MEDITATION 115:

COSY CRIME

As I sit here in my armchair beside my candle with its flame’s warm glow I am in quite a cosy atmosphere. A summer storm rages outside with thunder and heavy rain and it is quite dark even though it is only early evening. It might as well be winter or at least November. I am tempted to put myself a glass of heavy red wine and write a few Christmas cards!

The word ‘cosy’ has been on my mind recently or rather the phrase ‘cosy crime’. A little while ago, my dear sister Maria, suggested I ought to write a cosy crime novel. If I did writer a crime novel, it would indeed be in the style of that sub-genre. Somehow I do not see myself writing a gritty crime thriller set in violent city streets complete with an accurate depiction of police procedurals. Cosy crime novels also have their fair share of violence too, of course, but the violence is in stark contrast to the sleepy, mellow setting of a village or small town, generally in a rural setting. They are quite often set decades ago in the 1950’s for example, when life, especially rural life, was meant to be simpler and quieter.

My sister’s suggestion came back into my mind while I was listening to Dame Mary Beard’s lecture in Oxford’s Bodleian library a few weeks ago. You may remember from my last meditation, that she stated that more murders in works of fiction take place in libraries than in museums or supermarkets for example. Her observation came to my mind again last week. BBC4 are repeating the old series of Miss Marple crime mysteries, adapted from Agatha Christie’s novels. The title of the first episode was ‘The Body in The Library’!

The library in question was not an academic one like the Bodleian or even a public library but a library in a large country house. Where else but there in an Agatha Christie story. Many of her works are centres on a large country house. However, this one did have another main setting: a high class seaside hotel. And of course the local village down the road from the mansion figured as well fleetingly.

The series is immaculately made: well scripted, beautifully photographed and with scrupulous attention to 1950’s detail. At the centre of the series is the exemplary performance of the late Joan Hickson as Miss Marple, the quiet, unobtrusive yet authoritative amateur sleuth. Taking on the series in her 70’s, this was the Indian summer of her long and comprehensive career. Any student of acting at whatever level should study her listening skills and her subtle reactions – they are a masterclass.

It is remarkable to think that the series is now between 30 and 40 years old. It still holds up well, perhaps because it was filmed on location in the main. Many of the actors who feature in the series had lived through the 1950’s and were perhaps performing then too. So they were at home and relaxed in the period so to speak, giving the series another layer of authenticity aside from the period detail. And I have always loved the opening theme music. It always leads me entranced into the opening scene. I have remembered the theme since the series first appeared on TV.

After watching ‘The Body in the Library’ I realised that Agatha Christie’s solutions to the murders are always plausible and well-plotted but in the cold light of day, preposterous. There is always some information which she holds back from the reader (or viewer) which they cannot possibly work out for themselves. Although this can be hinted at in the performances and scripts in a TV or film version. Also she is generally dealing with people of the upper classes or those who want to climb up the social ladder by hook or by crook. Her characters may possibly have money problems but they tend to be of the upper class kind (to do with wealth inheritance or crooked high finance deals). Her characters are not living a hand to mouth existence or almost living on the streets as they might be in a gritty crime thriller.

I have also recently watched a more recent cosy crime drama or rather a comic variation on the sub-genre set in our own times. In the Netflix series ‘The Residence’ the body of the murder victim is discovered not in the library but in the games room – of the White House no less. The victim is the loyal, long standing head usher of the White House and the murder is discovered during a grand Presidential banquet for the Australian Prime Minister and entourage, including the singer and actress Kylie Minogue, playing herself, who becomes a suspect at one point.

The setting gives the mystery an added frisson and opportunities for political satire which the series writer, Paul William Davies, takes full advantage of. For example the President is gay and has a First Gentleman rather than a First Lady, not to mention a slob of a brother and wisecracking, vodka-slurping mother also in residence. The setting also provides the opportunity for a plethora of suspects both upstairs and downstairs as the Head Usher, A.B. Wynter, frequented both worlds because of his position.

Like the Miss Marple series, ‘The Residence’ demonstrates scrupulous attention to detail and the rooms of the White House are meticulously recreated, providing the viewer with a private view of the famous residence. Also as the White House is on a larger scale than Agatha Christie’s country house, the numerous rooms and those who appear and disappear in them give rise to more twists and turns in the plot.

Paul William Davies succeeds in maintaining the tortuous plot over eight episodes which is a major achievement in itself when you consider that the Miss Marple stories are only spread over two or three. He achieves this by adding in new suspects as the plot unfolds as well as flashbacks to the events of the night and by developing the intricate and shifting relationships between the residents/staff/suspects The story also moves out of the White House to relate suspects’ backstories and to a Congressional Hearing about the investigation.

At the centre of events is a modern version of Miss Marple, Cornelia Crupp, who is brought in as consultant to the Metropolitan Police Force. She is also a avid ornithologist and sometimes leaves her investigations to listen to the night birds on the Presidential lawn. In Cornelia Crupp, Mr Davis has created as memorable a character as Miss Marple herself. Like Miss Marple, she is solitary and keeps her findings and thoughts to herself and is moreover given a quirky and entertaining portrayal by Uzo Aduba.

The final episode is 87 mins long, the length of a feature film, and mainly focuses on the unmasking of the murderer in front of the suspects gathered in one room. This, as we know, is a favourite scene in crime fiction, especially in Christie. Mr Davis creates a fantasia on this trope so that in the highly amusing finale, the unravelling of the puzzle becomes more and more preposterous, accompanied by more flashbacks to the eventful evening. In the episode Uzo Aduba gives a masterclass herself in delivering the tortuous unravelling of the plot with total conviction.

All in all this is a highly sophisticated, witty and entertaining series and beautifully crafted. Except that it is let down by one thing: an over-saturation of bad language at times. Enough to make Miss Marple raise an eyebrow and drop her knitting. Two of my friends switched off after episode 3 as a result of this -and they are much younger than I am. Although such language is in character for the President’s brother, Tripp and his Personal Advisor, Harry Hollinger, their barrage of expletives becomes tiresome in the least. Less is more, after all, and both characters would have been funnier with less expletives. Especially that elsewhere in the series the dialogue sparkles with wit. Some may argue that dialogue with continual swearing is more realistic. But then Drama is not totally realistic. It is a shaping of reality. And that shaping involves the dialogue too. Nevertheless the series is worth watching – especially if you like your crime cosy.

As I write, the word ‘cosy’ still hovers in my mind. Many years ago, I took an evening course in Educational Drama with around 20 other local teachers. The course was based in Kingston and I remember we had a final meal with our tutors at a restaurant by the river. After the meal, we played a game. Each person was given the name of another person on a piece of paper. We had to answer the question, ‘If this person was a car, what model would they be?’ Each of us then read out their answer and we had to guess who the person was. I turned out to be a Morris Minor! Because I am old fashioned, comfortable and – cosy! I was quite affronted. I imagined myself as a Rolls Royce! It is interesting to speculate how other people see us, isn’t it? My colleagues had been with me on the course one evening a week for around 8 months. So the choice of car wasn’t an initial impression. Nevertheless, as I am live in my own universe, it was quite a shock!

Yes, perhaps I might take my sister’s advice and write a cosy crime novel. And perhaps a Morris Minor could figure in it. I wonder if the boot of a Morris Minor is large enough to hold a dead body…….

Ave atque Vale,

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 111

I am sitting here by my candle as always and gathering my thoughts. Or rather my memories. Memories of Hollywood. I never worked there of course. I do not think I would have been a good film director except maybe as a ‘dialogue coach’ on individual scenes. However, I imagine I might have been a good character actor in the Golden Age of Hollywood, as it is termed, when the big studios reigned. I could see myself working in a major studio in a variety of roles in a plethora of movies. As a youth, I would have liked to pursue a career as a character actor. I had no ambitions to be a leading man.

I could see myself as a screenwriter too, knocking out scenes for whatever assignment a studio handed me. Writing for school was like that, when I was a Drama teacher. I would knock out a scene or two quickly ready for the next rehearsal. I have been writing a script for school again recently or rather re-writing it (in a more gentle manner than mentioned in the last sentence!). It is my play ‘Will and Juliet’ (first performed in 2017). It is about the boy apprentices who were in Shakespeare’s acting company. It is also an attempt to answer the question ‘Who was the first boy to play Juliet in ‘Romeo and Juliet?’ I have re-written the script for younger students and I am directing the play myself. Rehearsals have just begun and it is interesting working with students whom I do not know at all.

Those memories of Hollywood that are flickering in my thoughts like an old movie are of the three times I visited there, while staying in LA. They have resurfaced because of an exhibition on the film star Marilyn Monroe which is currently showing in London. The visit was a birthday present for a friend. It was quite an unusual experience as the tickets included both the entry to the exhibition and a cabaret with actor Suzy Kennedy playing Marilyn and it took place on a Saturday evening.

Miss Kennedy gave a vibrant impersonation, not only singing the songs from Marilyn’s films but also injecting anecdotes and biographical details about the star into her patter. It was a hugely entertaining 90 minute cabaret (I imagined it would be much shorter) and very upbeat (as all Marilyn’s songs were).

There was no mention of Marilyn’s tragic death from a presumed overdose at the age of 36 in 1962. But why should there be? It would cast a pall over the lively show. Besides, Marilyn lives on in her movies. And she is still drawing the crowds, I thought to myself, as I scanned the enthusiastic audience (of around 200 people) around me. She has not been on the screen for over 60 years and it will be her centenary next year. Yet her image is still everywhere, fixed in time as, because of her untimely death, she has never grown old.

She has become iconic. This is thanks partly to Andy Warhol’s famous picture of her. Images of her images are still as ubiquitous as when she was in her heyday as a star.

As might be expected, displayed in the exhibition were photos, film clips, newsreel extracts, magazine and news articles, original posters and costumes from her films. But of the 250 items on display there were also many of her personal effects, some of which were rather poignant. For example, some of her books (she was an avid reader), school books and sketch books as she loved drawing when she was a teenager, especially making sketches of the latest fashions. There were personal clothes and shoes. Some were from when she was a child and teenager too, which were also quite poignant and of course many items from her adult wardrobe. Her short life was displayed through the clothes she wore. There were numerous letters, postcards, film scripts and even some of her household bills, not to mention a bottle of unopened expensive champagne!

The exhibition comprised the personal collection of Ted Stamfer, and came from Marilyn Monroe’s private estate. When she died in 1962, her private effects were bequeathed to Lee Strasberg her acting coach and mentor, which he passed on to his daughter Paula. They languished in storage until they were finally auctioned in the late 90’s. Some of the auction catalogues were also on display. I remember seeing some of her personal effects in the Hollywood Museum in LA , including her fridge and a sofa and some of her famous sweaters, which made me realise that she wasn’t as tall as she appeared on film. In fact she was 5’4”. I think the museum collection may have been donated by other private collectors.

I have had an interest in old movies from quite an early age and have developed a keen interest in film history as a result. So exhibitions of film memorabilia have always attracted me. I’ve always been fascinated by costumes, props, furniture, scripts and film equipment that have survived down the years. So I was impressed by the exhibits on show at the Marilyn exhibition.

However, as I wandered around the exhibits I began asking myself why I was as fascinated by her private personal effects as everyone else there. They are a kind of biography of their own I suppose, coupled with explanatory panels beside the display cases. They are a sort of social history too. But most of all a glimpse, a tantalising glimpse, into what Marilyn may have been like as a person off screen. What it might have been like to be a guest at a dinner party at her modest Hollywood home for example. In some strange way the exhibits created an opportunity to get a little up close and personal to Marilyn. Something which the numerous biographies, documentaries and movies about her cannot provide.

I must admit that I would have liked to have met Marilyn. I think she would have been good company at dinner or fun at a party. I said so to my friend after we left the exhibition. I have a feeling she was far more intelligent than those around her understood. It was just that she had little formal education. I think she may have been eager to discuss those books she read but few people wanted to listen to her. And she was talented: as an actress (especially in comedy) and singer and dancer. Perhaps her greatest tragedy was that she had so little confidence in her own talents.

Before we sat down for the cabaret my friend and I had time to look around the exhibits a little. We looked mainly at the room which was adjacent to the cabaret space. This was the room that focused on her home and displayed photos of her modest bungalow and all sorts of household things, even examples of kitchen ware and that unopened bottle of champagne I mentioned earlier.

It was also the final room in the exhibition and included photos, newsreel extracts and newspaper coverage of Marilyn’s untimely death and of her funeral. On the three occasions I have visited Hollywood, there has always been a moment when I have experienced a sadness like a chill breeze. And just for a moment what came to my mind each time was all the unhappiness in that town, past and present. Going through that one exhibition room, that sadness, that chill breeze returned. Just for a moment. But it was there.

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Golden Age of Hollywood

Los Angeles

Marilyn Monroe London Exhibition

Film history

Lee Strasberg

Ted Stamfer

Suzy Kennedy

Hollywood Museum, L.A.

MEDITATION 110

As I sit here by my candle I am recalling an image of a boy standing on a beach, alone and looking out to the sea. It is not a memory of my childhood, although it could be as I was brought up in a seaside town and I loved walking by the sea. The boy’s face is sad. Again it could be a memory as I did spend time walking on my own on the beach in my lonely late teens. But this boy is only 11 years old. And for a moment he has escaped from his daily life in a war zone: Gaza.

One evening last week I happened upon an excerpt from a BBC documentary on the BBC’s News website. I watched it again as the excerpt was repeated on the 10.00 News later. The excerpt was filmed last summer and the cameras followed the daily life of Zakaria, a Palestinian. However, to me he was an archetype representing all children who find themselves living day by day among the rubble and debris thrown up by warfare. And somehow they also find a way of coping, finding a way through their new, unwanted existence.

As I watched Zakaria’s story, my father came to mind who as a boy was a refugee in World War Two, along with his sister, my aunt Barbara. Sadly there are children whose lives are blighted by war in every generation. I count myself fortunate that I have been spared that.

Zakaria spends his time by helping at one of the remaining hospitals in Gaza. The camera crew follows him scurrying around, tidying up here and there; handing equipment to doctors or nurses; helping with stretcher-bearing; assisting the injured to walk along the corridor and cleaning stretchers with bottled water. At night he sleeps in staff areas or in an ambulance or an unused scan area. In his duties he is helpful, cheerful and keen as children can be when being useful.

One of the doctors, when interviewed, worries about him. Useful as he is in the understaffed hospital, he has experienced so much there and has grown up so very quickly as a result. He was concerned how Zakaria will fit into school when schools hopefully reopen and when he becomes a pupil again. As he stands by the seashore he says quietly ‘I have seen so many bodies.’ His childhood has ebbed away like the waves at his feet.

Zakaria’s family live in a refugee camp in Khan Younnis. He stayed behind in Gaza because there was little food or water there. The cameras follow him on his journey to his family by foot one evening through the bombed out streets. Through working at the hospital he has been able to get a little bit of money to buy some food for the family and sweets for his siblings on the way at a roadside stall.

Zakaria’s experiences in the hospital have created in him an ambition to become a paramedic. Obviously he has been inspired by the paramedics he has helped in a small way each day. I sincerely hope that he survives and has the ability to achieve his ambition. He is, perhaps, already acquiring some of the skills he will need as he assists at the hospital. What is amazing is that out of the nightmare he is living, he is succeeding in not only helping his family but also helping others at the hospital. And he now has a dream for the future too.

Apparently Zakaria’s story is one of three featured in a BBC documentary ‘How To Survive in a War Zone’, which I have not had the opportunity to see. Three children including Zakaria were followed by a BBC camera crew in their daily lives in Gaza. The programme was narrated by another young person, who was 13 years old. Several people have commented that they were moved by the whole programme, as much as I was by Zakaria’s story alone. But now the programme has sadly been removed from BBC I player as the programme makers neglected to credit the young narrator as the son of a minister in the Hamas government apparently, which has aroused strong feelings in some quarters and the programme has even been labelled as Palestinian propaganda.

I am unable to comment on the entire programme as I have not had the chance to see it. However, to me, Zakaria’s story on its own appeared genuine and not staged. More importantly it is quite inspiring and, as I mentioned earlier, it is a kind of archetype, reflecting the experience of all children in war zones, regardless of their nationality or whatever conflict they find themselves in, be it the Israeli -Palestinian war or ongoing conflicts in the Congo or the Sudan or in Ukraine, which has sadly reached it’s third anniversary this week.

Tomorrow I am going into my old school to hold an audition for a summer production I have been invited to direct. More of that anon in these pages. The cast will be aged 13-15 and will be all boys. Thankfully they have not had to endure what 11 year old Zakaria has had to bear.

And tonight I think of Zakaria standing on the seashore, reflecting on the horrors he has experienced but looking out to the horizon with some kind of hope.

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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Current Affairs

Israeli – Palestinian conflict

Children in War Zones

Gaza

Khan Younnis

BBC News

Documentaries

Ukraine

Congo

Sudan

MEDITATION 109

I am writing this meditation in my lounge and at the appropriate time: evening. There are not one but two candles beside me.

As I sit here I am reminding myself of sunflowers. I am not trying to conjure up a summer landscape of fields of sunflowers, golden in the sunlight. Although I could be excused for doing so as today has been very wintry: dark, dank and chill. The sunflowers in my mind are not in a field or a garden but in a vase. Not all of them are in cheerful bloom either. Some are drooping and one or two look as if they have already expired.

They are in fact as unreal as my imagining. They are the sunflowers painted by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-90). We may think that he painted only one picture of sunflowers – the famous one. But in fact he painted several and two of them have been on display in a recent exhibition at London’s National Gallery. The exhibition partly celebrates the centenary of the Gallery’s acquisition of one of the ‘Sunflowers’ paintings. That is the famous one. There is also another one on display however from Philadelphia.

The aim of the exhibition has been to bring together paintings from the artist’s time in the South of France in 1888-9. Moreover, it is the first time the paintings have been exhibited together as some are from private collections. It is also the first time that the National Gallery has mounted a Van Gogh exhibition. Not only are there paintings on display but also some of the artist’s drawings in ink and chalk.

The Gallery has billed the exhibition as ‘a once in a century exhibition’ which is no hyperbole. I am sure these masterpieces will not be seen together in one place for many a year. Standing in one of the exhibition rooms and looking around the walls I did feel privileged for a moment. The big shows which major galleries mount with artwork often from around the world provide a unique opportunity to see normally far flung artworks under one roof. We are privileged to have the opportunity to see them. And there was I, before we went in, observing to my friend Teresa that exhibition ticket prices seem to be escalating!

Needless to say the exhibition has been hugely popular and Teresa was very fortunate to obtain tickets for the Friday of the final weekend. It was sold out all day and the Gallery was staying open all night too until Saturday morning to enable as many people as possible to witness this unique exhibition. I discovered this on a notice as I entered the Gallery, which led me to have visions of late night clubbers wandering in and taking in Van Gogh’s bright vibrant colours with tired, bleary eyes. Depending on what state they were in, they might be seeing two vases of sunflowers at once – or rather four!

As might be expected, despite timed entrance tickets, the exhibition was very full and it was difficult to get close to individual paintings as there were always clusters of people around them. This was as I imagined it would be, but I was nevertheless a little disappointed and rather impatient. I began to use the tactics I adopt in a theatre bar in the interval to edge my way closer to a particular painting. My small stature has its uses!

I did become rather agitated, however, as I moved from the first room to the second, which was much larger, with more paintings on display than the first and therefore there were more clusters of people gathered in front of each picture.

The people in the room were no doubt as anxious as I was to see everything. Despite this, I did notice that people gave way to disabled visitors and parents with buggies and children.One of the problems with large groups around one painting is that the numbers often force you to look too closely at the picture and, with others in front of you, it is difficult to view it at the right distance. This was especially true of the famous ‘starry night’ picture (‘Starry Night over the Rhône’).

Of course many were taking photos of pictures on their phones. This is understandable as they will not have the chance to see some of the pictures again (unless they buy the expensive catalogue). But taking photos of artworks has become a natural reflex in galleries now, almost muscle memory. I am as guilty myself, although I took few photos this time. This is because it’s impossible to capture Van Gogh’s wide brush strokes on a flat image however detailed the image may be.

There was a moment when I felt like giving up. There were just too many people in the room. It was his signature that calmed me down – that inimitable ‘Vincent’ in his broad stroke. It was daubed on the side of a box of plants in the famous painting of his chair. I had managed to find a gap as a small group moved on so I could view the painting quite comfortably. The chair was in his bedroom in the ‘Yellow House’ where he lived and there was another painting of the room itself on display on another wall. But this painting was just the chair and the box of plants to the side.

The signature began to draw me into the picture. Inevitably I became oblivious to the others around me. The chair reminded me of my kitchen as I have four similar ones around my kitchen table. I bought them because they looked like the Van Gogh chair and now, after seeing the actual picture, I am reminded of him whenever I look at them at home.

On the chair was his pipe and tobacco. It was an invitation to intimacy, as if in the midst of all the people in that large room he was saying, ‘Hello – I am here in the middle of all this. Stand still and you will find me’.

And I did. I stood still, blocking out everyone around me, looking at the picture till I was ready to move on. And that is how I spent the rest of my time there, standing still and letting the picture in front of me take me in so that I forgot everyone milling around me for that moment. I concentrated on the particular pictures that caught my attention – of which there were many.

The late theatre director Peter Brook wrote that a play is a series of moments. An exhibition can be a series of moments too, if we will stop and look and let the picture take us out of ourselves. It may mean concentrating on only a few pictures for a length of time. This can be difficult when there is so much to see in a major exhibition like the Van Gogh one. But then, there is only so much that we can absorb and maybe we should let our instinct lead us to the pictures that speak to us in an immediate way, as I did.

I cannot describe all the pictures or drawings I experienced. Most poignant were the ones that Van Gogh painted or sketched while he was in the mental hospital of Saint-Paul at Saint-Remy, where he had voluntarily committed himself several mental crises. They were of the hospital gardens and the fields behind and are far from bleak.

As my friend and I left the exhibition and went out into the early evening of dark winter, we both agreed that we felt uplifted by the world we had experienced of vibrant colours, of parks, fields, gardens and flowers all touched by the sunshine of Southern France.

How amazing that in the darkness of his mental state, Van Gogh was inspired to create pictures of such bright vibrant light.

In this week when the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz is being commemorated and Israeli hostages and Palestinian prisoners are slowly being freed and thousands of displaced Palestinians have begun to return to what is left of Gaza we must have hope that light will come from darkness.

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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National Gallery London Peter Brook

Van Gogh Exhibition

Van Gogh Sunflowers Liberation of Auschwitz

Art Appreciation/Exhibitions Palestine/Israeli Conflict.

Arles

San-Remy.

River Rhône

MEDITATION 108

As I sit here in my kitchen, the flame of the candle in front of me seems superfluous as I am looking out onto a frost-covered garden in brilliant winter sunshine. To match the frosted coating of the lawn, a white cat is nimbly walking along the back fence. The top of the fence is very narrow. I do not know how cats can perform such elegant acrobatic feats. Walking along the top of fences must be like walking a tightrope for them and yet they do it with more grace than humans do on a tightrope. I have never physically walked a tightrope. I doubt I will now, my age and weight being what they are. I have never been agile anyway, not in the least! So I doubt I would be in any way graceful if I tried. I have walked a tightrope metaphorically sometimes, but then there are moments when we all have I guess.

Of late I have been rather remiss in deciding when to sit down and write these meditations. Often I have been writing them in the morning or afternoon, as you may have noticed, and at my kitchen table. My inspiration, Marcus Aurelius, wrote his own Meditations late at night in his sleeping quarters when the business of the day was over. For me, the business of the day has become my writing now that I am retired. That is, in between excursions, travels and meeting friends! So I now tend to write during the day -when I do! However, the end the day is perhaps the best time to reflect and meditate, as Marcus shows us. But then he didn’t have the TV or mobile phone to distract him at night and neither were his thoughts disturbed by the difficult and compelling choice of which streaming channel to watch!

This morning is perhaps an appropriate time to write this meditation as the bright and clear sunshine streaming through the window lifts my spirits and instills me with a bright and clear hope for the New Year. I might even be tempted to make some resolutions for the New Year too. The sunshine is inspiring me to be more positive in my outlook on life at least. Perhaps I may pursue a new activity: but it will not be training to be an acrobat or tightrope walker for sure!

New Year’s resolutions tend to fall into two categories. They may be decisions to take up an activity, as I have just mentioned, such as deciding to learn Italian or join a gym or to finally arrange a holiday to that destination you haven’t quite got around to visiting. Or they can be a checklist for self- improvement as we attempt to take an honest look at ourselves at the end of one year so as to hopefully change our bad habits at the start of a new one.

This list of good intentions is very different from a Christmas wish list, like the one we used to leave out for Santa when we were children and which we may still compile in case friends or family ask us what we would like for Christmas. That list, in the main, depends upon others (no longer Santa!) to fulfill by giving those gifts to us. Although, as we know, surprise gifts are often more fun to receive and sometimes reveal just how thoughtful a friend or relative can be.

By way of contrast, a list of New Year’s resolutions is dependent upon ourselves to fulfill and not someone else. They involve concrete decisions and planning. In the case of our checklist of self- improvement, they involve a desire, a determination to change.

Perhaps this is why sometimes (or more often) our resolutions can fall at an early or even the first hurdle. Deep down perhaps we don’t want to change anyway. It’s too easy to hang onto that bad habit or to be quickly discouraged. Well Rome wasn’t built in a day (as I am sure Marcus would agree) but it was built day by day, step by step. Change is possible in small steps, if we desire it.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be thinking about a New Year’s resolution but a New Day’s resolution. After all each day is a new beginning. I am reminded of the 2nd Century desert hermit St Antony who, as the legend goes, lived till he was a hundred. He was a wise and holy man who would start every day by saying ‘Today I begin.’ Every day is a fresh start.

In his own Meditations, Marcus refers to making a resolution each day at dawn to try to deal more patiently with the difficult people he may encounter during the day. To try to achieve this, he decides to attempt to see them as fellow human beings, as his ‘kinsmen’. Elsewhere in his Meditations he refers to his hasty temper, so he was very much aware of some of his shortcomings and that temper of his may have led to this resolution at dawn: at the start of the day.

The other day I came across a quote from the American philosopher and essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 82) who writes ‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters, compared with what lies within us.’ Perhaps, in considering New Year resolutions we should not so much think about what lies behind us (our previous bad habits or shortcomings) or even try to formulate what lies before us (by deciding upon resolutions for the future to change) but reflect upon what lies within us. In other words to look within ourselves in a positive way: to focus each day on our strengths, our abilities, our potential, the gift which we are to others.

I have finally finished this meditation in the evening in my lounge. Not surprisingly I have found myself being more reflective by candlelight. Cue for a resolution only to write these meditations in the evening in future!

A Happy New Year to you, dear reader

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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MEDITATION 107

I am not gazing at my candle as I begin this meditation. Instead I am looking at the other corner of the lounge where my Christmas tree stands. It is a large tree from the floor and virtually to the ceiling. It dominates the corner but not the room. Although, when I am sitting in my armchair, as now, or on the sofa opposite my eyes are inevitably drawn towards it, whether the twinkling lights are switched on or not.

Its many branches are filled with baubles and decorations as might be expected. Most of the branches bear decorations from my travels and some are gifts from friends and family over the years. Here and there on the tree there are also some I have purchased at exhibitions and places of interest I have visited. Museums and art galleries tend to display a wide range of merchandise in their gift shops these days, including Christmas decorations. If you are a regular reader of these meditations, you will know that I have a weakness for museum and art gallery gift shops, which has also led to a comprehensive collection of fridge magnets in my kitchen!

Scattered around the tree are several baubles from the Vatican museum, with miniature copies of Nativity pictures by medieval and renaissance artists on them. They are among my favourites. I have seven, I think, and my dear friend Will has the other seven. They are from our first trip to Rome and came in a large octagonal box which somehow I managed to squeeze into my small airline size suitcase to bring them home. Will has quite recently got into the ‘bauble habit’ himself and has given me some very colourful handmade ones over the last two years for my birthday.

There are also a Pinocchio and a pottery renaissance window from Venice, a streetcar from San Francisco, baubles from New York and Stratford upon Avon, a ceramic bell from Assisi, an embroidered cloth fleur de lis from Paris and an embroidered cloth thistle from Edinburgh, a wooden Krakowiak dancer from Krakow not to mention several from Vancouver Island with First Nations designs. A glass hummingbird graces one of the branches to remind me of the Kolibri theatre in Budapest (‘Kolibri’ means ‘hummingbird’) along with several others from my trips there, as might be imagined, including several delicately painted wooden eggs (which are actually Easter eggs, as Hungarians and other Eastern European countries have a tradition of an Easter tree). I am only describing a selection of my tree decorations or this meditation would be rather long.

I have so many special decorations now that there is less and less room each year for the ones I bought in shops to help fill the tree’s branches when I first purchased it, colourful though they are. Most of them have been relegated to the back of the tree and the bottom branches now. But as they are part of the history of the tree, they have their place too.

Because so many of the decorations are from places I have visited I am reminded of those places and whoever was with me when I was there. So, as I look at the tree now, to me it is not just a Christmas tree but also a ‘travel tree’ or rather a ‘memories tree’. It is good to sit and and look and remember. To remember not just the places but the people I was with at the time. So it is also a ‘friendship tree.’

When I first began writing these meditations (in fact it was in Meditation No 2, I think!) I mentioned that I was once in Paris, in the church of St Pierre de Montmartre, the oldest church in that district. In that medieval church there was a small chapel with a stained glass window of abstract design. I recalled that the design reminded me of all my friendships, each panel unique and part of the design of my life. The stained glass greatly heartened me at that time, just as this tree does now as it too reminds me of my friendships. As Marcus Aurelius writes in his own ‘Meditations’ (in Book 6) ‘Whenever you want to cheer yourself up think of the good qualities of your friends’. As I do now.

Of course the tree also reminds me of my own childhood. What Christmas tree does not remind us of our childhood? Christmas is the children’s festival.The excitement and the sense of wonder and of awe: that Christmas morning feeling. Wonder and awe seem to be in small supply in this negative, cynical ,weary and war-torn world of ours. ‘Unto us a child is born’; goes the carol, meaning the Christ child. May a child be born in each one of us again this Christmas, and may we experience that Christmas morning feeling anew. And may we remember the child freezing in a dingy in the ocean or playing in the rubble of a bombed out street.

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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Christmas Vatican Museum

Travel Rome

Friendship Museums and Art Galleries

Pinocchio New York

Venice

San Francisco Stratford upon Avon

Assisi Paris Monmartre

Edinburgh Krakow

Vancouver Island Kolibri Theatre Budapest

First Nations Easter tree

St Pierre de Montmartre Marcus Aurelius Meditations

MEDITATION 106

As I sit here beside my candle, I am reflecting upon something I witnessed a few evenings ago. It was a minor miracle or at least something truly remarkable.

I was attending a concert at the Royal Festival Hall on London’s South Bank. In the second half of the programme, the American-Swedish conductor, Herbert Blomstedt, conducted the 80 players of the Philharmonia Orchestra in Mahler’s epic Ninth Symphony. The symphony is approximately 80 minutes in duration apart from three very brief breaks between each of its four movements. What is remarkable is that Maestro Blomstedt is 97 years old.

In the first half of the concert we had experienced Greek violinist Leonidas Kavakos playing Mozart’s 4th violin concerto as soloist and at the same time as conductor of a more reduced orchestra. That of course was a feat in itself and it was an impressive sight watching the spry Kavakos alternately playing to the audience then turning to conduct the orchestra. But then Kavakos is very much younger than Blomstedt and the concerto’s three movements only run to a mere 20 minutes (less than the length of Mahler’s first movement!). His entrance onto the stage was energetic and forthright as were his performance and his exit after giving an encore.

By way of contrast, Maestro Blomstedt was brought onto the stage by the concert manager who held onto his arm. He was led to the podium in front of the orchestra, who applauded along with the audience. Blomstedt gave a small bow before stepping onto the podium and sitting on a chair to face the large orchestra arrayed in front of him.

One could be forgiven for wondering whether this frail old man would manage to complete the performance of this long symphonic work, let alone produce a compelling rendition. Or at least there might be mistakes in keeping the orchestra together in the sprightly 2nd and 3rd movements. Or he might meander in the long outer slow movements, lose focus and slow down the pace as his energy faltered. I am sure he would be forgiven these things by the audience if they had happened.

But no, they did not. His grip on both orchestra and the symphony’s score was sure and unerring throughout. Structure and phrasing were absolutely clear. He had a complete mastery of each movement and did not lose impetus or his way for a moment. If anything far from losing energy and pace, his performance of the two more energetic middle movements was quicker than my two cd recordings at home. Indeed his pace gave the impression of a young man in a hurry!

By the final movement we were in his thrall. As the final tender chords of the fourth movement adagio dissolved into the silence it seemed as if time stood still as he continued to hold up his arms and then slowly lowered them. The silence continued which revealed how engrossed we all were – orchestra, conductor and audience – under the spell of the music. It was an intense yet warm moment which we all shared.

Then the applause began. What was unusual was that Maestro Blomstedt did not turn to receive the applause as is customary. Instead he remained seated for a moment and applauded the orchestra himself, inviting them to stand to receive the audience’s appreciation. Then he pointed to individual sections of the players to take a bow acknowledging their individual contributions to the performance.

When he finally turned to take a bow himself, of course he received a well-deserved standing ovation. He then stepped down from the podium and slowly walked off stage, again helped by the concert manager as if the performance had never happened. His self- deprecation was as impressive as the music he had created. You see it was all about the music and the orchestra and not about him. Besides he does not need adulation any more after a long career as a musician, if he ever did. Apparently, he made his debut as a conductor in Stockholm in 1954, the year after I was born!

As Martin Kettle commented in The Guardian, ‘It was one of the finest performances of Mahler’s 9th one was likely to hear.’ I have never heard the symphony in live performance before and I feel highly privileged to have heard this one. It was also also the first time I had heard Herbert Blomstedt conduct. I hope it won’t be my last.

Not only was this performance a rare, indeed unique experience, it was music we needed to hear. Gustav Mahler wrote the symphony in 1909 after losing his daughter Maria to diphtheria two years earlier and learning that he himself had a defective heart which did not bode well for the future. He was to die two years later in 1911 aged only 51. As Martin Kettle also commented, ‘The Ninth is on the edge. It looks into the abyss. It grapples with mortality.’

There is also something prophetic about the symphony, about the abyss that Europe would plunge into only a few years later with the First World War in 1914, which Mahler mercifully did not witness, and the Second World War which followed in 1939. The music also speaks of our own 21st century and the wars we are sadly witnessing at present. It sometimes feels as if we are looking into the abyss ourselves.

Perhaps it was highly appropriate that a man of Maestro Blomstedt’s longevity, who has lived most of his life in the 20th Century and the rest in the 21st, should be leading the audience through this prophetic, intense, and ultimately cathartic experience. As he was born in 1927, he has after all lived through more conflicts than most of us have. The performance could be seen to be an old man’s testimony.

Underneath the doom-laden violent music of the first movement is a rhythmic pulse of hope, which I had not noticed before. Perhaps Blomstedt’s performance accentuated it. Perhaps I hadn’t listened closely enough before to notice it, even though I have played my records and cd’s of the symphony many times over the years. And it is hope that emerges triumphant at the end of the final movement.

Perhaps in our current turbulent times we too should listen closely for the rhythmic pulse of hope. And believe in it.

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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Classical Music Performance

Conducting

Royal Festival Hall

South Bank London

Gustav Mahler/ Symphony No 9

Herbert Blomstedt

Philharmonia Orchestra

Leonidas Kavakos

Mozart Violin Concerto No 4

The Guardian

Martin Kettle

Stockholm

First and Second World Wars

MEDITATION 105

As I sit here by my candle, I am looking out of my kitchen window at the drab grey sky louring over my garden on this nondescript autumn day. So to cheer myself up, I am thinking back to a beautiful golden sunset I experienced last week. Those of you who read these pages, will know that I do like my sunsets. My twilights too. They echo within me now that I have reached my twilight years. The sun has not yet set over me, but when it does, I hope it will be a golden one.

The radiant sunset I experienced was over the River Thames near Hampton Court. As I stood at the top of the pathway down to the river itself and looked down on the swathes of green glistening in the sunlight below me, I felt transported back in time. Ahead of me was an elegant rotund building with a dome and portico framed by tall trees and hedges. The grey dome shone in the sunshine. In front of the building was the green itself which stretched down to the river. The river itself was resplendent in the light, its waters surfaced with silver. On the green some boys were playing with wooden swords. Or were they limbering up before they practiced with real ones?

It appears I had chanced upon an 18th Century enclave. The scene could be the subject of an oil painting of the period. All that was missing perhaps, was a small dog, possibly a spaniel, scampering at the heels of the boys. Possibly there could be a small sail boat skimming the waters of the river too and a lone angler fishing from the bank. A girl on a swing hanging from the boughs of a tree near the portico might complete the charming scene. In my mind I listened for the clip-clop of a horse drawing a carriage approaching behind me. But there was none. Only the persistent mechanical drone of cars, lorries and buses came to my ears.

Actually I had walked down to the path from a bus stop. From where I stood, I was viewing Garrick’s Green, named after the star 18th Century actor, David Garrick (1717-1779). The elegant domed building was built by the actor himself as a Temple to Shakespeare. It now houses a small museum of pictures and artefacts relating to him and is called Garrick’s Temple. Over the main road, which is now a main thoroughfare to Heathrow airport, is the large mansion, Hampton House, which he occupied and developed as his summer villa and weekend haunt when he wasn’t appearing on the stage at Drury Lane in London. The mansion is now apartments. Originally the lawns would have stretched from the villa to the river and of course, minus the modern road traffic and airplanes overhead, it would have been a quiet country retreat for Garrick from the hurly-burly of the London theatre scene.

The boys with the wooden swords were rehearsing a scene (or attempting to!). As I walked down the sloping path to the Green, I could see other boys rehearsing too on park benches or standing and reciting their lines across the river. Sadly there were no ducks or swans to play to. They were students from Richard Challoner School in New Malden where I worked for many years. There in the sunlight by the river they were engaged in their final rehearsals for a Shakespeare evening that was taking place in Garrick’s Temple. I was there to help with rehearsals and to take part too along with some members of staff.

I have been past the Temple so many times on the way to the airport and have always wanted to pay a visit. Now here I was not only visiting but also performing there, thanks to Leigh, my successor in the Drama department, who organised the event.

The Temple, being small, is an intimate place to perform in and has excellent acoustics. Sometimes concerts take place there, apparently. The performing area was at the opposite end to the entrance, in front of an imposing statue of Shakespeare himself in a raised niche which is the focal point of the interior. I would like to comment that Shakespeare was looking down benignly upon the young performers, but he was paying no attention to them, looking away to the right as if in the midst of creating.

The rest of the room was filled with chairs for the audience and every chair was filled. I felt quite proud of the students as the audience were so close to them and they could see them clearly as it wasn’t possible for the lights to be dimmed. It didn’t seem to put them off at all.

A warm glow permeated the room during the performance. As I sat in the back row of the audience, I wondered how the room would have looked by candlelight in Garrick’s time. The warmth and the glow would have been not too dissimilar, I imagine. I have sometimes spoken in my meditations of the invisible circle between the performer and the audience in a successful performance. Well here we were, performers and audience, actually within a circular building! However, I will not comment on whether that invisible circle was achieved as I was a performer myself.

It was fitting of course that we were performing Shakespeare in Garrick’s Temple to Shakespeare, not only because of the building but because of David Garrick himself as he was the pre-eminent Shakespearean actor of his time. As I sat in the back row of the audience, waiting to perform Sonnet 29, I looked up to the domed ceiling and then around the walls filled with Garrick memorabilia and then back to the students performing a scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet’ with the large statue of Shakespeare behind them.

As I did so, the thought came to me that we were all part of a tradition, an acting tradition of playing Shakespeare. Garrick had been part of that tradition, nearly three centuries ago, which he handed on to others and which I, in my own small way, imparted to my own students over the years. One of those was Leigh who is also handing that tradition on to his own students and here they were performing in Garrick’s building.

Just for a moment that tradition was tangible as if hovering in the air. I saw my career as part of a bigger picture. And for a brief moment too I felt a little proud that I was part of that tradition. Then the moment evaporated as it was time for me to perform my sonnet.

I also performed a speech by Prospero from ‘The Tempest’: ‘Our revels now are ended’. I had played the role with my students for my retirement performance in 2017. On this occasion, I fluffed a line and covered my mistake by repeating an earlier one.

I am sure Garrick must have done the same sometimes. Shakespeare too when he was on stage, for that matter.

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

PS: Incidentally I have decided to become a volunteer at Garrick’s Temple! It is open on Sundays in the summer from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m. www.garrickstemple.org.uk

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River Thames

Hampton Court

Garrick’s Green

David Garrick (1717-1779)

Garrick’s Temple

Shakespeare

Heathrow

Drury Lane

Richard Challoner School

New Malden

Theatre Performance

Shakespeare Sonnet 29

”Romeo and Juliet’

’The Tempest’

MEDITATION 104

As I write this meditation, I am not sitting at a table with a candle burning beside me. I am not in my own house. I am sitting in a cafe in nearby Kingston – Upon – Thames.

It is a fairly new establishment and is situated on a corner. The plate glass windows which reach to the floor give extensive views on two sides. As I look through the window ahead of me I can see one of Kingston’s landmarks: the leaning red telephone boxes. Pisa has its leaning tower and Kingston has its leaning telephone boxes! One telephone box stands upright while the next one leans against it at an angle and the next one leans against that one and so on until the last one is almost on the ground. There are 10 in total – I have just counted them. This zany artwork will soon become a heritage site, no doubt, as our dear red telephone boxes are becoming a thing of the past.

Cafe Marna is just one of the coffee shops I visit in Kingston. I also visit three others and have loyalty cards for all of them. Loyalty is one of my better traits, I hope. In actuality I enjoy having the card stamped in eager anticipation of a free coffee on the tenth stamp when the card is full. Because, I go to a different cafe whenever I am in Kingston, filling each card takes time! However, I have been visiting this one more frequently than the others recently so I am on stamp no 9 now! It is not far from where I get off the bus and it is friendly, bright, cheerful and new, a novelty I suppose.

Wherever I am, by choice I visit independent coffee shops if possible. I am not enamoured of the ubiquitous global chains. Coffee shops seem to be appearing everywhere in our UK streets. There are three in one street in Kingston for example. They have become a fixture in our culture, an ingrained habit now. I wonder if the habit has grown even more since lockdown, when we were confined for large stretches of time in our homes. I also wonder if coffee shops have eclipsed the popularity of pubs. Do more people go to a coffee shop now than go to the pub? To cash in on the trend, even pubs are serving coffee now.

‘Coffee on the go’ has also become a fixture in our culture too. I see so many people on my travels wandering around with eco-friendly paper cups of coffee in their hands in the street, on the bus or on the train. I even see people slurping away in the supermarket. Some time ago, I was almost scalded by one lady’s coffee as she meandered down the aisle with her trolley, concentrating on her phone. Some people are quite dexterous and agile in carrying their coffee cup along with bags and luggage, unless they suddenly have to run for the train or airport departure gate of course.

As I sit here in the cafe Marna why its bright new modern decor, I think back to my favourite coffee houses in Budapest such as the Central and Muvesz with their plush, old fashioned surroundings. And an extensive selection of cakes and pastries of course, while the Marna has a very modest display in comparison. The relaxed atmosphere and elegant surroundings of the Budapest coffee house is one of the places where I feel most at home, where my Eastern European roots take hold of me. It is not about the coffee or the cakes (delicious as they are) it is about the place, the cultured ambiance. It is one of the places where I feel closest to my true self.

Some are not so much coffee houses as palaces with their glass chandeliers, high ceilings adorned with beautiful frescoes and elegant gilt furniture. Yet there is still an intimacy about them. They are places for conversation. Although I did notice on my last visit to the city, that in some coffee houses, several customers were working with laptops on the polished marble tables.

The full coffee house experience has to include a pianist playing in the background. At the Cafe New York, quite a long while ago, there used to be an amazing pianist who could play Strauss waltzes or whatever while reading the newspaper, which was spread out on the top of the baby grand, at the same time. I am sure there is still a pianist playing there although the cafe, beautifully restored, is now part of an expensive hotel where film stars stay. It has become equally very expensive and a tourist attraction with queues waiting outside for a table. It was always elegant and palatial but in a building that appeared to be falling down as it was shored up by large wooden beams on the corner. This was all part of the Cafe New York’s charm and attraction: a jewel of a cafe in a dilapidated old building.

As I sit here in the Cafe Marna, I am wondering whether I should recreate the heady atmosphere of the Cafe New York, by tuning into some Strauss or Chopin on my I phone. I have these wonderful new hearing aids that hook up to my phone by the wonder of bluetooth. They are my version of the ‘buds’ people wear now, the update of headphones (which like the great British telephone box may eventually also become obsolete, I imagine). I opt to stay with the cafe’s own chill background music so as to be in the moment.

There are quite a few customers listening on their buds or on their headphones at the moment. In fact most of the customers are perusing a laptop, tablet or phone. I wonder how the cafe would appear before any of these devices existed. In those days, over two decades ago, customers would be engaged in conversation, or reading a book or magazine or a newspaper. Cafes often provided newspapers on a rack and some still do. One or two might be making notes from a book or writing in a notebook. This is a university town after all.

But overall, the cafe then was usually a place for relaxation not for work. The situation has reversed and that reversal has taken place quite recently. Working from home or working from the cafe?

I am no different at this present moment of course, except I am not writing on my tablet or laptop but in a notebook, before writing it up on my laptop at home. Also I do not consider writing my blog as work. It is a relaxation and pleasure, dear reader.

As you can you imagine there is very little conversation taking place in this cafe at present. In fact, aside from customers ordering at the counter, there is no conversation at all.

And yet, here we are, sitting and engaging in one task or another. I ask myself why?

To get out of the house or flat, I suppose. For some kind of company. It is company, even though we are not talking to each other.

Writing is a solitary business. So it is good to have some kind of company.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

Kingston – Upon – Thames

Telephone boxes

Coffee Shops

Cafe Marna

Coffee on the Go

Budapest Coffee Houses

Muvesz Coffee House, Budapest

Central Coffee House, Budapest

New York Cafe, Budapest

Johann Strauss

Chopin

I phone

Hearing devices

Bluetooth

Tablet

Laptop

Bluetooth

MEDITATION 103

As I sit here by my candle I should be reflecting on the beautiful golden sunsets I experienced last week while staying at the Hayes Conference Centre in Swanwick, Derbyshire. I was there for the annual writers’ summer school and was amazed by the stunning sunsets over the gardens and lakes there. Another quite spectacular sight in the clear night skies was the Perseid meteor shower, which I caught a glimpse of late on Tuesday evening.

But instead of reflecting on shooting stars and creamy twilight skies, what comes to my mind is a less expansive and more compact experience: that of sitting in an airplane seat on a long haul flight. A recent item on the BBC News website has reminded me of my long haul air travel experience. It is only a few months ago since I was on a long haul flight to Canada so the article caught my eye.

Apparently there is a new craze designed to tackle the boredom and inertia that can accompany long haul travel. It involves sitting in silence and looking straight ahead at the seat in front of you without the mini TV screen switched on for the length of the flight. You are sitting there looking straight ahead with no films or music (or phone or I pad) to divert or entertain you. This highly disciplined exercise has been extended to not partaking of food or drink or walking along the aisle or using the loo. The aim of the task is to see how long you can sit absolutely still on the flight.

The exercise goes by the unseemly title of ‘raw dogging’ which is apparently a nickname for unprotected sex. I suppose the term means that the person is, in this way, flying unprotected from boredom or inertia. One young footballer achieved this on a seven and a half hour flight and another footballer has succeeded in sitting unmoved for thirteen and a half hours. It is clear that these testosterone-fuelled young men are treating the exercise as a male endurance test. Could it become an Olympic sport, I ask myself, with a plane full of judges and spectators? It would be rather difficult to concentrate and maintain stillness in that situation, I think.

As might be expected, the medical profession have pointed out the dangers of the exercise: the risk of dehydration in an airplane cabin without taking any liquids and the need for some kind of sustenance on a long flight. Failure to take a little walk in the aisle over a length of time can lead to deep vein thrombosis in the leg and it is obviously not advisable to avoid using the loo over a length of time either.

Nevertheless I can see a value in engaging in such an exercise for a short period of time on a long journey, perhaps in between the in-flight meals. Sitting still and looking ahead for a little while can help you to digitally detox, to clear the mind of the endless daily stimulation we experience and indeed crave, to recharge the batteries of our mind, to refocus our mental energies. To stop, think and reflect. To meditate. To find our centre again.

Perhaps these footballers found the exercise useful in this way: to rid their minds of the noise of the cheering (and baying) crowds, to step out of the tense, competitive atmosphere of their careers and to relax their minds so as to be mentally alert for the split-second decisions they will have to make in their next game.

Long haul flights can seem tedious and can be mind-numbing. I have often used them to catch up on my reading or my music – I recommend a long novel or opera! I remember on a ten hour flight to San Francisco I spent time with a script and notebook preparing my millennium school production of ‘Romeo and Juliet’. I had every scene prepared before we touched down.

Perhaps the exercise would be most appropriate when the lights are dimmed in a night flight. Or did those two soccer players actually doze off when the lights went out? I wouldn’t blame them if they did. I find it difficult to follow movies on those small airline screens and when the lights are dimmed, if I can’t sleep, my eyes will wander to the screen of the passenger beside me, or, as I usually have an aisle seat, the screens of two or three passengers across the aisle. I once watched parts of the classic movie ‘The Godfather’ that way. It was silent to me of course but I easily followed it. Well, I had seen it quite a few times before anyway.

There is a value in making the most of what appears to be ‘dead time’. I have learnt this as I use public transport a great deal. I must confess to being rather dismissive of these two young soccer players when I read the article. I thought it might be some kind of publicity stunt. But regardless of the competitiveness of their endurance test I am sure they have benefited from the exercise and may be enriching their lives in the process. At the least they may be in some way better mentally prepared for the demands and challenges of their profession.

They have had the courage to be still; to be silent – and not in a room on their own but among other people in an airplane cabin. It does take courage to be silent in our noisy overstimulated world. Because in the silence, we find ourselves.

I am also grateful to them. They have reminded me to make the most of my next long haul flight. And that I can be still, silent, reflective and centred sitting in my aisle seat in an airplane as much as sitting on a bench in a beautiful garden watching the stars fall down.

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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The Hayes Conference Centre

Swanwick Writers’ Summer School

Derbyshire

Perseids

Meteor Shower

BBC News Website

Long Haul Travel

In Flight Entertainment

Canada

Professional Football

‘Raw Dogging’

Olympics

Dehydration

Deep Vein Thrombosis

Meditation/Contemplation

San Francisco

Millenium

‘Romeo and Juliet’