I spent yesterday in London visiting two art exhibitions. Vincent van Gogh’s self-portraits at the Courtauld gallery in the morning. Then Walter Sickert at Tate Britain in the afternoon.

Van Gogh was a prolific self-portrait painter. He produced 35 and all in the last four years of his life. But unfortunately, those paintings almost chart his final descent into a complete mental collapse. The selection of those paintings on display at the Courtauld well captures that.

When standing in the middle of one of the small galleries surrounded by Vincents, you feel the intense gaze of those vivid green eyes piercing your soul. Then, you move forward, and inches close to a single portrait, you make eye contact with Vincent. What do you see? Pain, passion, anxiety, fear? Is that Vincent’s, or is it yours?

 Van Gogh felt portrait painting was the highest form of art and was sceptical of photographs. In his self-portraits, he did not seek a photographic likeness but something of the soul,

“I myself still find photographs frightful and don’t like to have any, especially not of people whom I know and love.”

On another occasion, saying, “it isn’t easy to paint oneself … one seeks a deeper likeness than that of the photographer”

Van Gogh wished to capture through his painting the inner portrait. The him, in him. He used different painting techniques, poses, and clothes to do that. Yet, that which stays consistent is his eyes and their penetrating gaze.

In none of the portraits did I see joy or comfort. I saw a struggle. I saw angst. In some, I saw despair. But, in all, I saw talent, expression and feeling. They moved me. That is what great art does. It touches the you, in you. And when you look into those eyes of Vincent, you begin to better understand the ‘who’ you might be.

Of course, my viewing of the self-portraits over, I paid my respects to Suzon. Those who know me well know that I always take the opportunity to look upon her enigmatic countenance when in the Courtauld. 

It was then to Tate Britain, and I enjoyed my walk there. London’s streets were busy, but I don’t mind busy. I learned long ago that swerve and dodge one needs to possess to bypass tourists. After my walk, I popped into the Morpeth Arms near the Tate. To rest my legs and quench my thirst with a pint of Young’s Special.

Walter Sickert was and remains something of a controversial artist. I know far less of him than I do, van Gogh. For that reason, I wanted to see the exhibition at the Tate.

He was born in Munich, and the first part of the exhibition was his self-portraits (fewer than Vincent’s). Here I heard the quote of the day by another gallery visitor who, in cut-glass received pronunciation, uttered, “I didn’t realise he was German. He doesn’t look like a German, does he?”

Anyway, back to Walter. His early career was as an actor, and then he took up painting in his twenties. That said, his love of the theatre remained. So many of his earlier works capture the performers of that genre vividly. And in them, the influence of Degas is evident.

 Walter then dabbled with portrait painting before moving to landscapes, many of which are urban landscapes. I recognised one. A church in Venice close to where I stayed some 100 years after his painting of it.

Sickert’s painting of nudes and the Camden Murders series I found the most disturbing part of the exhibition. I can appreciate that he wished to move away from the stylised view of the naked female body. And his portrayals are frank in that regard. The issue is that they portray women of limited means who pose not through choice but for income. Invariably in those scenes when a man is present, that man is fully clothed.

Those paintings influenced Bacon (of whom the exhibition includes a piece) and Freud. Still, I confess they made me feel uncomfortable.

By the 1930s, Sickert had moved to paint from topical photographs. He felt that the black and white photos of the time were ‘flat’. 

He (and he was not alone amongst artists) used a type of lens that allowed him to view a photograph as a projection that he could sketch and then scale up. I admit that his painting in colour, of what were black and white photographs, does add vitality to the subject. I guess he was an early exponent of the ‘colourisation’ of images that one sees today produced through the benefits of digitisation.

I cannot finish this piece without a comment on those who take photos at art exhibitions. I must ask why? Whether it’s food in restaurants, paintings, and photographs in galleries, or action at sports events. Why do we take a picture rather than simply enjoy the experience?

Unless for artistic purposes or as a family memento, most photographs we take simply confirm that we were ‘there’. A good friend of mine once said our life has become a series of photos in which we don’t appear one day. 

To me, looking at an artwork is about feeling and personal interaction. Does this piece move me or not? What might this piece say to me, about me, of me? To then take a photo of it seems pointless. That photo won’t add to the personal interaction. That will come from my memory. If I really do need a reminder, I can revisit the painting. If that’s impracticable, I’ll look it up on the internet. Yes, seeing a photo or picture etc, ‘in the flesh’ moves me more, but seeing an image recorded elsewhere can rekindle that feeling.

So, to the individual at the Sickert exhibition who went from painting to painting snapping away without pause, I ask why? How did taking a photograph of one picture and then scurrying onto the next offer you any fulfilment? What engagement did you feel? What emotions did those paintings stir?

Or are the photographs simply evidence you were there? But were you? Yes, you were present in the room, but did you feel the presence of the room? Will those photographs say anything to you when you scroll through them?

In art, we can find ourselves, but we need to be looking at that art. And not through a viewfinder.

Anyway, diatribe over. Vincent Self-portraits and Walter Sickert are two quite different but exciting exhibitions of which I would recommend both. And leave your camera at home.

.. Each herself, but each the other

In a curious harmony,

Finding both a proper place

In the silken gown’s embrace.

Eileen O’Shaughnessy – closing lines of ‘End of the Century, 1984’

On occasion, I leaf through my journals in search of a recollection of some happening or other. Sometimes, I stumble upon an entry that causes me to think, my goodness, can it be that long ago?

One such happened last week and prompted this reflection.

Some six years ago, I was one of the early contributors of funds to support the publication of ‘Eileen’. The biography by Sylvia Topp of Eileen O’Shaughnessy, the first wife of Eric Blair or George Orwell as the world came to know him.

Most people who know of Orwell will think of him in terms of ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ or ‘Animal Farm’. A book many children read as part of the school curriculum. However, his work was much more extensive than that. In addition to his nine books, he wrote many book criticisms, articles for left-wing publications and comprehensive essays. As well as producing radio programmes.

I especially like two of Orwell’s essays: ‘ Decline of the English Murder’ and ‘The Moon under Water’.

‘Decline of the English Murder’ atmospherically conjures up English Sunday afternoons of the 1930s and 1940s and the swathe of people who settled down to read the salacious stories in the likes of the ‘News of the World’. There was always some comfort in reading about a murder.

‘Moon under Water’ is imagining a perfect pub that must possess ten essentials. One is that the Architecture must be Victorian. It must be a quiet pub with no radio or piano (Orwell wrote this in 1946). Finally, it must serve a creamy draught stout and ideally in a pewter pot. All very idyllic, and Orwell himself admitted no pub existed that had all ten. However, he knew of a handful that had eight. Although he did not share the names of those, interestingly, many pubs since carry the name ‘Moon under Water’.

It took two years to raise all the money required for the production of Sylvia’s book. And a further eighteen months before the book came to print.

The wait was very worthwhile. Sylvia produced a substantive book that gives insight to Eileen’s creative talent and does much to recognise her beneficial influence on Orwell’s writing. That influence may even include the choice of ‘Ninety Eighty Four’ as the title of his dystopian novel. It’s very similar to the title of a poem, ‘End of the Century, 1984’ that Eileen wrote in the years before she met Orwell. The inspiration for that poem was another dystopian novel, Aldous Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’.

The research in Sylvia’s book is meticulous and takes the reader through Eileen’s productive yet sadly short life. From talented schoolgirl to a pioneering woman at Oxford. After meeting Orwell, she emerges as a politically engaged woman. Editing his work and broadening Orwell’s perspective while enhancing his creativity. Theirs was the love story of two independent-minded people living and working together. First on a smallholding. Then during his time in Spain to fight in the Spanish Civil war. After Orwell’s wounding, she helped him escape from Spain. Then nursed him to recovery.

Sylvia Topp also gives much insight into the Orwell’s decision to adopt a child when they realised they could not have children together.

Much is known of Orwell’s battle with the TB that would kill him. Poignantly Sylvia also conveys Eileen’s own issue with ill health and her death, during an operation, at the early age of 39.

I’ve read the half-finished letter that Eileen began to write to Orwell after being prepped for that operation. He was in Paris as neither thought it was a procedure of significance. The short letter is matter of fact and Eileen mentions she will pick up the pen again and complete the letter after the surgery. It being a temporary interruption. But, alas, that was not the case.

For so many of us, the moment of our death is a life interrupted. We leave with things unfinished. A half-completed crossword. An unwashed coffee cup. An unmade bed. A part read (or written) story. We leave things unsaid too. There’s always later, or tomorrow.

Sometimes, however, there isn’t.

Last week, I went to a leaving do. It was for my ‘boss’ in the museum where I volunteer.

I’ve had many bosses of varying calibre over the decades, so this leaving ‘do’ was not the first to which I’ve been. On occasion, my boss leaving has offered me an opportunity. Yes, I, too, once had high ambition. Sometimes the going has provided relief. We’ve all suffered bosses like that. While sometimes, it’s brought me concern. One never knows whom the new broom may sweep away.

Anyway, I felt both sadness and excitement on this occasion. Sadness that I will no longer ‘work’ alongside someone of talent and unbounded enthusiasm. Excitement for the individual as they embark on a new life ‘journey’.

When most people leave an organisation of their own volition, they usually seek to increase their income, or further their ambition, or take a career path change or maybe retire.

This ‘leaving’ was none of those. The person is not suffering some mid-life crisis. A woman far too young for that. This young woman leaves paid employment to look upon new horizons and a different perspective. Seeking the time and space to explore what else life might offer away from the regularity of work. Affirmation of the direction in which they wish their life to progress.

I heard someone say it was a bold decision. I’m not sure I agree. Such a decision may be to fight on the front line in Ukraine. This was an opportunistic decision. Yes, what is left behind is the regularity of a paycheque. And maybe that does take courage. But what I admire is the desire to seek those new horizons both literally (I write of someone who is a promising artist of primarily landscapes) and metaphorically.

My life has followed a classic arc. School, work, marriage, divorce, marriage, children, divorce, marriage, stepchildren. With various geographical moves, house purchases and employer changes thrown in. OK, maybe the marriage/divorce bit isn’t classic. But I’ve not tried to explore an alternative lifestyle. I built a career in business and paid my mortgage(s). I have no regrets and am not complaining. My working life of long hours, weeks and months, afforded me a comfortable opportunity to retire early, travel a bit (well, until Covid) and give something back through volunteering. However, I recall one occasion when fleetingly my mind moved towards an alternative, what if?

It was some decades ago and during a train journey. A journey that sticks in my mind for a couple of reasons. One is the book ‘The History of Love’, the other a bag.

First to the book that I began to read while travelling in the first-class comfort of the 8:01 from Watford Junction to Preston. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I read the first few pages while waiting for a taxi to take me from my then home to Watford Junction. The first rays of a weak February sun spread just enough light to read by, and what I read soon absorbed me. In its own words, the book is “a captivating story of the power of love, of loneliness and of survival”.

An hour or so later, I took up the book again. The aftermath of a breakfast, courtesy of Virgin Trains, lay before me and a half cup of coffee close to hand. The tumult of animated conversations surrounding me faded into the background as I began to read.

Talk of offside rules, the leadership skills and amoral escapades of JFK, the outcome of safety inspections, and how best to exploit career opportunities all became little more than a gentle murmur. I submerged into the world of the book’s two main characters, Leo and Alma. Then a loud and slightly anxious voice brought me abruptly to the surface of reality.

The voice was that of the train guard, who stood at the end of the carriage, and at his feet, I could see a large grey sports bag. “Does anyone in this carriage own this bag?”

His words cut a swathe through the conversations within the carriage. There followed an unexpressed exhortation from every passenger for someone to answer and claim ownership.

After what seemed an interminable silence, “it’s alright, it’s mine”, came the somewhat flustered reply from a young man standing up to identify himself. Despite the phlegmatic attitude for which the British are renowned, a palpable sense of relief spread through the carriage. I returned to ‘The History of love’.

Very few books genuinely demand to be made a permanent possession. ‘The History of Love’ is one of those. I say permanent, but as the book itself conveys, can anything be permanent? Just as was my journey to Preston, life itself is transitory. Nothing is forever (although I once spent a wet and dismal Monday evening in Crewe that felt like forever).

Writing of Crewe, I paused in my reading as the train arrived there. The book’s captivating narrative on romanticism and tenderness pricked my literary conscience with the thought that maybe I should abandon the day’s planned activity. To be spontaneous and spend the day writing.

As the train continued towards Preston, I continued to toy with the idea. I have responsibilities, I told myself. Obligations to my wife, my family and to my colleagues. But what about commitment to literature? A ‘real’ writer would find a place to write. They would continue until unburdened of their literary load. Abandoning business to a ‘higher’ calling.

And yet, either through cowardice or a lack of spontaneity, I packed away the laptop and left the train for the office, as we arrived in Preston. I ‘surrendered to the dollar’ and the world of business. Filling my day with presentations and meetings, reviews and reports.

Unlike me, my now ex-boss has the conviction to seek unknown destinations and experiences. I wish her every success in her endeavour. While I failed to write on that day in February of decades ago, I did pick up the keyboard not long after. I wrote, ‘The Photograph’. A short story of my own, on love, loss and remembrance. I promised myself that one day I would develop it into a novel. On retirement, I began to do just that. For some months, tapping away and seeing the story come into shape. Then a block set in, and I’ve not touched it in eighteen months. Maybe I need to dust it off…

One should never say “never”, and that was in my mind as a couple of weeks ago I looked out over the rooftops of Naples from the aeroplane that carried me there.

I assumed that my visit to Naples five years ago would be my last to my favourite Italian city. However, that proved not the case as I could not resist its allure for my first overseas venture after the Covid lockdowns.

I knew the weather wouldn’t be great for my short stay. No better than the UK in early Spring. I didn’t mind. Any rain that fell would be Italian. Rain that falls with elegance and style. As it turned out, it was Neapolitan rain; rain that is full-on and falls with clamour. But not for long. Sudden downbursts soon give way to a cloudless sky. It’s not the malingering rain one gets in Britain. Rain that has nothing better to do than hang around.

I was still able to eat al fresco on my first evening. Warm enough to dispose of my jacket and eat in shirtsleeves. Interestingly, that was not the case with those Neapolitans I sat amongst. All wore jackets and pullovers. Some even had scarves.

I’ve written before of the clamour of Naples, so I won’t do so again. It was there in all its familiarity. What was different was the masks, the vaccination ‘green passes’ and the temperature checks. Anywhere I went indoors meant wearing a mask. And not just any old mask. It had to be PP2. Every building I entered saw a check of my ‘green pass’ and sometimes my temperature. Italy’s soaring number of deaths at the beginning of the pandemic has left them wary of prematurely lifting restrictions.

I spent my first day meandering the streets of Naples’ old town to see how many of my earlier haunts had survived the economic downturn that the pandemic wrought. I found most of them had. Even a tiny little bar buried deep into the heart of the old town that I knew well. So, it was good to return and have the owner recognise me. Another ‘Harry’, from Harriet, though, not Henry. The bar was little changed, but not all things. Five years on, ‘Harry’ is now the mother of two.

I did come across two Covid casualties. A pizzeria on the seafront in which I’ve enjoyed a meal or two over the decades. Another was a small hotel in which I’ve stayed in the past. However, many businesses seem to have gotten through OK, if not unscathed.

I dedicated my second day to see the three Caravaggio paintings that Naples boasts. As well as a great painter, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio was quite a lad who lived life to the full. In 1606 he allegedly killed a young man in a street brawl in Rome and fled to Naples, where the Colonna family gave him protection. Caravaggio began painting again but then left for Malta to become a ‘Knight of Malta’. It didn’t last long, and another brawl in which he seriously wounded a fellow knight saw Caravaggio imprisoned again. He managed to escape and reached Sicily staying there for some nine months. Caravaggio then returned to Naples to again ask for the protection of the Colonna family. With the help of influential friends, he hoped to receive the Pope’s pardon for the alleged murder. Unfortunately, he died on his journey to Rome to receive this hoped-for pardon. He was thirty-nine years old.

I’ve seen so many of Caravaggio’s paintings in situ. And more in galleries and exhibitions. His use of light and shadow, the realism of the figures he paints, ‘warts and all’ come together to captivate me. One that especially does is ‘The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula’. It’s his last picture, and within it, he paints himself. A death-like figure, looking on at the martyrdom. It’s as if Caravaggio himself had a premonition of his death. I always leave that as the last painting I view.

The first is always ‘The Seven Acts of Mercy’. That was the first painting completed by Caravaggio after arriving in Naples from Rome. The one I view in-between is ‘The Flagellation of Christ’. It’s in the magnificent Capodimonte Museum, which sits high on a hill. The museum was once the Bourbon Royal Palace when Naples was under the control of Spain. Caravaggio’s paintings may be artistically breath-taking, but I know that the climb to the museum is literally breath-taking!

I’m not one for organised tours. But I have found in other cities that a food tour either alone with the ‘guide’ or in a small group is an excellent way to discover a city. It’s not just the sampling of delicacies; such tours can offer insight into a city’s culture, history, and politics.

Therefore, I enjoyed a stroll around Naples on my third day with my guide Gennaro. He didn’t feel like a guide. After sharing our first coffee, it felt we were two friends enjoying a few hours of conversation over some food and drink taken in all sorts of places.

We started in the Vomero district of Naples, which strongly contrasts old Naples. Vomero is high on another hill (yes, I walked up this one too — funiculars are for wimps) near the Castel Sant’Elmo overlooking the city.

Where old Naples is a rabbit warren of cramped streets, the Vomero is much like any modern European city. Wide roads and high street shops. It’s still noisy, and the traffic is crazy, so the spirit of Naples is definitely still there. Gennaro and I started in the Vomero to allow us to feast our eyes on the magnificence of Naples that stretches out before you from the castle. In the far distance stands that classic view of Vesuvius. In the foreground, stretching in all directions, are a myriad of rooftops, spires, copulas, and towers as far as the eye can see. And just on that far edge stands the patch of modern skyscrapers that represent the financial district. The modern and ancient all in one panoramic view.

From the Vomero, we plunged down into the old city and our first stop in Naples’ oldest market, ‘La Pignasecca ‘(Dried Pine) in Montesanto. There it was to a street food stall selling fried fish. There’s a lot of fried food in Naples. It’s cheap and, once cooked, keeps a while. This stall offered a wide range of shellfish, squid, octopus etc. Served as a Mista. You don’t see chips very much, but mashed potato fried in a batter. That was the accompaniment here.

We then weaved our way through the claustrophobic streets of the old town, sampling the freshest mozzarella and tomatoes, then sipping Aperol and limoncello. Next came a meal that brought back to Gennaro, Sunday lunches with his family. I did not realise the competition between Naples and Bologna over Ragù. In Naples, it was a Sunday lunch dish, and in contrast to Bologna, the basis of the Ragù in Naples is a mixture of cheap pieces of beef rather than mince. That means it’s cooked for an exceptionally long time. Gennaro told me typically 10 hours.

What I tasted was both packed with flavour but melted in the mouth, and the ziti pasta, over which the Ragu pored, proved an excellent absorbent. The plate was then wiped clean, not with bread but with Taralli. It’s a peppery breadstick baked in the shape of a small hoop.

Of course, being Naples, we had to have Pizza Fritta. I’ve described this local speciality before. Every time I’ve endeavoured to eat one, I’ve only managed around half of it. It’s not because they aren’t tasty. Or that the bread base is overly thick. Indeed, it was papery thin. The fact it’s deep-fried adds to its ‘weight’. One day I will succeed.

The ‘conversation’ with Gennaro thus drew to its close. By this time, we had not only discussed food but also football, history, culture, art, and wine. We agreed that politics was an area too painful for either of us to discuss. The finale was a Babà Napoletano. Although even Gennaro had to admit the claim may be dubious, it’s a desert to which Naples lays claim. What wasn’t dubious was the Babà I enjoyed. Light sponge with a sharp kick of rum. After all that food, I waddled back to my hotel replete.

I spent my final day gently. Dodging in and out of the heavy rain showers. I explored the seafront in the sunshine and watched the thunderstorm clouds grumbling up the bay. As they obscured Vesuvius, it was my indication to seek shelter. On one occasion, it was the Galleria Umberto. Another Italian shopping centre built to resemble a cathedral.

On another occasion, it was to a cocktail bar. Covering the vast open-air courtyard was a massive sheet of thick plastic whose centre was a funnel that took the falling rain straight down into a drain. I lost an hour sipping a mojito (well, two mojitos) while watching the rainfall cascade down the funnel like an internal waterfall.

The weather had cleared sufficiently by the evening to eat al fresco again, although my jacket stayed firmly on this time. It happened to be in the piazza in which Sarah and I shared a coffee back in 2005. It had changed little. Then again, old Naples has changed little in hundreds of years. I dined on Cotoletta alla Napoletana, the Neapolitan equivalent of Cotoletta alla Milanese, with seasonal vegetables. In the case of Naples, they were aubergine, zucchini, and fennel. Not a combination you would see in many English restaurants.

And so, another visit to Naples drew to its close. This one could very well be my last. And yet what did I say about saying never….

It’s many years since British Airways could claim the title of the “World’s Favourite Airline”. Constant cost-cutting has led to poor service, fewer on-time arrivals, and horrendous IT failures. In my time flying with BA, some mishaps come to mind.

There was the time that the steps to the plane wouldn’t move as their battery was flat. It meant the plane couldn’t move, so we sat on the tarmac for an age.

Or the time we had to pull off the taxiway in Rome as the printer on the flight deck had run out of paper. So again, we sat there for a long time while a car was despatched to deliver said paper to the plane.

BA had only one person boarding the plane on another occasion in Rome. The operation took so long that our plane missed its original slot. That delay ended up being an hour and a half.

Some examples of delays because of trivial issues that one would not expect from a so-called prestigious airline.

After several such incidents, I decided to try out other airlines some years ago. It was a decision I did not regret. Indeed, several airlines now offer a comparable in-flight service to BA for short-haul at a competitive price and better on-time arrival.

Once upon a time, the cabin crew always came to rescue BA’s reputation when delays occurred. Based on my recent experience, not anymore. I know that in-flight meals are long gone. The announcement made on my flight was the offer of a complimentary “snack and a soft drink”. A fun-size packet of crisps and bottle of water were then delivered with little decorum. You might call that a snack and a soft drink in the marketing department. But not me.

So, why did I go back to them? Because the price compared to other carriers was about the same once I factored in putting luggage in the hold. The BA flight departure was also more convenient, and I could quickly get to Heathrow by public transport.

So, surpassing my fears, I bought my tickets. Three weeks later, BA changed the time of my outward flight. From 12:45 to 10:00. Not the end of the world, you might say. Not when you factor in my train journey to London and the Heathrow Express. Given train times from my hometown, I would now not arrive in time for check-in/bag drop. It would therefore need to be an overnight stay near Heathrow. At least I have so many ‘loyalty’ points gained from my working days that such a hotel stay would be free.

My destination was Italy, which has stricter COVID rules than the UK. Two days before my flight, I received an email from BA. It was a request to upload my passenger locater form and NHS Covid ‘Green card’. If I did not do so, I would not be able to check-in. I, therefore, duly did so. BA acknowledged receipt and conferred they would check the documentation. Eight hours later, an email arrived from BA to tell me one of the documents was missing. Umm, no, I thought, they are both there.

Nevertheless, as the email from BA asked, I repeated the upload process. I then received a message telling me I could only upload once. OK, fine, but why then ask me to upload them again?

Other airlines offer an online chat facility if you have a query or wish to make a change to a booking. I have used such recently with another airline to sort out an issue. It took 5 minutes to rectify with my ‘chat’ person guiding me through what I needed to do. Quick and painless. Sadly, BA does not offer such a facility. Ah, I thought. I’ll call them. No chance. After navigating five options on their CRM system, a pre-recorded voice told me the wait time was more than 30 minutes, and the call abruptly ended. A few hours later, I tried again. Same result.

Despite my allegedly missing documentation, I did indeed attempt online check-in when it opened. No problem ensued, and within moments I had downloaded my boarding card.

After my overnight stay in the airport hotel, I duly arrived at BA’s bag drop in Heathrow. It was a slick operation conducted without human interaction on the part of BA. Good, I thought. Moments later, I received an email from BA. It again told me that one of the documents I needed to upload was missing, and this would prevent check-in. With a little chuckle to myself at good old BA’s IT, I ignored the email and went off in search of breakfast.

My flight to Naples was on time. However, it was the return that confirmed all my fears about BA.

I have flown from Naples airport many times with several airlines. I accept that it is not easy to manage a coordinated boarding, given the cramped space at the gates. A melee tends to form rather than an orderly queue. The different classes of ‘Speedy Boarding’, Club Europe, Eurotraveller etc have no meaning there. It’s very much a case of first come, first served. On this occasion, BA also decided that having one shuttle bus to take a full aeroplane of people was sufficient. It patently wasn’t. By the time we boarded, with the shuttle bus travelling back and forward from gate to plane, we were already 25 minutes late.

Despite the pilot’s reassurance as we left Naples, the flight made up none of that delay. As we taxied off the runway at Heathrow, the joyous news greeted us from the flight-deck that another plane occupied our stand, so we would have to wait. And wait, we did. For close to half an hour. With little information and zero empathy from the cabin crew. All that was offered was the instruction that we remain seated for safety reasons. As frustration grew, that reason then changed to remaining seated to adhere to Covid distancing rules (eh? we were already sitting cheek by jowl). As time passed, a ripple of heightened anxiety went through the plane. It was from those passengers transferring to a flight to the USA. Except there wasn’t going to be a connecting flight as it was soon to be on its way. With that recognition, the agitation in the cabin went up a notch.

The misery continued when we finally got to a stand to find no staff to connect the airbridge. More time passed, notching up further the frustration and agitation.

Hurrah, at last, around 45 minutes after we landed (and don’t forget that was 25 minutes late), disembarkation followed. But, of course, some of us could not relax yet. We still needed our hold luggage.

When I arrived at the luggage carousel it was to join an already growing group of people from my flight. What there wasn’t was any luggage. That took another 30 minutes to arrive, so in all, I left the terminal for the Heathrow express close to two hours after our scheduled landing time. Almost the length of the flight from Naples.

Some may remember the funny airline abbreviations of years ago. Some I recall were AA (American Airlines) — Always Awful, ALITALIA — Always Late in Take-off Always Late in Arrival, PAN AM — Plan on Arriving Nerve wracked And Mad, TWA — Try Walking Across.

And British Airways? … Bloody Awful …….

I write this while sitting in an airport hotel on the Bath Road near Heathrow. I’m here because of the earliness of my flight to Naples tomorrow. There is no way I would make that flight travelling by public transport from my home in Wiltshire.

Many holidays and business trips start with a stay in a mundane airport hotel. This airport hotel is no different from the many others I’ve stayed within over the decades, with its functional design, stark décor, and minimalist comfort. While all the hotel staff I’ve met are charming and helpful, there is a limitation to such hotels’ attractiveness.

No guest of an airport hotel plans to stay longer than a night. They are places of transit. Holiday travellers look forward to their getaway. Business travellers preoccupied with the business matters that lie ahead. But, of course, they too might grab some leisure time. So, in both cases if their hotel stay extends beyond one night, more often than not it’s not good news.

The airport hotel stay is the mundane hors d’oeuvre of the holiday for those like me travelling for leisure. Or, more appropriately, given my destination, the Primi. What is to follow is the hope of a tasty main course of warm foreign climes. The airport hotel is an unfulfilling ‘beginner’ that only serves to add anticipation to the journey that lies ahead. A palate cleanser for the wine of character yet to come.

People in an airport Departure Lounge show the same transitory feeling. Their anticipation battling their boredom as they meander around, glancing every so often at the departure board in the hope of seeing a gate number appear. 

As I plan to do tomorrow, some will pass the waiting time by having a bite to eat. Some will take advantage of the shops. A sturdy few may seek out a bar. Most, however, will have that slow gait wander of lost souls in the Departure Lounge wilderness.

It’s in much contrast to Arrivals. In there is palpable excitement amongst those waiting as they scrutinise the faces of arriving passengers seeking out returning loved ones.

There are of course the privileged traveller. Those who turn left in the aircraft. I’ve been there too. Yes, their departure lounge is more civilised with pampering, free food and drink available. Yet, they too are passing time. Left or right it’s still a waiting game

To the best of my knowledge, neither a Departure Lounge nor Airport Hotel have acted as muse for anyone to pen some soulful song. While Widnes railway station may have inspired Paul Simon to write ‘Homeward Bound’. I doubt the same thing is true of Heathrow’s Terminal 3 Departure Lounge. I may be wrong, of course…

Laozi wrote, “A journey of a thousand Chinese miles starts beneath one’s feet”. Which, I thought to myself as I waited to begin the Big London Walk in support of the homeless, is also true of English miles.

Beneath my feet late last Saturday night were the paving stones of Trafalgar Square, although ahead of me were not a thousand miles but a more manageable 10km.

I was not alone. Sharing my endeavour were more than a hundred others. Some of those present were about to tackle a far longer distance of 26 miles. Sadly, my knees are not up to walking such a distance these days.

My route took me from the Square, along the Strand, Fleet St, Cannon St, and into Whitechapel. That was the turning point onto the return leg back ‘home’ in Trafalgar Square. I called this outward leg the history bit as, along the way, there were many fine historical sights to see. From, ‘Ye Old Cheshire Cheese’ to the once-bustling Newspaper offices. The ghosts of their presses whirring silently inside. Of them all though, the most magnificent was St Pauls. 

I’d call the return route that ran further north, the ‘industrial’ bit. Yes, we passed many historical buildings, but these were the likes of Smithfield Market and Liverpool St Station. We also ‘enjoyed’ the more modern Barbican.

The weather stood fair for the whole walk. A cloudless sky and sparkling stars. Not surprisingly, many of the streets we walked along were devoid of people. Except that is, until the last kilometre or so. That took us into Covent Garden. To keep up our rhythmic pace, there was much side-stepping of people spilling out onto the streets from theatres, pubs, and restaurants.

Throughout the walk, there was a festive air. We set off to cheers and clapping ringing in our ears. As we pounded the paving stones, there was further encouragement and thumbs up. Then, as we finished, it was back to a reception of whooping and clapping.

I saw some familiar faces from earlier walks. One chap I stumbled upon was a Canadian with whom I’d walked on the last London Walk before Covid struck. He had opted for the marathon this time around. I, therefore, made new friends as walking companions. That is what the event is all about. Giving something back but also meeting like-minded people. A mini-community.

The whole experience passed very quickly, and I’m pleased to report that the knee held up. By the end, I was a little footsore but more importantly, I had an inner glow and an overwhelming sense of well-being.

I’ll be back again next year!!

I write this as sunshine spills through the window, spreading like a warm pool upon the floor. And yet through that window, I can see a fine dusting of frost on grass and pavements. It is mid-March, with Spring just around the corner, so my reflection this week is the circle of seasons.

Most of us have a favourite season, and many will say that it is Spring. The season of longer, brighter and warmer days. A renewal and reawakening of nature and ourselves from the somnambulant state we enter in the dark and chilly winter months.

I, too, enjoy the brighter mornings and evenings of early Spring and the psychological boost they give me. It stems from those decades of late Autumns and Winters when I travelled to, and returned from, work in the dark. Then, as March progressed, my homeward journey was suddenly under lighter skies, and the lift to my spirits was palpable.

Also, as I have aged, I welcome warmer weather far more, meaning Summer has grown more attractive to me. But, of course, in England, Summer doesn’t offer any guarantee of sunny, balmy days. Although, that might change given the ever-warming climate.

One of the happiest periods of my life was the summer of 1972. ‘O’ levels were over. Thoughts of pass marks and ‘A’ levels were far in the distance. Some years later, my recollection is of long lazy days in the warm sunshine. Playing football, visits to the sea, bike rides (and on one memorable occasion riding a horse) and long conversations with friends on such philosophical topics of where we might all be in ten years from then. The irony is that as those ten years progressed, I steadily lost touch with all those friends. Things might have been different if social media had existed in 1972!

While I enjoy each season’s different offerings, if forced to choose a favourite, I feel Autumn shades it for me. I love the blush it brings to the countryside as we say goodbye to Summer and the gentle ambience that pervades all. As Keats put it, 

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun”.

In pre-Covid days, I much enjoyed travelling overseas in early Autumn. The rush of Summer tourists had quietened. Residents wearied by the visitor flow and sated by heat seemed to welcome travellers from afar in a gentler way. One of my favourite sensations when embarking from an aeroplane in late September in Southern Europe was to feel the embrace of wrap-around Autumnal warmth. The rich perfume of sunshine in the viscous air.

As burnished Autumn chills to Winter, there is still the anticipation of Christmas and the opportunity to enjoy clear skies and crisp, finger and nose-nipping days. However, the later months of Winter drag on the soul. The interminable days washed of all their colour to a palette of greys. In those days, my thoughts turn to the warm reds and gold of Tuscany. Or Mediterranean sunsets of Orange, Rose, and purple. Then there is the ever-changing colour of the sea. To quote Van Gogh, “like mackerel, in other words, changing – you don’t always know if it’s green or purple – you don’t always know if it’s blue – because a second later, its changing reflection has taken on a pink or grey hue”. 

I close with a quote from Albert Camus that I always favour.

“In the midst of Winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back”. 

Whatever your favourite season, I trust it offers you something stronger and better in yourself.

I went to Live Theatre last week for the first time in many months. My visit was to a small theatre, the Watermill in Bagnor near Newbury. You can guess from the name that the building was once a working watermill. Serving through its life as a Corn Mill, a Paper Mill and a Fullers Mill. Its conversion to a theatre happened in the mid-1960s.

The play I went to see was ‘Spike’, written by Ian Hislop and Nick Newman. The play’s description is of one, “that delves into the inner workings of one of our most unique and brilliantly irreverent comedy minds”. It sounds heavy, but it wasn’t. It was a comedy romp through the years when Spike wrote ‘The Goon Show’ for the BBC. Shows that would break through the then barriers of comedy on a tidal wave of zany humour (despite the best efforts of the BBC to hold back the torrent). As with all good comedy, the play had a poignancy, too, as Spike battled his mental health demons.

The intimacy of the Watermill added to my enjoyment of the performance. It allowed the actors to interact with those watching and the gallery-style auditorium offered a level of informality. 

I can imagine Shakespearean productions work very well there as it recreates the settings, familiar to actors of his day.

I couldn’t help thinking it was such a shame that demolition became the fate of my hometown’s watermill. What a marvellous setting it too would have been, converted to a theatre.

I’ve written before about how much I enjoy Live Theatre. My first visit was to see a young theatre group perform ‘Macbeth’ in Newcastle’s Theatre Royal. It was back in 1971, and it was a school trip to help us, pupils, better understand the play as part of our English Literature ‘O’ Level studies. Not only did I better understand ‘Macbeth’, by watching the actors ‘strut their stuff’, but my imagination was also captured.

Over the past 50 years, I have seen many different plays in all sorts of varied venues. Yet the art form has never lost its magic for me. I’ve been fortunate to see memorable performances by the likes of, Yul Brynner, Elisabeth Moss, Ben Whishaw, Helen Mirren, Ellen Burstyn, Keira Knightly, David Tennant and Judi Dench. But equally enjoyed watching lesser-known names, youth ensembles and am-dram. I’ve watched in grand theatres as well as in bierkellers and all sorts of venues in-between.

My most memorable venue was the Redcliffe caves in Bristol. It was to again see ‘Macbeth’ with us, the audience, moving from cave to cave as each scene played out and actors making exits and entrances through and around the audience. Particularly impressive were the sword fights. Heavy blades that swept the air seemingly inches from one’s nose. It was all wonderfully atmospheric.

For me, part of the magic of Theatre is that what you see is what you get. There are no second takes. The same actors may deliver the same lines under the same direction for each performance. But each performance is still unique. 

I recall seeing an opening production of ‘An Inspector Calls’ by J B Priestly at the Wimbledon Theatre. Then some months later, I decided to see the final performance of that run in Bath’s Theatre Royal. It might have been the same play, but yet transformed. All the creaking joints of the first performance were ‘oiled out’ by the end of the run. The actors now knew each other well and thus played off each other to better effect. They had also relaxed into their own parts and that too reflected in their performance.

I mentioned above the intimacy and informality created between actors and audiences in small venues. In the case of the Watermill, the interaction went further.

As I stood at that theatre bar after the performance, sipping a whisky and waiting for my taxi to the railway station, in walked John Dagleish, the actor playing Spike Milligan. Then more of the Company strolled in. As with John, they were meeting friends and acquaintances over a drink.

Reading the programme notes before the performance, I realised I should have seen John perform some years before. He was then playing the role of Ray Davies in ‘Sunny Afternoon’ the ‘jukebox musical’ that told the story of the Kinks. However, on the day Sarah and I attended, John had fallen ill, and his understudy took his part. John won awards for his own performances yet I recall how wonderful a performance the understudy gave. It caused me to muse how it must feel to wait day after day for your chance. Then it finally comes and you have to be on top form. Acting is not for the undetermined.

Seeing the cast of ‘Spike’ in the bar, reminded me of a similar happening some years ago in the New Vic Theatre in Newcastle-under-Lyme.

Sarah and I travelled there to see ‘Mrs Pepys’ by Vanessa Brooks and after the performance, we retired to the theatre bar for a drink together. 

The play had a noticeably young cast and after a while, several of the Company, now changed from their 17C costumes, drifted in to join parents and other family members. It was delightful seeing how proud those families were seeing their children/brother/sister treading the boards.

Covid may have knocked theatre-going sideways, and the fact that all the audience for ‘Spike’ wore masks shows the worry is not over yet. But it was great to be part of the Live Theatre experience again

In several of these posts over the years, I’ve made passing reference to when I first injured my right knee. I usually then write, “that’s a story for another day”. Well, today is the day.

Let’s take you back to an early morning in the late summer of 1984. I’m nearing my then place of work after a familiar drive down part of the M1, the then M10 and after that, various urban roads. The final part of the journey is along a narrow winding road through some woods….

As I approach the beginning of those woods, I note a stationary Range Rover on my side of the road and a woman signalling for me to stop.

I drive around the Range Rover and pull in. As I get out of my car, I ask the woman, “What’s the problem? How can I help?”

She replies by asking whether I can help her move her car onto the grass verge beside the road, so the vehicle does not offer so much of an obstruction. The woman knows, as I do, that this road will soon become busy with a steady stream of commuters. Her concern isn’t so much about fixing her car’s problem but moving it.

I agree and go behind the Range Rover while the woman goes to the driver’s side so as we push, she can steer the car off the road.

To begin with, all goes well, and we move the car slowly off the carriageway. Then, however, things start to go awry when she calls for me to stop pushing and to just hold the car while she gets a better turn on the steering wheel.

Up until now, I’m bearing the car’s weight through my arms, back and legs. I now decide, for some reason, which to this day, I can’t fathom, to turn side on and lean my shoulder against the car.

Wow is that a mistake. Around five seconds later, my knee explodes with searing, numbing pain. I don’t scream. The pain is so intense it takes both my breath and voice away. And with the pain comes collapse. As I fall, I see my knee bent sideways.

However, and despite my agony, once on the ground, my gaze moves to the car. Which, despite the best efforts of the woman, is inexorably moving backwards with me in its path.

Fortunately, the woman manages to put enough turn on the steering wheel for the car’s back wheel to miss my head. I watch the large tyre roll some inches from my face before the vehicle comes to rest.

At this point, another car pulls up, and two young men get out, asking the woman, as I had done, “how they could help?”

The woman’s answer is, “this chap has hurt himself somehow. Would you be kind enough to push my car onto the verge”

I watch the three of them move towards the stranded vehicle without a glance in my direction despite my clear struggle to stand.

Dragging my right leg, Igor-like, towards my car, I decide, given the pain has subsided, to drive the mile to work where I know there is an Occupational Health Centre and medical aid on hand.

Driving an automatic with one foot is easy. Driving a car with a gear stick isn’t. Especially when you can only use your left foot. Still, I make it to work. It took a while as I don’t think I got the car over 10 mph the whole way.

I again appear as if a character from a Hammer Horror film as I ‘walk’ from the car park to the OHC.

One look from the nurse I meet on entering sends her hurriedly to get a chair while calling on her colleague to make me a cup of sweet tea.

At this point, I feel I might need something more potent than a cup of tea. It’s only 8:30 in the morning, but my knee pain is surging again. A stiff brandy seems more the order of the day.

“I don’t really want a cup of sweet tea”, I offered as I sank into the chair provided.

“Oh, you do”, comes the reply, “you’re in shock, haven’t you looked at your knee?”

I glance down to see that my knee has swollen considerably. If I hadn’t been in shock up to this point, I certainly am now.

After delivering my tea, the two nurses strap an ice pack around my knee.

Trying to be helpful, I ask, “will it be easier If I took my trousers off?”

“Certainly not”, comes the stern reply, “they are the only thing stopping your knee swelling even more!”

Ice now surrounds my knee, and one of the nurses tells me they need to get me to the hospital. They can call an ambulance, but it will undoubtedly take me to a large hospital nearby. My injury isn’t life-threatening, but it may mean an overnight stay. Therefore, it will be more convenient to get to a hospital near my home, some 20 miles distant. Indeed, there is a large hospital about a mile from that home. I know my friend Kelvin will be at his desk, so we call him, and he readily agrees to drive me to that hospital.

I am ensconced in a wheelchair, as Kelvin wheels me to his car. I recall he was an excellent driver but sadly not of wheelchairs. It’s if I am a character in a silent comedy film as Kelvin manages to bump into every door post on the way from the OHC. And always the post on my right-hand side.

Reaching his car, we realise that my ice-engulfed knee prevents me from sitting. Between the two nurses and Kelvin, they manage to bundle me onto the back seat of the car, where I lie prone for the 30-minute journey to my local hospital.

On arrival, Kelvin goes off in search of a wheelchair. But, alas, the ‘powers that be’ deny his request as it is more than anyone’s job is worth, to allow a non-porter to push a wheelchair. And a porter can only wheel a patient out of the hospital and not into one. Having already experienced Kelvin’s wheelchair skills, it might be no bad thing.

So, with one arm around Kelvin’s shoulder, I hobble into the hospital and to A&E reception. No mean feat given he stood 6 inches taller than me.

The receptionist watches the pair of us struggle to the desk. Greeting us with the sweetest of smiles, she asks, “and what might be the problem? “

Sorely tempted to reply that I have a dreadful headache, I think better of it and reply that I have severely damaged my knee.

The wait begins.

Two hours later, I hear my name called, and Kelvin and I again do our double-act as he helps me to a cubicle. Once there, the doctor instructs that Kelvin must leave while she examines me and then asks that I get up onto the bed and pull my trousers down to my ankles. Unfortunately, the bed comes midway up my chest, and I say I’m not sure I’m able to get onto it.

“Well, if you can’t get on it, I can’t examine you,” comes the helpful reply.

With the attitude and aptitude of a grumpy hippo, I huff and puff myself up. Then emitting similar sounds, I tug and pull my trousers to below my knees.

The doctor asks me to straighten my right leg. The bend at my knee is at a 90-degree angle. Fortunately, that bend is in the expected direction and not that I glimpsed earlier while crumpling to the tarmac.

“I’m afraid I can’t”, I reply.

The doctor places the palm of her hand on my kneecap and pushes down.

I’ve read that some people have out of body experiences. At that moment, I think I, too, have one. The pain I experience feels as if I’ve left my body behind. The agony causes me to climb the wall behind me, go along the ceiling and down the wall in front.

The doctor then checks out other movements of my knee, but by now, I am so far into a world of pain and discomfit; if she removes my whole leg, I will not feel it.

The examination over, the doctor tells me I have sustained some ligament damage. Unfortunately, there is far too significant a swelling to decide how much. They will now strap my knee to prevent movement and examine it again in three or four days once the swelling is reduced.

Being diagnosed entitles me to a wheelchair ride to the bandaging station. Once there, a nurse asks me to lean against a board set slightly angled to the wall and drop my trousers to my ankles.

She then wraps successive layers of cotton wool and crepe bandage, from halfway up my thigh to halfway down my calf. Such a bandage has a name but I’m afraid I no longer recall that name.

Once finished, she asks whether I would like her help to pull up my trousers. No easy task when you can’t bend one leg.

I accept her offer, but it isn’t long before we realise that pulling my up trousers isn’t going to be easy. The increased width of my right leg sees to that. So, after much pulling and tugging, the best we do is get my trouser waistband just over my knee.

Kelvin to the rescue! My friend is always a pragmatic fellow, and I know that he will have his raincoat in his car even in the summer. This time his extra height will save my blushes by wearing his, for me, long raincoat.

So here we are, exiting the hospital. Me partly shuffling and partly limping with my trouser belt just above my knees, wearing my friend’s raincoat and one arm over his shoulder. Never was the saying a friend in need is a friend indeed more apt.

Of course, the story of my knee doesn’t end there. But that one is for another day ….