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 96

A belated Happy New Year, dear reader!
As I sit here beside my candle I am looking out of my garden window to grey skies and bare branches in my wintry garden, although some of my plants are still green as they are perennials. I am a perennial myself, I suppose, as although I am approaching my winter years, my own leaves are still green! I am still flowering and flourishing! Otherwise these meditations would not exist. I am still writing and occasionally teaching. I am even considering the possibility of a podcast with a much younger friend. So I am still being creative. It is what is important to me.
Sometimes I have found myself adopting an old man persona indoors, shuffling from room to room. I have had to check myself and shake it off. It is so easy to vegetate in an armchair and half watch old movies or ancient TV programmes, especially when the weather outdoors isn’t very inviting. Perhaps I should get on with some winter gardening (when the weather warms up a little) or get onto my exercise bike again (which is gathering dust in the lounge corner). Or take up skateboarding.
I have always been impressed by those who keep working and being creative into their old age. Only a few months ago I saw Ian McKellen (aged 84) onstage. He was in a play – ‘Frank and Percy’ – with Roger Allam (aged 70). They were the only characters in the play and were both continually on stage for over two hours and performing six nights a week. They were both wonderful too. Two years ago, McKellen also played ‘Hamlet’ again (after a 50 year gap) and will play Falstaff in a few months time in ‘Three Kings’: an abridged version of Shakespeare’s two ‘Henry IV’ plays ( a four hour performance apparently!).
I am also reminded of Judi Dench who is now 88 and sadly suffering from macular degeneration. Yet she appeared in several TV programmes (including two major interviews) around the 400th anniversary of the publication of Shakespeare’s First Folio last November. She has been regularly acting in film and TV productions until quite recently including Kenneth Branagh’s film ‘Belfast’ and was onstage in a celebration of Stephen Sondheim’s musicals in 2022.
I am currently reading her book ‘Shakespeare: the Man who Pays the Rent’. Her late husband Michael Williams and herself referred to the Bard as ‘the man’s who pays the rent’ because they were both in so many Shakespeare productions over several decades with the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford-Upon-Avon and London. In fact in one of the chapters she explains how much Stratford means to her. It is where she and her husband met. She has a great love of the place, nurtured over a number of years. As have I.

The chapters are a collection of dialogues with another actor, Brendan O’Hare, and mainly about the Shakespearean roles she has played. Her memory is quite remarkable. She can remember details of costumes she wore at the Old Vic in the late 1950’s, for example, as well as most the actors and directors she has worked with in the productions she refers to.
Her insights into each role (and often those of the directors she worked with) as she goes through each role scene by scene in each chapter are highly detailed and razor-sharp. Again it is amazing how she remembers rehearsals and performances from decades ago. She is also keen to point out ideas that didn’t work at the time and where she would approach the role or scene differently now with more experience. Hindsight is a humbling thing at times. She can also quote her lines and those of other roles verbatim (which Brendan O’Hare points out). What a prodigious memory she must have.
Of particular interest to me are her comments on acting technique. Interleaved with all her perceptive insights into the roles, her reminiscences and funny stories (of which there are many – it is a very entertaining read!) is an excellent guide to reading, rehearsing and performing Shakespeare: what we call ‘working on the text’. She is in no way didactic. Her advice arises casually out of the conversation.
I was quite gratified to find that I had used many of those techniques myself with my students down the years – and with students of English in Hungary as it happens. I had learnt them on courses with the Royal Shakespeare Company that I attended early in my teaching career. Judi Dench learnt them there herself of course, years before I did. I feel quite proud that I have been passing on that RSC tradition of playing Shakespeare to others. Reading the book has made me realise I am part of that tradition myself.
I have had the privilege of seeing Judi Dench in many plays down the years but one she mentions in her book has stirred up particular memories. As I sit here looking out to my wintry garden, I am reminded of a sultry summer evening in Stratford a long time ago. I was in the Sixth Form and on my first trip to Stratford courtesy of a weekend visit by Teesside Youth Theatre. I had just seen ‘Twelfth Night’ in which she played Viola. I was entranced by the whole production and can remember details from it to this day. Her own description of it has prompted my own memory. (Should I write my own book?)
My school friend Ian and I hovered around the stage door until she appeared. I wanted my programme signed by her I think. I remember Ian saying ‘You can speak to her. You’re the one with the programme.’ He was gruffly shy you see.
Eventually she appeared with a shopping bag in either hand: so different from her romantic Viola earlier! I approached her and was suddenly tongue- tied, even though I had prepared what I would say to her in my mind. She looked at me, then askedme if I

would help her with taking the bags to her car. So Ian and myself took them from her. Then she politely thanked us and got into the car and off she went. I remained tongue-tied throughout. It was the nervousness of youth, of course. I was meeting a star. I was very gauche then. I still am at times! Stage-struck as I was then, the incident taught me that acting is just another job after all and however magical a production may be, the actors performing in it still have to go shopping and go home! Needless to say I still remained stage struck despite the incident – and for a good many years. I still am at times.
The next time I was in close proximity to Judi Dench was at the Young Vic theatre in London. I was with a group of A level students watching the classic Irish drama ‘The Plough and the Stars’ by Sean O’Casey. It was an entirely Irish cast except for Judi herself. Set in a Dublin street during the Irish Troubles, she was the only person from Northern Ireland in the street. She was very different from romantic Viola: a screeching harridan. In the auditorium, the audience was on three sides with the actors performing in the centre. My group and I were seated on the front row. In the final scene, Judi’s character is ironically shot by a British soldier. She fell and uttered her last words no more than 4 feet away from me. It was so very real and her final words were so moving. She was totally in role of course. Somehow she always gets to my emotions when I see her on stage or on film. Even when she plays comedy, she always finds a serious moment, when the underlying emotions of the character break through.
She has been called a ‘national treasure’ which she dislikes. However it is a sign of her popularity and of the warm regard which the public hold her in. She’s more than that, however: she is one of our greatest actresses and has consistently been so throughout her career.
Incidentally, I also met Ian McKellen once (minus shopping!). We had a charming conversation in a pub many years ago. He still owes me a pint! But that is another story!
Ave atque Vale Neilus Aurelius

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Meditation 95

As I sit here beside my candle I have found that my thoughts have slipped back into Drama teacher mode. Please understand I have not been walking around my lounge as if I was back in my Drama studio at school, teaching an imaginary lesson to imaginary students. I am not living in the past, just yet! Although in an imaginary lesson the students are at least attentive, being invisible! However, in my teaching days, I would sometimes practice a lesson at home, especially if the text or topic was new.
My thinking this evening has gone into Drama mode because I have been considering different styles of acting, having recently returned to acting myself. An ex student who is now a film director asked me if I would like to take on a role in one of his projects. The film was going to be shot on location in South London, not in a major film studio like Shepperton down the road, sadly! He asked if I would play a nasty, racist pensioner. Not a very glamorous role for my professional film debut either! It was a professional engagement, as I was being paid a fee. It was also an important project: a short training film, sponsored by Southwark Council, about how to deal with racism.
A good friend of mine helped me develop a South London accent which is different from the quasi -Eastenders one I had been adopting when rehearsing at home. So I did engage in some research! Apparently, South Londoners have a tendency to play down ends of words (unless they are angry). This is the exact opposite of my vocal training, of course, which I passed onto my students. I was always telling them to make ends of words clear. This is very important on stage so as to be heard by the audience. So a slight mental adjustment on my part was needed. It was all about getting into role, after all.
So, there I was, a week later, standing on a landing in a block of council flats in Peckham, surrounded by the film crew, while verbally abusing a ‘Nigerian cleaner’ on the landing below. The cleaner, played by an actor called Glen, had no lines in the scene in response to my abuse. The crew had filmed him cleaning the floor first and were now filming his facial reactions while I repeated my abusive line off camera so that he could react to it. I also had to pretend to spit on the floor, shouting to him to clean it up. Yes: I was not a very nice character!
Then it was time for the crew to film me. My character was leaving his flat to go shopping so I had a couple of empty carrier bags under my arm. I had to pretend to close the door of the flat to my left, see the cleaner on the landing underneath, deliver my abusive lines, spit on the floor and then walk to the lift to the right and press the button to go down.

We rehearsed it a few times and then we were ready for a ‘take’. Alex shouted ‘Action’. I moved my hand on the door handle of of the flat as if I had just locked it. I was about to turn and see Glen below me, when the door of the flat suddenly flew open and a lady in a pink dressing gown stood in the doorway.
‘Here – what’s going on?’, she said to me (or words to that effect), ruining the scene. She thought I was a burglar trying the door. I can’t understand why she hadn’t heard Alex shouting instructions earlier, or me shouting my abusive line down the stairwell for that matter. Alex had to explain that we were filming. She then became demure, apologised and retreated back into her flat. Apparently, no-one from Southwark Council had informed the residents that filming was taking place!
Despite this unexpected interruption we were finished in an hour. I found it was quite a relaxing experience even though I had to focus and stay in the zone repeating my performance for the crew. I did not have to continually project my voice as on stage. Also, it was a very short scene, of course, and a long way from playing a major role such as Prospero from Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’ which I played several years ago.
I was experiencing what I used to tell my students in my classes: that film acting is more low key than stage acting and can therefore take less effort. I remember several actors talking about this in TV interviews.
However, film acting does demand acute concentration as I have just mentioned. You may have to wait around for a length of time too and yet be ready to go into your scene, to ‘be on’ as they say. The phrase comes from the Theatre and being ‘on’ stage, adapted to being ‘on’ camera. I had no waiting around at all.
Also, while you are performing, the crew is all around you and you have to forget they are there. It was quite cramped on the landing where we were filming. As well as Alex, the director, there were the cameraman, the sound man with a microphone, the lighting man and two ladies from Southwark Council in close proximity. It made me realise how more difficult it must be for an actor working on a major film in a large studio (or on location, even, as I was) with an army of technicians around them, and yet be in role, focused, ‘on’. I thought this while I was standing there waiting for the crew to change positions from filming Glen to filming myself.
I was reminded of this again a few weeks later when I attended a special screening of the new film ‘Maestro’ which is about the American classical conductor, composer, pianist and educator, Leonard Bernstein, who died in 1991. He is perhaps best remembered for composing the score for the musical ‘West Side Story’.
The screening took place in the IMAX cinema near Waterloo station in London and it was a special event because it was being introduced by the film’s stars Bradley Cooper

(who plays Bernstein and also directs the film) and Carey Mulligan (who plays his wife, Felicia). The film charts their marriage through the years with the conductor/composer’s phenomenal, high octane career as a backdrop. It is a remarkable film and both actors are remarkable in it, especially Bradley Cooper who not only gives a highly detailed performance as Bernstein (he is Lennie to the life!) but also directs the film. Mr Cooper had obviously done his research: but then there is so much archive footage of Leonard Bernstein as he was a media personality for most of his career, giving interviews, making his own TV programmes and documentaries, and there is endless footage of him in rehearsal and in concert too. Both actors also consulted Bernstein’s three children, to whom the film in dedicated.
There was nothing of the ‘star’ about Mr Cooper and Miss Mulligan, when they were interviewed before the screening. They were both very natural and down to earth, indeed, Mr Copper came across as being quite humble. It was such a contrast seeing them in person immediately before seeing the film, where they were towering over us on the huge IMAX screen. I remember Mr Cooper commenting on this himself, wondering what this intimate portrait of a marriage would look like on a larger than normal screen. His worries were unfounded: the intimacy seemed even more evident as if we were in the room with them. And the music on the IMAX sound system was something else! Watching the film reminded me of the big close-ups so prevalent in movies of the golden age of Hollywood, which we see so little of now in movies.
I do recommend the film: it is screened on the smaller screen on Netflix soon.
Well now that I have made my professional film debut I wonder where it will lead me? Will I end up emblazoned on a big IMAX screen? I doubt it. ‘Eastenders’? No thank you. However I would like to do some more filming in a modest way. It was a very relaxing and enjoyable experience and it enervated me, because I was acting again.
Yes it would be lovely to act again. Too late for panto now! And it’s too late to get a job playing Santa in his grotto too! Let’s see what the New Year brings.
Meanwhile, dear reader, wishing you a very Happy Christmas and here’s to peace on earth in the New Year. We need peace.
Ave atque Vale Neilus Aurelius
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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 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.

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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.

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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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

MEDITATION 81

The days are getting shorter again and autumn has arrived with its blustery winds and changeable weather – ‘sunshine and rain at once’ as Shakespeare comments in his play ‘King Lear’. Fallen leaves are strewn across my front lawn. A sign that summer is over. I am reminded of the transience of all things as I sit here by my candle. Perhaps this is appropriate as I have a birthday approaching at the weekend. Another year in my life is fast ending.

I have reached the autumn of my life. As Shakespeare says in Sonnet 73:

‘That time of year thou mayst in me behold,

When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

As I approach my 69th year, I realise that I am leaving the autumn of my years and nearing the threshold of winter! But I should not be thinking of my future. As my dear friend Marcus writes in his own ‘Meditations’: ‘Confine yourself to the present.’ In other words: live in the moment. He also encourages me when he writes, ‘There is nothing to fear in the termination, the pause and the changes of your whole life.’

Change can sadden us however. I was reminded of this recently on a visit to Stratford-Upon- Avon.

Whenever I go to Stratford, one of my rituals is to frequent Anne Hathaway’s Tea Room in the High Street. It is a historic building dating from the 17th Century, with wooden beamed ceilings, oak floors, a baker’s shop at the front and a large garden at the back. It is named after Shakespeare’s wife of course. The tea room originally opened in 1931 and has been a fixture of town life ever since. I have often brought friends there on my visits for breakfast or tea and cake, generally in the beautiful garden.

However, on my most recent visit, in conversation with Sarah, the new owner, I learnt that the establishment may have to close. The previous owner fell foul of the lockdown and had to give up the business and sadly, despite Sarah being an expert baker (especially in Tudor recipes), business hasn’t picked up again so well since she took over. The proliferation of coffee shops in Stratford obviously hasn’t helped either. Coffee shops have become highly fashionable now. If you happen to be in Stratford soon do go and visit. It appears to still be open at present!

As I sat in the garden that morning after I chatted to her, the idea that the Tea Room may not be there on my next visit quite upset me. I will probably not return to Stratford until next year and by then it may have gone.

You see, the Tea Room has been a constant in my infrequent visits over the years. I first went there in 1964, when I was 11 years old. 1964 was the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth. I was on a day trip by coach with my mum and my grandmother from London (where we were having a week’s holiday). I was very excited as I had lapped up everything about Shakespeare so far that year. There were a lot of programmes on the TV because of the 400th and some of his plays too. I remember there were several Shakespeare posters in my primary school as well, including a huge poster of the imagined interior of the Globe Theatre, where many of his plays were performed. Strangely, many years later, I found a copy of this poster at the school where I taught and in pristine condition too. Nowadays of course you can see a reconstructed version of the theatre at Shakespeare’s Globe, at Bankside, near to where the real Globe was sited, by the river Thames, on London’s South Bank.

I also remember borrowing a copy of ‘Tales from Shakespeare’ from the public library. The book was illustrated with photos from productions at the theatre in Stratford.

Sadly we didn’t have time to see a play on our visit, but I remember we did see the theatre by the river and I picked up a brochure about the performances, which I greatly treasured later. We also went to Shakespeare’s birthplace and Anne Hathaway’s cottage. Then we had high tea in the Tea Room.

The Tea Room made a real impression on me as a child. We sat upstairs overlooking the street. I remember the dark but warm interior with its beamed ceiling and the large fireplace and the brass plates and horse brasses adorning the wide mantelpiece. I don’t think there was a fire burning in the grate but then it was summer. The stairs and oak floors creaked as we walked on them, despite the old carpets. The tables and chairs looked old too, like being in a farmhouse. It was all very atmospheric, like stepping back in time. I imagined Shakespeare himself might walk up the wooden stairs at any moment.

High tea seems to have disappeared from menus now. Perhaps because we are in the age of ‘all day menus’. It was different from afternoon tea with sandwiches and cakes and scones, which is now very much in vogue. High tea could be sandwiches but could also be a light meal such as Welsh rarebit, scrambled or poached egg on toast, or beans on toast, or a pasty or pie or even fish or fish fingers and chips or cheese flan, our British version of quiche. I can’t remember what I ate but everything in the Tea Room was cosy – the cosiness of childhood.

You may be asking yourself why I am waxing lyrical about a tea room. After all I can’t imagine anyone waxing lyrical about a Starbucks or a Costa coffee shop. Although a friend of mine did develop an affection for a Costa coffee shop at a service station near her during the lockdowns. She would go there in the car and buy a coffee and a newspaper and sit in her car with them. It was her daily excursion, her little ritual, to break up the monotony of the day.

Along with watching productions at the theatre, strolling along the river Avon, seeing the historical sights, a few drinks in the Dirty Duck (the actors’ pub) and sharing all these with friends, the tea room has always been part of the Stratford experience for me, part of my Stratford. My visits have been very infrequent over the years, though more recently, they have been an annual event, but as I mentioned earlier, the tea room has always been there. I also have happy memories of taking friends there over the years.. Most important it was there when I was a child, at the source of the Shakespeare stream which has flowed through my life.

As you may have gathered, Stratford is a special place for me. I am always excited when I go there. I have even sometimes considered moving there. I said this to one of my students on a trip to the theatre there a long time ago. He made the sensible comment that Stratford wouldn’t be the same if I lived there. It is good that there are places that we always enjoy visiting, that we like to return to, that give us ‘a shot in the arm’, as he put it.

I would add that it is good to visit places that always speak to us, that not only refresh us, but also speak to our soul. The poet W.H.Auden called such places ‘numinous’, meaning ‘a place that is spiritual’ , that takes us to another plane, that speaks to our spirit.

A place that speaks to us, even over a cup of tea and a slice of cake.

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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Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 78

When I began my last meditation, a lone Parisian violin was playing in my mind. It was a poignant memory, if you remember, of a recent visit to Paris. As I light the candle beside me and begin this new meditation, another musical instrument is playing an equally poignant melody in my consciousness. It is a solo piano and the music is a nocturne by Chopin. A nocturne is a short night piece and meditative, so highly conducive to writing this reflection. I have the complete Chopin Nocturnes in my cd collection but I am not playing them at this present moment. The nocturne in my head is another memory from my recent visit to Paris.

The gentle tune takes me back to a morning visit to the Pere Lachaise cemetery in the heart of the city. I was standing in front of Chopin’s grave. Though he was Polish, he died in Paris in 1849, at the young age of 39 of tuberculosis, which he had suffered from for most of his adult life. As well as being a composer, he was also a great performer on the piano and of the stature of a rock star across Europe in his time.

A monument stood above his grave: a seated lady with a broken lyre in her lap looking down in grief. I have just discovered that the figure is of Euterpe, the muse of music. Behind the monument was a wall of trees, vibrantly green in the morning sunshine.

A small group of visitors stood in front of the grave. Some took a brief look at the monument then moved on. Other like me stood for a while to pay their respects.

People had left tributes to Chopin at the bottom of the monument: small plants, little posies of flowers, single roses and a few small Polish flags. One tribute caught my eye. It was a sheet of music of one of his compositions, though I could not make out the title clearly. It looked a little rumpled laying on the stone step in front of the monument as there had been rain the day before. A single flower lay across it.

As I stepped back from the grave, a piano began to play behind me. It was one of the nocturnes: delicate and sad. I turned round. A man standing in the group was playing the nocturne on his phone. Instead of listening to it himself, he had turned on the speaker so that we could all hear it. It was his tribute. We all stood still, looking towards the grave, as the tender notes floated on the spring breeze.

I wanted to cry. I am half – Polish after all. If you can’t cry in a cemetery, where can you cry. Poor Frederic so far from his homeland, I thought. Although his heart is buried in a church in Warsaw, in Poland, where his heart always was. And he lives on of course in his music. The nocturne finished, I gave a nod of thanks to the man with the phone and walked on. Short as it was, it was the most moving concert I have ever attended.

I have never visited the cemetery before. It is like a small town itself within the city. There are long avenues of trees between the sections of graves. It made for a peaceful walk in the spring sunshine. Despite having a map, the graves were rather difficult to find, however, as the map only indicated the section they are situated in and the sections are quite large. Also the graves are not in chronological order so recent ones are often laying side by side with ones over a hundred years old or earlier, as the cemetery opened in 1804. Well chronology has no meaning anymore for the dead in eternity.

There are many other famous people buried there and one of my reasons for visiting was to find the grave of Marcel Proust (1871-1922) the novelist. It is the centenary of his death this year and I have been reading his great seven volume novel: ‘In Search of Lost Time’, which I have mentioned in these meditations before. He was a great music lover and adored Chopin’s music, which is mentioned in his novel. I have also been reading several books about Proust himself. One included a map of the places where Proust lived in Paris. He spent most of his life there. With my patient friend Phil, I sought out these places the day before, most of which are near the Madeleine church. So, it was important to discover his final resting place, which is a simple grave of black marble with no monument.

This simplicity was unlike Oscar Wilde’s tomb, which I also visited, He had a simple grave at first having died a pauper in 1900 and was then buried outside Paris in Bagneux. However, he was transferred to Pere Lachaise in 1909 and then a grandiose sphinx – like monument (sculpted in 1911 by Sir Jacob Epstein) was placed there.

So many artists, musicians and writers are buried in the shady avenues of Pere Lachaise. We found some of them including: the composers Rossini and Cherubini, the novelists Balzac and Colette, the singer Edith Piaf and rock musician Jim Morrison from Doors, the actor Yves Montand, the composer Michel Le Grand and George Melies, one of the pioneers of the cinema. I would like to go back to find some others and revisit Frederic, Marcel, and Oscar of course.

Once outside the cemetery we found a good bistro for lunch. Opposite us were the opulent offices of several grand funeral directors. No doubt they provide opulent funerals over the road in the cemetery at a grand price. I began to think that it would be good to be buried in Pere Lachaise, when my time comes, though I doubt that I could afford it. I had this thought not because I would be buried among the cultural elite of the last two hundred years, or because of all the grand monuments, but because of the peaceful avenues of trees. Well who would visit my grave in Paris anyway? Although it would be as good an excuse as any for a Eurostar jaunt for my friends. Perhaps if I was buried there, one of my ex students might leave a few pages of one of my scripts on top of my grave with a flower across it. Perhaps not only as a tribute but also as an apology for the lines they never learnt properly!

The visit to Pere Lachaise was important to me to pay homage, to say thank you to some of those who have enriched my life. It is why I visit Shakespeare’s grave every time I go to Stratford- Upon-Avon.

You may have deduced from my meditations, that I something of a cultural tourist. Does that term exist or have I invented it? Well I am. It is easy for me to be reminded of my cultural tourism as I only have to look around the rooms in my house. Not only are there photos on display from my holidays but also pictures (I have two Rembrandts and a Da Vinci – but only copies of course!); framed posters (two Broadway productions I saw in New York for example) and on the shelves books I bought abroad, and cd’s, souvenirs posing as artefacts and of course my large collection of fridge magnets on display in the kitchen. Not to mention the thousands of photos on my I phone and laptop from my travels!

A photo encapsulates a memory, more than that, it evokes a memory if we look at it for long enough. Sadly these days we tend to snap away on our phones too quickly and look at the photos too quickly too, especially when we are scrolling through them to see which ones we want to delete. But do we really look at the ones that are left after our digital cull?

Along with the cultural souvenirs I have just listed, the photos can also be a trigger to our memory, if we stop and reflect, if we take a moment to remember.

Marcel Proust’s great novel ‘In Search of Lost Time’ is about memory. No-one describes how memories fade in and out of our consciousness as well as he does. He believed that as well as wanting to remember a memory, by looking at a photo for example or by trying to remember one, there is involuntary memory. This is when a memory comes to us clearly and concretely, unaided and unasked for, as a surprise, almost a revelation.

Like my lone Parisian violin and my piano nocturne.

Ave atque Vale – until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 73

This evening the candle beside me is not lit in imitation of Marcus Aurelius writing his own ‘Meditations’ far into the night. Nor is the candle there on my table in an attempt to create a relaxed ambiance conducive to writing. It is kindled for the people of Ukraine who at this moment are suffering a horrific invasion with heroic endurance.

I have struggled to write a meditation in the last week or so. It has been a while since my last one. The ideas in my head have been mown down by the relentless onslaught of events in Ukraine and Russia, which I have found myself compulsively following on the BBC News, so courageously reported by their correspondents.

But then, the peace of Europe has suddenly become precarious after nearly eighty years, a peace I have been fortunate to enjoy all my life and a peace and a freedom I have flourished in. It is a peace and freedom I have taken for granted, until these recent days. So perhaps I can be excused if my thoughts have been too distracted to put into words.

Once again refugees are shuffling across Europe carrying their suitcases. Once again they rush to climb aboard overcrowded trains, holding children aloft to make sure they find a space however small in a carriage to freedom. Freedom from fear: fear of shelling and bombing; fear of the onslaught of the enemy at the gates and freedom from the potential fear of living under a new repressive regime.

In the faces of the children I see my own father and his sister, aged 8 and 5 when German troops invaded Poland in 1939, who became refugees themselves through the Second World War. After the end of the war in 1945, when over 11 million people were homeless in Europe and no longer living in their native country, the phrase ‘displaced person’ was used rather than the term ‘refugee’. In the last few days in Ukraine, with the conflict and ensuing evacuation both escalating, the numbers of ‘displaced persons’ heading for the West is fast approaching a million. They have become displaced so quickly that I wonder if their minds have become displaced too, though not their hearts, which remain in their homeland.

As refugees, Ukrainians have already found or are discovering a temporary refuge in neighbouring countries: Poland, Hungary, Slovakia, Moldova, Romania and opportunities for further sanctuary are swiftly emerging in Europe. The welcome and generosity of these countries is staggering, heartwarming and humbling. In these dark days we are seeing the worst of human nature and the best. The U.K. government must play its own part and in the same openhanded spirit of goodwill, rather than letting open hands be bound together by red tape.

It is difficult to know how to respond to the deeply tragic events we are witnessing, except to make a donation to relief agencies. So much has already been said in the last days and the international response has been at all levels generally supportive of President Zelensky and Ukraine and condemnatory of President Putin and Russia.

Perhaps a Ukrainian lady can comment. She was interviewed on the BBC News about twelve days ago, when Russian forces were amassing on the borders several days before the invasion began. The interview was filmed at the rudimentary checkpoint between Ukraine and separatist Donetsk. The woman, who was middle aged, had to go through the checkpoint to Ukraine for her regular cancer treatment. Originally the checkpoint wouldn’t be there of course. She was understandably fearful and could not understand what was happening. It seemed senseless to her. She opened her arms and said ‘I only want to love everyone: I want to give the world a big hug.’ I am sure many Russians do too. But sadly not their leader. As Shakespeare says in his play ‘Measure for Measure’:

‘but man, proud man,

Dressed in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As make the angels weep.’

In my numbness and emptiness I turn to another poet, W.H.Auden (1907-1973) and his poem ‘September 1 1939’ which he wrote in New York, when war was imminent in Europe. He is perhaps now best remembered for his poem ‘Stop the clocks’ which featured in the romantic film ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’.

‘September 1 1939’ was reprinted in ‘The New Yorker’ and then some newspapers after the 9/11 bombing of the World Trade Centre in New York in 2002. It became a kind of anthem associated with that other horrific event. It is a long poem but the last lines suggest a response to the unfolding tragedy in Ukraine:

‘Defenceless under the night

Our world in stupor lies;

Yet, dotted everywhere,

Ironic points of light

Flash out wherever the Just

Exchange their messages:

May I, composed like them

Of Eros and of dust,

Beleaguered by the same

Negation and despair

Show an affirming flame.’

May we all show an affirming flame. And may we remember with St Francis that ‘All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.’ Or an affirming flame.

Ave atque Vale! Hail and Farewell.

PS: The quotations in this latest meditation may have appeared in earlier ones. I make no apology – they express my response at present.

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MEDITATION 72

Before I began this meditation I was looking at the wooden flooring in my lounge. So much more healthy than a carpet for an asthmatic like myself. I have been prompted to look at my floor because I was thinking about another kind of floor: a stone tiled floor. Marcus Aurelius, my namesake, would walk on stone tiled floors in his villas of course or marble or mosaic ones. In imitation of him, I have a stone tiled floor in my small bathroom and marble effect walls in the shower. In the corner is a terracotta amphora (a large urn) which someone gave me as a birthday gift several years ago. I also have some facsimile tiles on the walls from the baths at Ostia Antiqua in Rome, when I visited there. A little touch of Ancient Rome in New Malden!

The reason I have been musing about stone floors is that someone from my youth has recently contacted me via this blog. We have have not been in touch for many years. Paul Cook was a school friend of mine – we were in Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’ together when we were 15 years old. When Louis Maidens, (our English teacher who directed the school plays) left the school after our ‘O’ levels ,we both joined a new drama group in our local area – Teesside Youth Theatre – at the start of our Sixth Form in 1970! A long.long, time ago. How the years flow by.

He has been putting together information about Ormesby Hall, the local National Trust property, just outside Middlesbrough. The Youth Theatre would often rehearse there on Sunday afternoons. We used to rehearse in the large stone floored kitchen, which was presumable where the servants dined in times gone by. It wasn’t ‘below stairs’, however but at the side of the house. He has been asking me for memories of rehearsing at the Hall and the kitchen and its stone floors came to mind. Since being in touch with him by email the other day, the memory of those kitchen rehearsals has lingered.

My first memories of rehearsing there were in the winter of 1970-71 when we were devising a modern version of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’. The final script would be written by another member of the Youth Theatre, Robert Holman, who eventually went on to be a successful playwright and sadly died last December. The production was to be performed at various venues in the area.

I remember the kitchen was freezing cold, because of those floors. This was very appropriate for our production – we soon got into character! We had to light a fire in the big fireplace before we started rehearsing, I remember. The high-ceilinged room soon warmed up from the fire, however, and we warmed up by moving around in rehearsal. We wanted to get up from our chairs as soon as possible to get warm so reading through scenes was brisk!

The kitchen soon became cosy and Christmassy and even though we were rehearsing a modern version of Dickens’ famous opus, the Victorian surroundings helped us get into the atmosphere of the story. At least I thought so. I was playing Bob Cratchit and I remember rehearsing the Christmas dinner scene on that stone floor and surrounding brick walls, feeling as if I had one foot in 1970 and the other in 1843! We were definitely in 1970 when we performed the scene for real: the Christmas dinner we had to ecstatically enthuse over consisted of cold tinned vegetables (including potatoes) and the Christmas goose was substituted by slices of spam!

Being in the kitchen was so very different from rehearsing at my school, St Mary’s College, which was a fairly new building with polished floors or at Kirby College in Middlesbrough, where we had opened their brand new theatre with ‘The Fire Raisers’ the previous September. But that draughty kitchen, because it was such an unusual place to rehearse, became ‘our space’, our den, our club house over the months we were there and I have fond memories of it.

The place inspired me too: my first production at my school, in 1984, was my own modern version of ‘A Christmas Carol’. My two years at the Youth Theatre helped to form me as any specialised Youth group should. Not only did I have the chance to act, but also to direct and write scripts too and to be with other people who were generally as committed to performing as I was. There was no Drama at my school once Louis Maidens left and no A Level Drama either. So the Youth Theatre was my lifeline.

In the following summer, we rehearsed Shakespeare’s ‘Measure For Measure’ there for performances at Middlesbrough Little Theatre in September. The kitchen remained cool even in the summer months! We did rehearse outside though on the lawn sometimes and I also remember rehearsing on the lawn for my final production, ‘Progress in Unity’ another one devised by ourselves and written by Robert Holman, about the history of the area. That production was performed at Middlesbrough Town Hall in September 1972 just before I went to university.

My special memory of being at Ormesby Hall with the Youth Theatre was performing a one act play in the drawing room. This was as part of an arts evening as far as I remember. We performed an Edwardian comedy ‘Playgoers’ by Arthur Wing Pinero. It was about an aristocratic lady unsuccessfully trying to rehearse her servants in a play. I played her equally harassed husband and I think I may have directed it too. The drawing room was the perfect setting for the play and we used some of the sofas and armchairs at one end of the room for our scene with the audience sitting round us in a semi-circle. It was like begin on a film set in away or in an episode of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’, which was on the TV at the time. And it was warm of course!

Ormesby Hall has been owned by the Pennyman family since 1599 and when Jim Pennyman died in 1961, it was bequeathed to the National Trust with his wife Ruth being allowed to remain living there. Jim and Ruth Pennyman were great supporters of the Arts and Ruth had been a poet and playwright herself. She had generously loaned us the huge kitchen for rehearsals. I think she provided the logs for the fire too. Sometimes she would wander in with a tray of homemade sausage rolls and cakes or they would be left out for us. She was very welcoming and interested in us but never intruded. Ruth was a very generous supporter of the Youth Theatre and therefore of the artistic development of its members.

In the 1940’s she was also an active and generous supporter of the early days of Theatre Workshop, led by Joan Littlewood, which eventually settled at the Theatre Royal Stratford East in London. In the 40’s they appeared at the early version of the Little Theatre but were billeted at Ormesby Hall. This led to an annual summer school there. Years later, at Stratford East, Joan Littlewood produced many innovative productions including ‘Oh What A Lovely War’ and a number of actors’ professional careers were nurtured there, including Barbara Windsor. I wonder if they rehearsed in the kitchen in the ’40’s just as we did in the ’70’s.

These days we are used to corporate and government patronage and subsidy of the Arts on a large scale and very important it is too, essential to the cultural life of the country and our own well-being. Such sponsorship was also occurring when I was a member of the Youth Theatre, of course, but then as now, there were individuals like Ruth Pennyman who generously and quietly supported local Arts groups and even professional ones in embryo like Theatre Workshop. And not only financially. -Ruth gave us premises to rehearse in and, at times, perform in. Not to mention her homemade sausage rolls and cakes!

Where have the years gone, I ask myself, as I gaze at the candle beside me. I have begun to perceive that there are far more years behind me than are left to me – even if I become a centenarian! If so, will I still be blogging? Or what digital format or platform will I be using over thirty years from now. Old and decrepit as I may become, perhaps I will be able to beam down into your homes (if you are still around too) and deliver my blog in person.

Marcus tells us in his Meditations (Book 6): ‘The whole of present time is a pin-prick of eternity. All things are tiny, quick-changed, evanescent’. He also describes Time as a ‘violent stream’ in Book 4. Tine does move quickly and our lives change quickly as a result. We do not see that when we are young. I am beginning to see it now.

Ave atque Vale! Hail and Farewell.

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Neilus Aurelius