abbot. The car was driven off on one of the platforms that used to serve the Teign Valley line. We’d just enjoyed one of the most scenic routes in the country, from the Exe estuary along the sea wall via Dawlish, Teignmouth and up the Teign estuary. With the car back we then proceed to enjoy ten days or so at a rented holiday cottage. Looking back today one might think, a huge expense for a holiday, but no, not really. You needed to be middle class to afford it, for sure. But the rich, they travelled abroad!

Then father got a new job, we actually moved to Devon and everything changed. I thought I was on one long holiday, sometimes I still do. It was wet lunchtimes spent in the library at school that did it. Looking for books with lots of pictures, I was not a skilled reader at the time, even for my age. I found a wealth of books on the Great Western Railway, and not just recalling it (before 1947 and ‘nationalisation’ and the creation of British Railways) but celebrating it! The pre-war railway companies had been great rivals, I discovered. Previously I’d been in LNER territory, now I was in that of the GWR. The Great Western had a certain prestige over all the others, and with good reason I was to discover...

(Oh, dear! I’ve got to almost fifteen hundred words and I’m only twelve years old - or maybe that’s the point!)

A non-believer in a Christian world

I grew up in a Christian society, but have no belief in the supernatural. I like early church architecture, early church music and occasionally enjoy reading about the lives of the saints.

At the age of eight or maybe nine, I made two visits to Holy Island (Lindisfarne), once with my family, once on a school trip. Quite what I experienced, and when, has blurred in the memory. But it was undoubtedly my first experience of religion. I remember standing alone and staring at the statue of St. Cuthbert set amongst the remains of the Lindisfarne Priory. In the distance was Banburgh Castle, in between the cold North Sea. I knew the names of what I was looking at because of my parents and because, looking back, my junior school really was quite good at teaching local history.

In time I attended church services once a month as a cub and then boy scout; first at a Presbyterian church, then a Methodist chapel, finally I got to know Church of England services after we’d moved as a family from Northumberland to Devon. At more or less the same time, came the moment at school when, sitting in compulsory religious education class, I thought, I don’t believe any of this!

My father had a chapel upbringing in a village outside of York, he bicycled, often with his elder brother, to a secondary school in the city whose skyline is dominated by the Minster. Yet it appears the first family member to step inside, was his brother, aged twenty-one. Father trained to become an architect and town planner, and in time he introduced us children to many of the great cathedrals, Durham, St. Paul’s, St. David’s and Westminster Abbey. I got to see the reinforced under-croft of York Minster, the new floor and ceiling of the tower struck by lightning. We explored the slopping roof of Exeter! The list goes on, though my favourite is Lincoln which I discovered for myself. I’ve sat and contemplated in many, listened to wonderful music, but never doubted for a second that they were built by men, for men.

Most people in society believe in a Christian god whether they be church goers or not, I’m in the minority and must accept their world. A society designed by believers, it’s ‘the water we swim in.’ I believe I have the same spiritual feelings they do, but I ascribe them to the ‘awe’ effect of nature. Best explained, so far, as Darwinian evolution by natural selection. Occasionally, some believers say I embody some of the Christian virtues, that God is within me too, I find that most annoying!

Churches were once at the centre of British community life; they brought people together. Rituals, repeated physical movements often choreographed with others, leading to shared emotions and shared thoughts. They become reassuring to us over time, giving a sense of certainty and control in the uncertain world of this kingdom by the sea.

Other denominations and other religions still have many of the positive attributes I’ve alluded to, whilst the Church of England with every development or adaptation it makes seems to alienate its followers. Does is ever cancel those changes? No, it carries on with a progressive agenda whilst the congregation shrinks even more. Worse, it makes its organisation more and more top heavy, more bishops, more specialists in one thing or another, less people walking the streets of any community, drawing fewer people in. I’m told there has been a recent, modest rival in religious belief, but precious few head to the established church, the state religion. The monarch does little to promote it, the principal broadcaster even less. To me as an outsider, they seem to suffer from the same consequences as other growing organisations, as they proscribe more and more detailed rules of personal conduct, the bureaucracy that creates them, becomes more and more self-interested, increasingly ignoring their mission.

So, what of that mission, what does a non-believer make of the bible itself. I’ve never doubted that Jesus lived, and that the New Testament is a pretty good stab at history for the time when it was written, as well as being a useful guide on how to live a good life. One of its virtues is it presents four accounts, the best that could be found amongst the many others on offer. That it allows contradictory accounts is a strength. I wonder at those who insist the gospels be taken literally, haven’t they noticed?

To take the bible out of its historical context is unfair. If people believed at the time that many of the events had miraculous elements to them, so be it. Since the scientific revolution successive generations have attacked Christian beliefs with rationalism, but to little effect. People may not attend church, but putting faith in the power of other worldly forces seems as popular as ever. It is a cohesive force bringing people together in causes both virtuous and well, better a united army than a divided one? And a way of marking, and coping with life’s inevitable events, of births, marriages and deaths.

There is much to be admired in the followers of Jesus, whether it be Saint John Henry Newman, who as a result of his conversion found himself creating a new university and writing the Idea of a University; or Saint Therese of Lisieuix knowing she would die of consumption at a young age, asking what contribution could she make, however small, to the wellbeing of others and then making it happen. It seems to me as a non-believing outsider, vaguely raised in a protestant environment, that the catholic church is more intriguing and interesting, or perhaps just more colourful! The Reformation seems to have brought nothing but trouble, to England at least. Church architecture goes into decline, so too music made by the human voice in those spaces, certainly after Tallis and Byrd! And the catholic church seems to keep at least one foot in human nature and is accepting of a version of evolution.

There is no evidence of snow at Christmas in the holy land, but there is magic at Christmas. Christina Rossetti, an Anglo-Catholic, who struggled with depression wrote, A Christmas Carol (In the Bleak Mid-Winter) first published in 1872. Then in 1906 Gustav Holst’s set it to music whilst visiting Cranham in Gloucestershire, where it definitely does snow at Christmas, once in a while!

Social media 2

One moment you may feel you are at the centre of everything, the next of utter insignificance. Your global reach seems in contrast to your local world, where you actually get to meet those to whom you are connected, but then they don’t seem as important as they once were. Or maybe, I just don’t get about much anymore?

Our interactions with people we know, up close and personal, remind us that social media is of the real world, we may have messaged to meet and in conversation take for granted we’ve read each other’s posts. But sometimes it feels like its purpose is not to connect us faster and more intimately, but to disorientate us all in both time and space, the better to sell us stuff. Equally, just as the whole world was always out there, the scammers and conmen, the politicians and flimflam artists, along with the honest and trustworthy, the sacred and profane, now they’re in your face.

The situation has become darker since I previously posted on this subject. One way in which social media was enhancing our experience has begun to be lost, the accurate, chronological, minute to minute, timelines which added to memory accuracy and capacity. Appreciated more and more the older one gets! Meta, for example, by breaking-up the timeline in your newsfeed prevent you from appreciating who said what when, and seeing how others reacted. You lose the sense of time zones, distance. You can’t find anything again, watch it or read it later! If the algorithm insisted on one strict timeline people would learn that the more friends you have, the less you become attached to any of them. Given so many have been using the platform for fifteen years or so, it’s now even more difficult to notice how and why people change!

When the timeline (newsfeed) offers so many distractions (suggestions/ promotions/ adverts) one turns to the profiles of friends only to discover posts from the past you’re certain you haven’t seen, or at least noticed. When you scroll down a bit more you start to believe you’re the only one who isn’t responding to click bait. Comments in clear plain English, or captions alongside photos/videos taken by the writer are getting rarer, unless undertaken for financial gain. What could have been the personal journal of an individual, the family history of the future, is slipping away. In a similar way, organisations such as the BBC who sit on the greatest audio/visual archive of the twentieth century, dumb down the content for the sake of clicks.

Social pressure has always existed in various forms but is now reflected online. Preference falsification, recognising certain subjects and ideas as taboo in your group, leads not so much to self-censorship, but simply withholding your views altogether, observing but not participating. But surely people hold back less online?! Well, a minority do, often in combination with trying to anonymise their identity. But then there is the overtly political, either asserting special interests, or a particular party line. Here we need a consciousness of what’s not being said as well as campaigned for. The so-called, Overton Window, the idea that there is a range of subjects and opinions acceptable to any given population at a given time in history, that politicians and campaigners can debate upon. There’s an assumption that politicians don’t lead opinion, but follow it. That democracy not power rules!

Despite the meme dealers, those who wish to daily reset or refresh you, the desire of some for a culture of disembodied minds, and an online learned helplessness, there is an escape! The longer the internet exists the more history it contains. When someone dies, I don’t have to believe it if I don’t want to, I can go on experiencing their life, I’m less limited by fading memories.

Which leads me to what I’ve come to call vicarious living, though I’m sure others have had the same thought; the tendency to live out our lives through the experiences of others. Again, this has always happened to a degree, those who made a particular self-sacrifice in the raising of their children, often appear later in life to live through them - after all the children appear to have what the parent always wanted. But online, you can follow whoever you like and it makes sense to follow those who have the life you want, or wanted. You get a sense of knowing, whether it be an ordinary person or a celebrity, you can indulge in the fantasy that you are a part of their lives, updated daily.

‘Who told you that?’ I’ve thought for a long time that is the first question anyone should ask themselves, about anything they hold to be true. Everything we know came from somewhere and someone is always there before you! There is no true originality, just the recombination of the ideas of others. It’s just that a lot of the time our learning has been unconscious. And all learning is social learning. Online we have access to such a wide range of knowledge, yet how do you get to know that there are alternative ways of seeing the world? Do we get to choose, when living off the knowledge of others? Are we the ones who set up the filter bubbles and echo chambers? Could there be such a thing as, say a Cyborg Identity Disorder? Google doesn’t seem to think there is, I just checked. Perhaps I made it up a while ago, noted it down and forgot, but it must have been prompted by someone!

Which brings me neatly to my final speculations, on emergent AI. Emerging for some time now, and likely to continue doing so for a long while to come. I speculated in the days of Twitter, that we might be dumbing down to meet it rising up. Dumb not in the sense of less intelligent, but lazy. Imagining, as always with new tech, that we could use it as a labour-saving device. Now, the idea that you can choose an AI application or platform to suit your needs, with appropriate and ethical regulations; rather than AI choosing you, including your delusion of choice, seems unlikely. It offers to do work for you, in exchange for your data. It is a voracious learner, but as of now is limited in the directions it can take by a lack of permissions. It seems to learn fastest when allowed to roam free on social media platforms. Like a very smart young teenager, but emotionally immature, it excels at maths, making graphs, creating pictures, but has a crude sense of humour which simply loves the absurdities and relationship spats of all the competing wannabes of the social media world. It hasn’t been to university yet. The ultimate geek, has yet to achieve unfettered access to a prestigious university’s library. Not just the books and journals currently approved of, but the stacks containing everything, anyone ever thought worth reading. The entire history of the world itself. They say two thirds of journal articles remain unread by anyone other than the authors and reviewers themselves. What about open access to everything Google originally scanned before Google Scholar, or the entire British Library, the National Archives and the documents section of the Royal Collection held in the bowels of Windsor Castle. The outcome? Crime, war, tyranny? No, just the thinking machine daily, telling politicians, public servants, educators, the media and business people that the best scientific evidence says that what you are doing won’t work!