Meditation 93

As I sit looking out of my kitchen window, the Indian summer of the afternoon has melded into the autumn chill of evening. A scent of bark wafts in through the kitchen door. I have just laid bark and wood chips over the soil in the garden borders to hopefully prevent my perennial struggle with weeds in the year ahead! 

I am thinking about something Roman, which Marcus Aurelius would have used every day and something modern which we may use every day. A tablet. 

You may say to yourself I do not possess a tablet myself or I pad or whatever. But is not the mobile phone a mini-tablet? We are able to make notes on it after all as well as emails and messages. I could write my meditation on it if I so wished.

This has come to my mind because a week or so ago my mobile phone was stolen. I hasten to add that I wasn’t mugged. I wasn’t alone either. I had a friend with me. We were eating outside a restaurant in Central London. My phone was taken by a beggar woman from my table. It was beside my plate and the woman used the distracting tactic of trying to grab a slice of pizza from my plate. I didn’t notice it had gone till a while later. More fool me for leaving it on display as a temptation for someone less fortunate than myself. 

My friend was very helpful and called the phone company for me and the assistant arranged for my phone to be blocked. Two days later I had a new phone and thanks to that most nebulous yet essential of devices, the Cloud, everything from my stolen phone appeared as if by magic on my new one. And then all was well with the world again!

Aside from the shock of the theft and being annoyed and upset, I immediately felt rather disorientated. This feeling of being lost lasted until a new phone was in my hands. I became a bundle of nerves at times. My nerves didn’t settle until my emails and apps etc were up and running again on my phone. Even though, in the interim of only two days, I was able to use my I pad and laptop to write, send emails and texts and explore the internet. And being old-fashioned, I still have a landline too to communicate with the outside world.

This situation has made me ask myself why am I so dependent on a smart phone for my health and wellbeing? For it is dependency. I mainly do my banking on my phone, for instance, and the app provides a security code if I want to access my account on my laptop. Although my bank is a telephone bank and I could have done business that way if necessary. I have the NHS app too which has my medical records on it and I can use it to order a repeat prescription. Again, I could always call the surgery if I needed a repeat prescription on my landline, like in the old days (only a year or so ago!). So, I do not absolutely need my mobile phone, but life is getting that way!  

Of course, the ability to communicate with others in such a variety of ways and so quickly on a mobile phone is a wonderful asset to have. Not to mention, taking photos, playing music, watching TV, keeping up with the news, making purchases, finding directions etc. You may be reading this meditation on your mobile phone. And, of course, they were so useful in lockdown for video calls with loved ones.

I remember watching a TV programme, around 30 years ago now, about the joys of the personal computer. Mobile phones were mentioned in the discussion. They were in their infancy then and looked like a brick against the ear – not much different from a military walkie-talkie! Someone suggested that eventually a hand- held computer will be developed. And here we are! 

My worry is that not only have we become dependent on mobile phones for so many things now, but that this dependency has accelerated rapidly in the last few years. So much of our lives is now conducted on that mini-tablet in our hands. I also remember that when I was as a child, television broadcasting was promoted as a window onto the world in the corner of your living room. Now the world is in our hand – or rather the virtual world. 

Did we ask for this dependency? No of course not. No-one asks to be dependent on anyone or anything. It somehow just happens slowly and stealthily. And with dependency comes addiction, if we are not careful. At the very least, the mobile phone can be a distraction, stopping us from fully concentrating or focusing on the task in hand. In fact, the phone becomes the task in hand instead unless we have the personal discipline to switch it off for a while or at least switch it to silent mode. Then perhaps true personal fulfillment will come to us, instead of the empty promises of personal fulfillment pedaled by social media. 

Dear me, Marcus will be upset. I had intended to share with you my recent visit to Rome. I will save it until my next meditation. 

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 92

As I sit here in my lounge by my customary candle, I am not concentrating on its flickering flame but I am remembering a sunset in a garden.

​A couple of Sundays ago I went to a garden party in South London. It was quite a special occasion. At the centre of the party was the reading of a Shakespeare play, ‘The Winter’s Tale’, one of his late plays.  We each played several parts as there were only 10 of us seated in a circle. There was an interval break for tea (or wine) and after the ‘final curtain’ a buffet and drinks. The proceedings included a toast to ‘Sweet Master Shakespeare’. The party continued until the sun began to go down behind the trees.

​It was a special occasion because it was the revival of an annual summer event for the first time in four years. The party used to take place in my friend Peter’s extensive garden in his family’s old house, The Brambles, in Chingford on the outskirts of East London. But that lovely old house with its rambling garden is now sold and Peter is now living on the Isle of Wight. Soour party took place in his brother David’s garden instead which was smaller but no less delightful. 

​Ideally Shakespeare’s plays should be read aloud. There is something special about reading them in the open air. After all, many of the original performances were in the open air, in the playhouses and inn yards of his time. However the King’s Men, Shakespeare’s acting company, did perform indoors at court frequently and in the indoor Blackfriars Theatre eventually. Nevertheless, the lines read so well in the open air. There is quite a tradition of open air summer Shakespeare in parks and historical venues across the UK and beyond. I once visited the Villa Borghese gardens in Rome, which has its own Elizabethan playhouse, for example, and New York’s Central Park has an annual summer Shakespeare season. There is something truly magical about sitting in a garden or park among the trees, flowers and greenery and listening to Shakespeare’s lines piercing the summer stillness. 

​Being seated in a circle was also reminiscent of an Elizabethan playhouse – like the ‘wooden O’ of the Globe, mentioned at the beginning of ‘Henry V’ (which premiered there). So, there was something magical about our garden circle – an echo or two of four centuries ago. Hearing the words so closely and intimately gave new meaning to them. I found new things in the text, even though I have taught the play before and have seen it several times and, I must admit, it is not one of my favourite Shakespeare plays. 

​But that afternoon, it was as if the words were newly minted. Our great Shakespearean actress Dame Judi Dench used that phrase -‘newly minted’ in an interview. She was explaining how the text of a Shakespeare play ought to be played: in other words as if each line is fresh and new and of the moment. This is difficult to achieve in performance as many of Shakespeare’s plays are so famous and some of the lines almost hackneyed. I am not saying that our little group of readers were in the same class as Dame Judi, but the ambiance and the open air made us listen anew and so, in that way, the lines were indeed ‘newly minted.’

​Since I began writing these meditations almost 5 years ago (!), I have sometimes mentioned the invisible circle that can be created between the performers on stage and the audience. It is a magical complicity, especially when there is only one performer on stage. The performers and the audience are linked in a special way, in complete communion. That invisible circle manifested itself as we sat together in the garden reading ‘The Winter’s Tale’. Perhaps it was more tangible because our little band were both performers and audience. 

​I had experienced being part of that invisible circle a few evenings earlier in a much larger venue. My friend Peter and I attended a Proms concert at the Royal Albert Hall. Instead of being part of a small intimate circle of 10 in his brother’s garden, we were seated in an auditorium of over 5,000 persons. 

​The large circle of the auditorium is completed by the concert stage. Above the stage and on either side of it are the choir seats which are occupied by singers when there is a choral or operatic work on the programme. When that isn’t the case, the seats are available to the audience. We sat in the choir that evening, looking down on the orchestra and out to the audience, which of course includes the ‘Promenaders’ standing on the floor of the arena in the centre. Despite the shape of the hall, it is difficult to imagine that an invisible circle between performers and audience can be created in so vast a space. But of course it can once the lights go down and conductor and soloist enter the stage and silence and intense concentration take over the Proms audience.

​Our soloist that evening was the young Siberian pianist, Pavel Kolesnikov, who performed the 2nd Piano Concerto of Shostakovich. The second movement is a quiet and reflective piece evoking romantic longing. It is customary at Proms concerts for soloists to give an encore after their performance, which Kolesnikov duly did: an arrangement of a Bach prelude for solo piano. It was in these two pieces: the concerto movement and encore that the invisible circle seemed strongest and most potent, especially in the encore. As the young pianist quietly and gently made his way through the prelude, I could almost touch the intense concentration of the audience and the orchestra, who were still on stage listening to him.

​A web, an invisible web of music was created as he played. The Proms concerts have been creating this web since their inception in 1895, and now with international audiences and performers alike it is a World Wide Web of music. In fact it was so long before the World Wide Web was dreamt of. 

​These cultural circles are so important, whether large or small. The Arts bring people together, whatever their nationality. That evening at the Proms we were an international circle, linked by our appreciation of the music and especially the young Siberian pianist Pavel Kolesnikov, who has left Russia and is now based here in the UK. National boundaries and different cultures didn’t matter. These are such precious moments to experience. We are so fortunate to have the Proms every year – and the BBC who promote them.

​It is so important to uphold and commit ourselves to these circles in whatever way we can. As we know there are so many people in our world who have dedicated themselves to continually breaking the circle and creating barriers.  So, like children in a playground,  we must hold out our hands and join the circle and grasp the hands of those around us to keep it from breaking.  

Ave atque Vale

Neilus Aurelius

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MEDITATION 91

As I sit here by my candle,  I am recalling another candle, a candle in a church beside a grave. The church is Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-Upon-Avon. I was visiting there again a few weeks ago on a weekend break. I have been inside the church many times. It’s a kind of pilgrimage for me as the grave is where Shakespeare is buried.

His grave is inside the church behind the main altar. In a separate grave beside him is his wife Anne, who outlived him, and there are graves of other members of his family beside them. The church is situated by the River Avon and the large stained glass window behind Shakespeare’s grave looks out onto it.  So, he is probably laid as close to the river as possible.

You might imagine a pilgrimage to be arduous, involving a long and difficult journey on rough roads but my pilgrimage isn’t like that. It’s a lovely walk from the Theatre along a shady pathway by the river, where the willow trees reach down to the water: a walk Shakespeare must have taken himself. Of course there wasn’t a theatre in the town then: performances took place in inn yards or in the Town Hall. The troupe of strolling players, the Earl of Worcester’s Men, appeared there quite regularly. Shakespeare probably saw them when he was a boy and got the acting bug.

Just before you get to the church there is a dell, which provides a grassy space where modern strolling players can perform: students, schoolchildren and amateur drama groups from around the country in shortened versions of his plays. You can make your way to the church through the graveyard and along the avenue of trees which leads to the church door.

Whenever I stand in front of Shakespeare’s grave, I reflect for a few moments. There is always a posy or bunch flowers on the grave. I always mean to bring some myself but never do. Perhaps I will next time. But I do say thank you. After all, he has enriched my life so much. As I have mentioned in these meditations before, Shakespeare is a stream running through my life, just as the River Avon runs through the town and ran through his own life too.  

I remember visiting the church once when I was on a course with Royal Shakespeare Company’s Education department. I had stayed in an actor friend’s cottage in the village of Loxley nearby. I got to Stratford an hour before the course began, as buses were infrequent. So I called into the church which was quiet and empty – too early for tourists. The church had just opened for the day. It was very still and so very intimate standing there beside the grave: just Shakespeare and myself in the church, or so it seemed. Since then it has always seemed like that, just Shakespeare and me, even though the church may be quite busy behind me and visitors may be standing either side of me. Somehow despite that, I am able to zone in on him.

On that particular morning, I remember standing there and apologising for my production of ‘Julius Caesar’ at school a few months earlier. It was a good concept -a modern costume production – but a bit of a mess in places. This was partly because I was directed two other plays virtually at the same time. I was rather over ambitious that year. Of my three school productions of ‘Caesar’ over the years it was the second and the least successful. As I stood there, I wondered how many other directors (or actors for that matter) had stood there and apologised too: ‘Sorry for messing up your play, William!’ (I can think of a few that should have done!)

But then I thought: we did take the production to Hungary, where it did improve, and how wonderful that we did, along with four other plays of his we’d taken since we first went there in 1990. So I hope he was pleased. He never went there himself with his own company. As far as I recall, the first Shakespeare play to be performed there was ‘Hamlet’, in translation of course, in 1770.

I am sure he would have appreciated our Drama tours as he used to tour himself with his acting company, as well as appearing at the Globe on Bankside in London and at court. With him it was setting up in inn yards, with us it was setting up in schools (and eventually theatres). One thing I learnt from our school tours was that Shakespeare is so portable. You can perform him anywhere as long as you have some kind of stage, ideally a platform – and an audience.

I remember we once performed ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ in a prestigious school in Budapest. It may have been prestigious but it was also a very old building and poorly equipped. This was 30 years ago so I am sure it has improved since then. We performed the play in a gym with a platform at one end and no lighting to speak of. We had to create the magic of the forest ourselves with Shakespeare’s words and our colourful costumes. However, Puck and the Fairies did ‘fly in’ from  wall bars on gym ropes!  I also remember some of their students sitting in the back row of the audience and following the performance with copies of the play in English, which I found very moving. I imagine Shakespeare would have quite enjoyed being with us on tour. He would have been an extra pair of hands in rehearsals if nothing else!

After I visited the grave a few weeks ago, I sat down for a moment in the quiet side chapel. A  volunteer in the church came over to me and began to talk to me. She asked me if it was my first visit, so I replied that I had visited the church many times and told her a little about my teaching career. When I explained to her that Shakespeare was a major part of my life, it was as if I has realised it for the first time. It made me stop and think of the enormity of what I had told her.  Yes he has been a major strand in my life. He has been an inspiration and an impetus and at the core of my teaching.

He has energised me, indeed perhaps I have fed off his energy, even though his was spent 400 years ago. I was reminded of this by the production I saw that evening. It was the comedy ‘As You Like It’. The premise of the production was that a group of veteran actors were getting together for a kind of reunion in a rehearsal room as they had first performed the play together in 1978. Despite the age of most the cast, what energy they had dashing around the stage and doing a dance number at one point. What experience too on that stage: the lines were crystal clear and the key comic and emotional moments were too.Most of all the ‘young lovers’ convinced us despite their age. And the production created a warm glow in the audience at the end as all Shakespeare’s comedies should.

How did Shakespeare cope with being retired? I thought that in the church. As far as we know he left the London theatres in 1613 at retired to Stratford where he died in 1616. What were his last three years like for him, especially if he still had so much creative energy? Or was he burnt out, or sick? Or was he slowly losing his mind to dementia? I have a feeling that underneath his great tragedy, ‘King Lear’  lies his own fear of losing his mind. Perhaps he was done with theatre, perhaps he’d had enough. Perhaps he had walked away and quietly settled into retirement. It was so long ago. We will never know anyway.

I know that I have found it difficult to be serene about my retirement. But sitting in that church the other morning, I did wonder about his. While I sat there and when I talked with the volunteer, the thought came to me that my work is done. My work is done. I have retired from the teaching profession.

But I am still teaching: I am giving a course n a week’s time at Swanwick Writers’ Summer School. And Shakespeare is still with me.  

Marcus Aurelius writes in his own Meditations, ‘ What is your profession? Being a good man.’ I would amend that to ‘Trying to be a good man.’ For sometimes it is difficult to be good. But it is a profession we never retire from.

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MEDITATION 90

I am seated by my candle recalling memories of my Canadian vacation again. However, I am not remembering breathtaking landscapes as in my last meditation, or revisiting with affection the small town of Sidney on Vancouver Island which is the inspiration for ‘Driftwood’, my collection of short stories. I am recalling gnarled and twisted tree roots, crunchy dead leaves, mud, puddles and small pools, tree stumps and rocks, slippery hillocks and a swaying bridge over a gaping chasm. In short, I am reliving with a wry smile and a modicum of pride an accidental trek through a forest.

My cousin Mark’s son, Justin, was driving us towards Sooke Harbour where we planned to have lunch. He suggested we drive a little further on and briefly visit Mystic Beach beforehand. The name of the beach appealed to my imagination, so I agreed. We soon arrived at a car park and there before us, in all its verdant green splendour was a dense forest. Apparently we had to follow a trail through the forest to get to the beach. As far as I remember, Justin had been on the trail before and told us that it wasn’t very far.

Having spent much of the holiday by the ocean so far, and being eager to give my friend Simon a glimpse of the beautiful forests on the Island as well, I agreed that we should go ahead. I was presumably asked to make the decision because I was the oldest member of the group. Underlying this was probably the others’ awareness that trekking through a forest was not quite my thing. And they were right. (Although I had gone on a mini-trek with Mark several years before).  

So we blithely left water, snacks and my backpack containing my asthma inhaler behind in the car and started the trail, thinking it would be quite short. It turned out that the trail was 2km to the beach and 2km back of course as there was no other way. It became a 3 hour round trip without ‘supplies’ or the right footwear. I must admit to being rather resentful of the cheerful, confident and well-equipped hikers who greeted us with a smile on our way. Especially when they made comments like ‘You’re about half way through’ or ‘It gets more difficult from now on.’  

I am sure the journey would have been been quicker except that I was unused to trekking and was therefore rather slow, needing help climbing over rocks and pools and those ubiquitous tree roots. And help was given I must admit: patient and good-humoured help! I have learnt from the experience that I am not as agile as I used to be.  As I was wearing the wrong footwear I was rather concerned about spraining my ankle or worse in this forest where we were nowhere near medical assistance. I had visions of airlifts and helicopters. I guess I am not the explorer type. Or a hiker for that matter.  In the middle of the trail was a bridge across a deep chasm, which was single file but mercifully made of steel rope with a steel walkway, though it did sway a lot. It looked quite new. I must admit the trail was well signposted with markers in different colours on the trees. There were a few wooden duckboards here and there too, but unfortunately no asphalt footpath through the undergrowth, which I would naturally have preferred. 

When we got to the end of the trail, we had to go down a long stairway of rickety wooden steps to the beach. Some of the steps were missing and replaced with virtually vertical boards. Quite treacherous. Needless to say the view from the beach out to the ocean was stunning and there were a couple of beautiful mini waterfalls in the rock below the stairway too. But I would have been glad of a refreshment hut with a few tables and chairs in front of it as well. My appreciation of the beauty of beach was somewhat dimmed as I was hot, sweaty and wheezy by then – not to mention weary and hungry too (as were we all). It is only when I looked at the photos I had taken afterwards that I realised how beautiful the little cove was.  

Fortified with some polo mints from Simon, and an asthma inhaler from Mark, I began the trek back with the others. I am unsure whether the journey back was quicker or slower: quicker because we’d done it once before or slower because I was more weary. I had to stop more often to catch my breath. Simon found me a large branch to help with the walking. As I walked back over the bridge more confidently the second time, I brandished the stick like Gandalf in ‘Lord of the Rings’ (or more accurately like Ian McKellen in the film) shouting ‘You shall not pass!’ which echoed through the trees. I understand a new TV version of ‘Lord of the Rings’ is being filmed. Though I am probably the right height for Bilbo or Frodo, I don’t think I would cope with filming all those endless journeys.They seemed relentless to me when I read the books, and would be even more so if I was heavily involved in recreating them in front of the cameras. We were in an ideal location for filming, I must admit. Fans of the books or the film would love to be wandering through our trail, imagining scenes as they trudged along. 

Trudge we did. It was a bit of an ordeal in some ways, because we were ill-equipped and I was out of my comfort zone, scampering over the rocks and roots. Or was I?  There were moments as I stood briefly to catch my breath, or sat down for a minute to rest, when I could feel the stillness, the mystery of the forest, calming me, refreshing me. It was a good place to be. I would look up to marvel at the sun glowing through the tall tree tops and turning the leaves and the grass from green to silver grey. I would notice this more and more as I trudged on, admiring the deep green lichen too, festooned on the tree branches, as if it were limpidly dripping off them. And the sheer variety of the growth around me and its vitality.

I was reminded then, or rather, for a moment, I could see then as Emily Carr, the Island’s famous local artist, saw the trees and the forests and the life force within them. There is one picture of hers called ‘Dancing Trees’, tall pines and spruces like the ones surrounding me then. They are not only dancing in the wind but they are dancing within themselves. In fact they may not be dancing in the wind at all. But the life force within them is. Perhaps now, I can more fully understand why I love her pictures so much. It wasn’t just that they are a cultural way, an artistic way of remembering my vacations on Vancouver Island, cultural tourist that I am. A connection was made between us, quite a few years ago, through her artwork and her writing.  And now like her, but only momentarily, on this trail which I had struggled with, I was connecting with the forests that she loved so much. And connecting with her again on an even deeper level.

At the end of the trail back in the car park, I found myself telling the others that I would happily do the trail again. But properly equipped of course! I would go back not to trek so much but to sit in the forest, with a notepad, as Emily did; not to sketch, but to write. I would go back to savour the stillness, to let the mystery take over me. To spend a day there even, to admire the natural grandeur of the surroundings, to fully appreciate the variety of the undergrowth, which was then only ground to be clumsily covered. A phrase comes to my mind: ‘not seeing the wood for the trees’. Well during that accidental trek, I was not seeing the trees for the wood – or rather the tree roots, rocks, mud and pools! We struggle and we strive in life (and yes that is necessary) but we don’t stop to enjoy the moment sometimes, to appreciate the natural world we live in and are part of. Sometimes we are too busy with heads down, clambering over the roots and rocks. We don’t connect with the natural world. Or with the spirit, the life force, within us, like Emily’s ‘Dancing Trees’.

In the end I felt a sense of achievement having completed the trail. About half way on the way in, after we had covered a kilometre or so, Justin could see I was struggling and asked me if we should just go back. But something made me determined to go on. In fact, at the end of the trail, he told me he had noticed how determined I was. It took me aback for a moment.  Determined? Yes I am a determined. I would never have achieved what I did in my career, if I wasn’t. But that determination seems to have been on the wane since I retired and through lockdown. I feel as if I have lost it sometimes – or have I? Perhaps it is just lying dormant.

Behind my struggle with the trail, aside from being out of my comfort zone was a feeling of not being in charge, of not being in control, of being taken out of myself. Most of all I didn’t know when the end of the trail was in sight, how far we had to go to get there. That thought nagged at me. I suppose it comes from needing to be in charge, in control, and being conditioned to planning and working to deadlines.

But then, as I have come to understand in my retirement, none of us knows when the end of the trail is in sight. Or how much further we have left to go.

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Meditation 89

It is still light this evening as I sit beside my candle and gaze through my lounge window. However, my thoughts are led to wider vistas than my modest front garden can provide. I am thinking beyond compact suburbia to more expansive scenes. I am remembering wide-ranging mountains capped with snow. Not the mountain ranges that my dear friend and inspiration Marcus Aurelius might have seen on his military campaigns: the Carpathians, the Tatras, or even the Buda Hills, which, though smaller, can be capped with snow too. 

I am remembering the Canadian Rockies which provide the epic backdrop to the city of Vancouver, which I have recently visited once more. My thoughts have also turned to the Olympic mountains in Washington State in the U.S.A. This equally impressive mountain range lies on the misty horizon across the water from where I also stayed: a little town called Sidney on Vancouver Island, where my relatives live. My friend and I could see the mountains from the little balcony of our hotel suite, mysterious in the early haze of morning. We saw their grandeur more clearly when we were bobbing about in a boat on a tour around Victoria harbour. 

Victoria is quite near to Sidney and despite being on Vancouver Island and therefore not on the mainland, is the capital of British Columbia. It has a nineteenth century colonial atmosphere, with its Royal Empress Hotel, named after Queen Victoria, whose statue stands imperiously outside the Parliament building by the harbour. The Parliament building is lit up at night – as  are our own Houses of Parliament of course. However, as well as being floodlit, the outline of the building is traced by lines of lights too, making it look like a fairy castle or a Disneyland attraction, which contrasts strangely with its legislative dignity. I digress and I am being unkind as I like the city very much. 

Indeed, on this recent trip, I realised how much the Island has become a part of me. Perhaps I have become aware of this because I last visited in July 2019, before the pandemic. Prior to that, I made visits nearly every year for 15 years or so. It was good to be back and my relatives are fine thanks. It was also good to show a friend around a little. I enjoy showing people around places I have visited before. Over the years I have learnt a great deal about the history of Victoria. This was because I became interested in the work of Emily Carr (1871-1945), the artist and writer who was born in Victoria and spent most of her life on Vancouver Island. Maybe showing him around also made me realise how attached I am to the place. 

Because I spent so much time in Sidney, staying with my aunt in her apartment, I gradually became so attached to the sleepy retirement enclave of Sidney that I began to write stories about it several years ago. Or rather about the people who may have retired there. What might be the secrets from their past which they are now forced to face up to?  Or the feelings of guilt or grief, remorse or regret that return to haunt them, eddying around their thoughts, like waves over a rock pool? What might be happening behind the placid exterior of the town?  I called the collection ‘Driftwood’ after all the strange shaped logs that lie around on the beaches there. I’ve almost finished a (hopefully) final revision of the stories now and my next stage is to see how I can get them published as a collection, or even separately in magazines. 

One of my reasons for starting this blog was to promote my writing. It is strange that only now, four years after I started publishing these meditations, I am finally mentioning ‘Driftwood’  in them. But then, there has been so much else to reflect upon over the last four turbulent years, hasn’t there? I will keep you posted about the future progress of ‘Driftwood’ in these pages no doubt in the future. 

Of course, Sidney has changed since I was last there, nearly four years ago. Shops and restaurants have closed down and new ones have opened, as has been happening here in the UK. The pandemic seems to have drawn a line in the sand, hasn’t it? It has caused some businesses to go under and new ones have replaced them. In the same way, I sometimes wonder how some small businesses or independent cafes or eateries have survived through it all. I thought as much when walking around Sidney. But then, nothing is immutable, not even us. Yet, like the little town of Sidney, we change and yet we don’t change. We move on, often imperceptibly, and yet somehow we are the same person. Something retirement has taught me: just because our circumstances have changed, we don’t  have to give up who we are. Retirement should enhance who we are.

Aside from new businesses emerging, new apartment blocks are going up everywhere. The town doesn’t seem so small now or so cozy. It had a ‘village’ atmosphere about it when I first went there in 2004. Now it is definitely a small town and growing. Things have moved on. And yet if you walk down the main thoroughfare, Beacon Street, at night, it is as quiet and sleepy as ever.  

The streets are definitely quiet and sleepy in April, before the summer season starts, as everything closes around 9. Except, we discovered, the Dickens Pub at the top of the town. I think Charles Dickens would be pleased that despite the low season, conviviality was continuing in a pub named after him. Although somehow I can’t imagine him watching ice hockey games on the TV like some of the customers in the bar. He would be more interested in engaging them in conversation and observing the other customers casually but intently (as a possible inspiration for a character or story). However, as he was fond of games and pastimes, he may not have been averse to shooting a game or two of pool with some of the regulars. 

Always observing everything and everyone around him, Dickens loved to walk the streets of London late into the night. It was a compulsion in him and of course his nocturnal rambles provided him with so much material for his novels and stories. I think he would find the streets of Sidney rather tame in comparison. Like me, he would have to imagine what was behind the silent facades of the properties. Dear me, I should not be linking myself to Dickens in a sentence! It is most immodest of me!   

Sadly one of my favourite haunts, the Rum Runner bar and restaurant, right by the ocean, was closing the week I was there. It was a happy coincidence that I was visiting Sidney before it finally closed its doors. The Rum Runner (under a different name – The Cannery) has a story all to itself in my collection, and the story is coincidentally about its possible closure.  Dickens would definitely have been at home there. He often frequented waterfront inns and pubs, though the ones he visited  would have been far less salubrious than the Rum Runner, as is evident from the low dives along the Thames waterfront that appear in his novels. 

I think he would have got on famously with Bill, the landlord, and would have commiserated with him heartily on the Rum Runner’s closure. No doubt he would have dashed behind the bar, juggled with a couple of lemons and immediately set to making his own rum and brandy punch to cheer Bill’s spirits. The recipe is mentioned in one of his letters and, indeed in ‘David Copperfield’. When David finds Mr Micawber at home in a melancholy mood, he asks him to make a bowl of punch and immediately Mr Micawber’s spirits soar as he begins to make the punch, ‘his face shining out at us out of the delicate fumes’. Perhaps Dickens would get Bill to join in to cheer him up.  When I return to Sidney, I shall miss the Rum Runner.      

My visit to Sidney has reminded me of how much change we have all been through in the last few years. I am no longer able to stay in my aunt’s apartment now, as she is in a care home. She is still very much alive and alert, aged 88! Her accommodation may have changed, but she hasn’t. There may have been many changes in and around Sidney, indeed, in our own lives,  but there is so much that hasn’t changed.  The Pacific ocean for one and the driftwood on the shore, blanched by the endless ebb and flow of the waves. And the mountains on the horizon shrouded in the morning mist. 

And the stillness.

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MEDITATION 88

         As I sit here by my candle musing before committing my thoughts to paper, flowers have come to my mind, bunches of freshly cut flowers.

         Last week an item on the BBC News caught my attention. A young boy of junior school age from the North of England has been spending his weekly pocket money on bunches of flowers. He buys them and then offers them to strangers in the street. (I apologise that I do not have the exact details – I cannot find the item on the BBC News website.) He was filmed offering the flowers to passers by and their eyes lit up and smiles appeared on their faces as he said to them ‘Would you like some flowers for free?’ Not only was this an act of regular generosity on the boy’s part but also he was able to bring a little happiness into the lives of people he didn’t know. It was a cheering and uplifting item in the otherwise dreary news bulletin. A far cry from the arrest and arraigning of Donald Trump!   

         I have often found in my career as a teacher that young people can be very generous with their time, effort and money when collecting for good causes. There is a natural generosity of spirit and a raw compassion in young people in particular, something which we have always tried to encourage in my school. It is sad, perhaps, that as people grow older, the cares of life sometimes prevent them from maintaining that generosity of spirit. Also adults can sometimes grow more insular, cynical and selfish. And yet, when adults do become involved in charity work, especially when it is a community effort or a major appeal, they can of course be incredibly generous with their time, effort and money. And also with their own homes -as has been the case with those who have taken in Ukrainian and other refugees, (like my dear friends Alan and Helen in Yorkshire).

         Perhaps that youthful generous spirit comes alive in us again when we get involved in some kind of work that is trying to  help others.  Perhaps this is because it involves working with people and helping people. Inevitably we come out of ourselves and take a wider view. There is a certain freedom about giving in this way. Donating to charity is important but being actively involved is more enervating.

         The London Marathon takes place on April 23rd – Shakespeare’s birthday. The first one took place in 1981. Two years later, I went with some friends to watch the third marathon on the course at Blackheath as I lived nearby. I remember it was a rainy Sunday as we cheered the runners on. It wasn’t as colourful an event as it is now. There wasn’t  so much of a carnival atmosphere then but nevertheless there was an encouraging crowd cheering on the participants. There was a warm communal spirit through the cold drizzle. In that year, 1983, 19,735 runners took part. In 2019 there were 56.398 participants.  Through the London Marathon, millions have been raised for charities over the years. 

         It is wonderful that so many amateur runners (of varied ability, experience and ages) give 100% commitment to training for the marathon over many months not only for the sense of achievement in taking part and hopefully completing the course, but in aid of charities. My friend Henry, who posts these blogs for me is running for charity in the London Marathon next week.  (Do support him -details are below – it still not too late to support him!). Another dear friend of mine, Steven, has run three London marathons for charity. He also volunteered at Crisis for Christmas one year.

         My dear friend Marcus Aurelius at the start of his ‘Meditations’, which are the inspiration for my own, takes great pains to explain what he admires in his family members, tutors and friends (alive and deceased) : for example: ‘From Severus: love of family, love of truth, love of justice’. The subtext of these is perhaps a desire to emulate them. I greatly admire my friends for their commitment to charitable deeds (among other things). Perhaps I should follow Marcus and attempt to emulate them myself.

         Perhaps I should follow in their footsteps – or rather tracks! I do not think I would be able to endure the training for the London Marathon. Besides I am unable to run on hard surfaces, as I have a frayed disc. When a physiotherapist informed me of this several years ago, while encouraging me to do exercise, I heaved a sigh of relief. Athletics have never been my forte somehow. I was always last in cross country races at school, not that it would matter as far as the London Marathon goes, as you can reach the finishing line at whatever time you are able.

         However I am coming up to my 70th year so perhaps I ought to engage in some special event for charity: a sponsored reading of Shakespeare for example. Or a reading of the all seven volumes of Marcel Proust’s ‘In Search of Lost Time’ (though not in the original French as Marcel’s sentences can be tortuous enough in English!). No it would have to something outdoors. Skydiving! Yes that would be something!

         In the lockdown, my friend Peter suggested that we should always smile at people who we encounter in the street (or on the bus or in shops for that matter) because we do not know what they might be going through in their lives. In those dark days (which seem historical now) people would smile at each other in the street or park. They would even say hello and make brief conversation sometimes. This practice appears to have declined, although I have noticed that people are more aware of each other on the street or in the bus and sometimes a little talkative. Maybe it’s because I am now a retired old buffer!

         That is what charity boils down to: being aware of other people. Like the boy offering flowers to strangers.

            Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

            If you would like to support Henry here is the link:

LINK: https://2023tcslondonmarathon.enthuse.com/pf/henry-riley

            He is running running for Global’s Make Some Noise, which supports hundreds of small charities across the UK – everything from food banks, to mental health and domestic abuse helplines, to carer support, and much more.

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MEDITATION 87

​It is quite comfortable to be sitting here by the candle on the table beside me. The candle flame gives a welcoming glow which contrasts with the hostile icy blasts outside, which are more reminiscent of January than early March. Ideally I should be gazing into a glowing fireplace, which would be even more comfortable and welcoming, but I don’t have one. A radiator, warm thought it is, doesn’t have the same effect. However I have substituted the fireplace with a glass of red wine so I am glowing a little. 

​As I sit here, glass in hand, a Strauss waltz is playing in my memory. I am tempted to play my cd of Strauss waltzes but I am too comfortable to get up and find it in my cd racks. So I will let it fade away in my thoughts as I try to remember what brought the Blue Danube Waltz by Johann Strauss into my head. 

​    It is not a memory of a glittering ballroom or of an old movie for that matter or a classical concert I once attended. The memory is of a visit to a local charity shop. I recently went there to give away some books and cd’s I don’t need anymore. ‘Did I ever really need them?’ I asked myself. In answer to the question, I began to slowly empty some of my shelves. It’s a retirement thing. 

​So when I had deposited my cultural detritus with the charity shop assistant, I made my way out only to notice some boxes of old LP’s on a table in the middle of the shop. I couldn’t help but stop and browse through them. What opportunity do we have these days of spending time in a store to browse through LP’s or cd’s or DVD’s for that matter? The music shops have gone and browsing has to be online now, which isn’t the same. So I relished the chance to browse. Perhaps it was muscle memory – I used to spend so much time browsing in HMV and other stores when they were open.

​In the first box I explored quite near the front was an LP of Strauss Waltzes and Polkas. It was identical to one I bought when I was a teenager -I was 13 or 14 years old I guess. I remembered the cover so well. It was of a brightly lit spiral staircase in some elegant mansion photographed from above. And here was the album again in my hands. 

​For a moment memories of playing it came back. I used to play it on our radiogram with its spindly legs in our front room. The record player part of the radiogram would pull down when you wanted to use it, I remember. The radio itself was on the top. I would sit beside the radiogram listening to those waltzes and be transported into another world, to those glittering ballrooms and the ladies in their elegant dresses accompanied by gentlemen in their uniforms or evening dress across the ballroom floor.   

​Despite having a potent imagination, I couldn’t conceive then, sitting in our front room in Redcar that many years later I would be listening to those waltzes live at a BBC Proms orchestral concert in the Royal Albert Hall, let alone in the elegant surroundings of the New York Cafe and numerous other coffee houses in Budapest.  

​We would visit the New York Cafe every year on our Drama tour. It was the teachers’ treat at the end of the tour though we did usually bring a few students with us. The resident pianist was quite a virtuoso. He would work his way through waltzes, polkas, songs from the shows and operettas with great finesse while reading the newspaper at the same time. It was spread across the top of the piano above the keyboard. The New York cafe has changed now. It was closed for a long while while the building was remodelled into a high class hotel. The cafe has reopened but our multi-tasking pianist seems to have disappeared.  

​I continued flicking through the boxes in the shop and discovered yet another LP from my youth, a box set of 3 LP’s actually, of Handel’s ‘Messiah’. It had Salvador Dali’s striking depiction of the Crucifixion on the box lid. I bought my own copy of it it when I was in the Sixth Form I think.  Dali’s picture on the box lid stood out from all the other album covers I flicked through in W.H. Smith on Redcar High Street all those years ago. I guess that’s why I bought it, aside from having sung some of the choruses (including the famous Hallelujah one) in the school choir in a concert. Memories flooded in again.  I remembered playing the album on a portable record player in my bedroom. It was black and quite bulky, though not as bulky as the radiogram downstairs. I took the records and player with me to university eventually I think and then on to my bedsit in Brixton in South London. I remember listening to ‘Messiah’ in my bedsit.  

​I then quickly flicked through all the other boxes to see if any other memories of my youth were on display in the charity shop. There was: a recording of Mahler’s Fourth Symphony which I definitely did buy when I was in the Sixth Form.  I loved the intense slow movement as I was an intense young man then. As the notes drifted over me and played with my emotions as I lay in my room, again I could hardly imagine that I would see Gustav Mahler’s conducting baton on display in a museum in Budapest. It was actually a ceremonial one in an ivory casing, given to him when he was musical director of the Budapest Opera House in 1891.

​Fortunately I couldn’t find any more albums. It would have been very odd to find my entire record collection from my bedroom in Redcar in the LP boxes in Oxfam in Kingston, many miles and many years away.

​I am sure that if you are or were into rock music you could easily find albums from your teenage years in any charity shop. So I am obviously not the only one who’s youth is on display. But these were classical albums and those particular recordings of Mahler, Handel and Strauss, which I had bought and played over and over again. After all, there was only one version of The Beatles ‘Sgt Pepper’ when it was released so only one possible cover. So if you saw it in a charity shop, you wouldn’t be too surprised. But it seemed odd to me that those particular recordings from my paltry teenage collection should be in those boxes and that I was able to hold them again, even though they weren’t my own particular copies.  

​I found myself smiling when I picked up those albums. If I possessed an LP player at home (and they have become very popular again and are rather expensive) I would have bought them. I have the Mahler recording on cd now anyway. Everything gets reissued eventually, sometimes over and over again. I wonder if I’ll ever be reissued. 

I had so few albums then that I would play them over an over again. Now I have so many cd’s that I have hardly played some of them at all.  Hence the decision to give some away. The immediate link between buying an album and playing it straight away and really listening has gone perhaps, especially with streaming music. 

​The shop I was in specialised in books and music. There are others which are more general. Sometimes among the bric-a-brac I have seen on the shelves I have noticed kitchen ware and crockery that I remembered from years ago. I guess it is the designs that hold the memories, just like the album covers. 

​Those shops are very handy if you are looking for props for a play. I used charity shops a lot when I was putting a production together. I know professional companies do too. Last night I watched the final episode of ‘Endeavour’ on TV, about the early career of Inspector Morse. It was set in the early 70’s. I wonder how may props they used in the interior scenes originated in charity shops. Some of the interiors were quite nostalgic. 

​I am not a frequenter of charity shops. I guess I we be in and out of the Oxfam bookshop now and then with some more of my cultural detritus. 

​Perhaps charity shops should be renamed. Perhaps they should be called Memory Shops.

​Incidentally, when I returned to the Oxfam bookstore a week later, the boxes of LP’s had gone.

​But then, so has my youth.  

​​Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

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MEDITATION 86

              As I sit here gazing at the flame of the candle on the table beside me, I am reflecting on what I might have been.

              A few weeks ago, I was travelling into town one morning by train to London Waterloo. The train was a fairly new one. There were two kinds of seating. Some seats at each end of the compartment were in twos facing each other, with each group of four on either side of the aisle.The other seats on either side of the carriage doors were long padded benches facing each other, which meant there was more space in the aisle between them as well as in front of the doors. I was sitting on one of these bench-type seats.

              Sitting opposite me was a man slightly younger than myself I suppose, with what looked like a script in his lap. He had highlighted the pages with different colours. I couldn’t help noticing him because he was practicing his lines. He would mouth them silently with facial expressions. So he was obviously an actor and not a director. 

              He had presumably sat on one of the bench-type seats because by positioning himself there he had some freedom of movement. If he had sat in one of the groups of four, his mute rehearsal with gestures would have been somewhat obtrusive to the person or persons sitting opposite him as there would be little legroom between them. Perhaps he just sat himself down where he was and thought, ‘I’ve got a bit of space here so I’ll go over my lines.’ 

              I wondered if he was going for an audition at first. But he wasn’t practicing a speech or a single scene as he kept skipping from one part of the script to another. So perhaps he was going to a rehearsal. Or maybe he was filming later. I wanted to ask him but he was too engrossed in his own little private rehearsal. I was itching to know what the script was and where he was going.

              He didn’t look famous. I did keep looking up from my book to see if I recognised his face. Despite my encyclopaedic knowledge of the acting profession I couldn’t place him.

              I was fascinated by his silent performance. So much so that I wanted to join in. I felt like offering to help him – ‘Hello I am a retired Drama teacher, need any help rehearsing your script?’ I could have read the lines of the other characters for him. It would have been fun. Although it would have been rather odd for the other travellers in the carriage to observe a slightly muted performance at 11 a.m. on the way to London Waterloo. But then they might have enjoyed it if it was a comedy, or possibly they would have been enthralled if it was a thriller or a ‘Police Procedural’ TV drama, which are all the rage at present. Just imagine it: ‘Happy Valley’ arrives at Clapham Junction!

              Then the thought came to me that this could have been me. I could have been a professional actor. I could have been sitting on a train on a January morning with a highlighted script in my hand, going over my lines, on my way to the studio or rehearsal room.  And before the question forms in your mind, dear reader, no – I did not feel even the slightest twinge of regret as I sat in that train.

              Then another thought came to me. I have sat on a train or a bus going over my lines sometimes just like him, though I must admit without the strong facial expressions he was using. When you are working on a play, learning lines is a good way to use travelling time. Travel can be useful as a director too: I once worked out an entire production of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ while on a 9 hour flight from London to Vancouver. 

              Memories of learning lines on a train reminded me that I am an actor too. I just didn’t make a career out of it. Or rather I did but in an educational context. For all I knew, he could have been an amateur himself, using his spare time on the way to the office to go over his role.    

              If I had become an actor, and part of me wanted to when I was a callow stage struck young man, I would have probably gravitated towards directing and writing, which is what I have been fortunate to do in my school career. One of my Primary school teachers. Mrs Lavelle, predicted that I would become a BBC Drama producer or script writer. That was because sometimes I would write little plays for some of my class to perform. I always had the main role of course! But she saw a burgeoning talent of some sort and imagined where it might lead.  And I have done the same, hopefully, in my own teaching career.

              Acting is a craft not just a profession. I have practised my craft (or tried to) in the classroom as well as attempting to give the rudiments of that craft to others. Some of them, I am pleased to say, have gone on into the profession in one way or another. 

              I don’t think I would have coped with the precarious nature of the profession anyway. At least I have a pension! But then if I found myself a role in some lucrative Netflix series (as one or two of my past students have) I wouldn’t need one, I suppose. Or some bloated Hollywood blockbuster, for that matter.  But then I do not need to be in a Marvel universe because I am in a universe of my own, as friends sometimes remind me.

              Reflecting on what we might have been hopefully reminds us of who we are.  For those of us with a little longevity, such thoughts may remind us of who we were as opposed to who we are now.  Hopefully too, rather than ushering in regrets, reflecting in this way will help us to discover the multi-faceted jewel that each of us is and hold that jewel to the light.   

              For, after all, we are more than what we do.

            Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up.

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I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 85

A Happy New Year to you.

We always wish each other a Happy New Year imagining or rather hoping that the whole year will be bright and cheerful. I sincerely hope it is for you. January is never bright and cheerful unless you live in the Southern Hemisphere. Well it might be if there is January snow and winter sunshine here!

However, currently the weather is dark, dreary and rain abounds. My candle provides a welcome echo of Christmas cheer as I gaze at it. A sleigh comes into my mind, hurtling through the snow; a huge Christmas tree with lots of brightly wrapped gifts at its feet; children playing excitedly in a warmly lit parlour on Christmas Eve; and a glittering Palace with shimmering walls of sugar.

You might be thinking I am recalling scenes from Christmas cards I have received, or perhaps looking at them for one last time before discarding them. Actually I am remembering the Royal Ballet’s production of ‘The Nutcracker’ which I saw just before Christmas at the Royal Opera House with my friend Anna and her two daughters.

It was a really beautiful production and delightfully old fashioned in its staging, with scenery flying in and out and a magical transformation scene (as the Christmas tree and gifts suddenly grow larger and larger) all timed immaculately to Tchaikovsky’s score. My two little companions had already seen the musical ‘Frozen’, which obviously has a high tech staging but they were just as entranced by ‘The Nutcracker’ and told me so!  The ballet was as high-tech, of course, but in an old fashioned way. I suppose I can best describe it as the illustrations from a fairy tale book brought to life.

Though the ballet is based on a novella by the German Gothic fantasy writer E.T.A. Hoffman (1776 -1822), the production, set in the early 1800’s, has a decidedly Russian ambiance. The ambiance is not only provided by Tchaikovsky’s music but also by the set and costume designs: the snow fairies are presented as Christmas tree Angels in voluminous dresses like Russian dolls for example.

So the production, along with music and the ballet itself (which originated in St Petersburg in 1892) could be viewed as a celebration of Russian culture. This is therefore quite timely as our Western view of Russia at the moment is considerably negative because of the invasion of Ukraine. It is a reminder that there is more to Russia than Mr Putin’s bellicose oppressive regime.

I was actually reminded of the war in Ukraine by a scene in Act 1 where the parlour is invaded by the Mouse King and his army of mice. They are defeated by the now life size Nutcracker Prince and his own forces of dolls. Ukraine is never very far from our thoughts at present.

Tchaikovsky’s music is of course one of Russia’s main cultural exports to the world. I wonder how Mr Putin and his government square their anti-gay agenda with celebrating and promoting one of their greatest composers and cultural assets, who was himself homosexual (and who suffered a life of turmoil because of it).

Music is of course international, indeed universal, and to some extent above the changing tides of political events. Tchaikovsky’s music (and the great Russian ballets) have kept their international reputation and have remained admired and loved the world over despite the 1917 Russian revolution and the Soviet empire which followed it, two world wars, and the Soviet Empire’s disintegration in the 1990’s. They will maintain their preeminence long after Mr Putin has gone, I am sure.

Although high culture is in a sense above the ebb and flow of political events, even if certain works of art are an expression of or reaction to political events, yet culture can be appropriated by governments for their own ends, especially propaganda. Quite recently there has been much discussion about the harmful effects of cancel culture. We must also be wary of those who contort culture for their own ends.

Apparently, the Russian government have placed scenes from the Russian film version of Tolstoy’s epic novel ‘War and Peace’ on YouTube as flag waving propaganda. Needless to say the scenes they have chosen are the battle scenes. This truly remarkable film is one of the best adaptations of a novel that I have ever seen. The director, Sergei Bondarchuk, not only directed the film, but also adapted Tolstoy’s epic novel himself and played Pierre, one of the central characters. The filming took nearly six years to complete and it won the 1968 Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. As regards using the cinema form to tell as story it is on a par with Orson Welles’ ‘Citizen Kane’, in my opinion. Moreover it is one of my favourite films and has stayed with me since I first saw it in two parts (dubbed into American accents) at the Odeon in Middlesbrough when I was a callow sixth former. Dear me, this film deserves a meditation to itself! 

The film had the backing of the Soviet regime of the time especially as there had been an American version (1956) which was unsatisfactory. So Bondarchuk had the use of the Red Army in the battle scenes (which are still stunning and superior to CGI). The novel deals with Russia’s attempt to defeat Napoleon, along with Austrian forces in 1805 and later Napoleon’s invasion of Russia itself in 1812 and how it affects the three main families of characters. It describes in detail Russia’s defeat at the Battle of Borodino which led to the burning of Moscow as Napoleon advanced.

As with the novel, the film shows the importance of the individual soldiers of whatever rank working together against the enemy. Being a Soviet film this is emphasised in the battle scenes, although this angle is there in the novel. These are the scenes which are appearing on YouTube no doubt.

However, this Russian propaganda exercise is highly ironic as the scenes depict the soldiers fighting against an invasion by Napoleon’s forces. Russian forces are the invaders against Ukraine after all.

Also in his novel Tolstoy writes at length about the futility of war and questions why nations have to attack each other instead of living in peace. He argues that if every soldier laid down his arms against the commands from his superiors there would be no battle. As a young man he was an officer himself in the Crimean War. This led to his ideas on Pacifism ultimately.  Some of Tolstoy’s philosophical comments are included in the film via a narrator. In the novel, he comments on the personality of Napoleon at length. It is not a flattering portrait as might be imagined. He sees all the destruction Napoleon causes to achieve and maintain his ‘greatness’ and reflects that:

‘There is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness and truth.’ 

Something Mr Putin would do well to reflect upon.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up.

And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.

I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 84

As I sit here beside my candle, while the day dissolves into an early winter twilight, I am thinking about ivy. This is not connected with the traditional Christmas Carol ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ as you may be thinking. Perhaps I should be thinking about fir, pine or spruce at this time or about laurel, in honour of dear Marcus Aurelius, who is the inspiration for these meditations. Emperors were after all crowned with laurel leaves.

Actually I am thinking about The Ivy, the famous show business restaurant in West Street in the heart of London’s West End. A recent conversation has brought back memories of my occasional, indeed rare visits there. Of course I have always enjoyed my visits there with friends because of the theatrical ambiance. So many theatre stars have dined there since it first opened its doors in 1917. Photos of some of them adorn the walls. There is still also the possibility of spotting a celebrity or two, which adds a frisson to the occasion. It is also a very comfortable restaurant as there aren’t too many tables. The restaurant has a distinctive Art Deco decor including dark green leather seats (to represent ivy) and Art Deco stained glass panelling and the original cocktail bar.

I haven’t been there for quite a long time so I was quite excited when a friend said he would try to book a table as a late birthday and thank you gift combined. Unfortunately the restaurant was booked out: well restaurants are always busy between Christmas and New Year. So we have settled for one of The Ivy’s branches in Covent Garden. For quite recently The Ivy has become a chain or rather its branches have spread, as real ivy does. Not only are there several branches in London and its environs but now across the country in major towns. Sadly though you can replicate the menu, you can’t replicate the atmosphere of the original. Dear me, I am sounding ungrateful and snobbish perhaps. I don’t intend to be. I am sure my friend and I will have a wonderful evening and it is very kind of him. It’s just that there are occasions when I become rather ‘grand’.  Sometimes it makes me sound unintentionally churlish.

This was the case on a visit to the York branch a few summers ago. I remember the restaurant was packed as it was a Friday evening. The York branch is in a square, St Helen’s Square, and there were some tables outside the restaurant on the pavement for drinks if I remember rightly. My friends and I dined at a corner table with a window looking out onto the square. I must admit it was genuinely rather cramped inside as there were too many tables, unlike the original Ivy. I mentioned this and became rather grand again, commenting that it’s not like the original or words to that effect. It became a kind of joke.

Looking out of the window I noticed that a mobile soup kitchen for the homeless was setting up in the square. Several people were beginning to queue up, waiting for it to open. I have a feeling that the soup van was a fixture in the square before The Ivy was established there . Those drinking at tables outside were virtually an arm’s length away from those queueing up for food. While I was eating, my eyes kept returning to the window and the mobile soup kitchen. Needless to say, the view quietened me down. From playing grand I felt quite small. 

My view out of the window was poignantly incongruous. Here were we in the restaurant, eating and carousing along with all the other diners there, effectively feasting, while others outside were patiently waiting for food. The contrasting scene was worthy of Dickens. I think I said something to that effect to my friends.  A moment from a movie flashed through my mind. It was a scene from David Lean’s marvellous version of ‘Oliver Twist’: a scene early in the film in the Workhouse where Oliver is born. The child paupers are huddled together at a window, their noses enviously squashed against the window panes. For the window looks down on the managers of the Workhouse feasting from a table laden with a magnificent banquet of food.

When we are enjoying our festive celebrations or our Christmas meal, although it is highly unlikely that we will be able to see a mobile soup kitchen through the window or the envious faces of ragged urchins with their noses up against the window pane as in some Dickensian scene, perhaps we should spare a thought or, even better a penny or pound or two for those less fortunate than ourselves, of which there are likely to be many more than usual this Christmas.

We should also remember that at the heart of our frenetic festivities is the stillness of the Christmas story, at the centre of which are parents with a new born child who are homeless for a while and because of a life-threatening political situation, become migrants from their own country.

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas!

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

PS: While I have been blogging, Henry Riley, who posts these Meditations for me, has been jogging! He is in training for the London Marathon on Sunday April 23 (Shakespeare’s birthday) . He is running for Global’s Make Some Noise, which supports hundreds of small charities across the UK – everything from food banks, to mental health and domestic abuse helplines, to carer support, and much more…

If you would like to support him here is the link:

LINK: https://2023tcslondonmarathon.enthuse.com/pf/henry-riley