Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Monday, 12 March 2012
wandering thoughts
wandering thoughts
I had half-planned to write about my impressions of going to St Peter’s Church in Fulham as their ‘paid’ organist at the beginning of 1943 when I was just 15 years old. Then my mind turned back to the beginning of 1938 when I had left the choir of St Mary’s Church at the head of Bryanston Square and gone with my parents to the little Spiritualist church on the first floor of a building in the Harrow Road. To my 10-year-old self there was nothing unusual about my father and mother conducting the service and myself sitting at the harmonium to accompany the singing of the hymns. After all, I had been much younger than that when I played the harmonium for the Children’s Church at Paddington Chapel. And, at Cameron family parties, when individual relatives sang, they set the sheet music in front of me and I sightread the piano part. There was nothing special about this. It was just what I did. I suppose that’s all part of growing up.
It was much later on, when I had experienced various facets of my former lives, I came to recognise the how and why of my choosing to be born to these particular parents. Playing the piano and the organ when people were gathered together for a purpose became a key factor in my life. In this life I continued a process which had begun many decades earlier. And is likely to continue in lives to come.
francis cameron, oxford
12 march 2012
Thursday, 8 March 2012
1938 : first day at mercers' school
first day at mercers’ school
Thanks to Captain C Lisle Watson, who stands in lieu of a godfather to me, I am no longer at St Mary’s (Church of England) Elementary School. I have bypassed the 11-plus scholarship examination and moved directly into a fee-paying independent grammar school.
This is my first day at Mercers’ in the City of London. I am an addition to the normal limit of 15 boys in form IIA. Our form master is Mr R W H D Murray.
The first day of term is mainly occupied with administrative matters. I unhappily distinguish myself when replying to the standard question about midday meals by cheerfully confirming – in the demotic of Harcourt Street – “Im gunna ‘ave me dinners in school.” In the silence which follows, one can clearly hear the clashing together of the gates of the underworld. A stream of withering invective comes from Mr R W H D Murray condemning the carelessness of those whose speech distorts the normally acceptable standards of everyday cultured life. From henceforth I am blazoned with the mark of Outsider.
Mercers’ was dedicated to the proposition that there is only one correct standard of speech conduct dress devotion and manners for the sons of fathers intending their offspring for careers in the offices of the City of London. School uniform was obligatory – as was the purchase of that uniform from the one store authorised to stock it. Best behaviour was also demanded in journeying to and from school. At all times we could expect to be under the watchful eye of authority. Misdemeanours would not be overlooked. Or forgiven. That would be letting the side down.
I shall write more about Mercers’ later on. In January 1938 I had denoted myself as not cut out from the standard pattern. If I intended to remain I must recast myself so as to be indistinguishable from the dark blazers and grey shorts which surrounded me.
francis cameron, oxford, 8 march 2012
Sunday, 4 March 2012
sunday 4 march 2012
sunday 4th march 2012
I wake up at 5:30 and feel the psyche back in command of the ship with the physical system beginning to rebuild after its recent collapse.
Kate and Darren came to see me early on Tuesday’s evening. They made their farewells at 9:20. Ten minutes later I was in bed in deep sleep. A full twelve hours.
Wednesday was a semiconscious state. Too weary to think. Too lacking in direction to go downstairs and eat. Almost a default state of lying in bed, coming to the surface now and again, and then relapsing into a state resembling sleep . Though not of the refresh and restore kind.
Thursday was of a like kind. In bed. Not the real me. Coming to the surface now and again to make a cup of tea or use the bathroom. At eight in the evening what remained of conscious mind prompted the thought that I had taken no food for two days. I was glad Monday’s shopping had included a tin of Big Soup. That was a short expedition to the kitchen. Two minutes in the microwave. Stir and return for one more minute. Consume. Leave the dirty dish on the draining board. Thinking about washing up is too much of an effort. I don’t recall going back upstairs to bed but it must have happened.
Friday. And the physical is drained. I am like a vehicle running on empty. The psyche prompts me. Makes me get out of bed and phone the medical practice. The reserve tank (Do cars still have a reserve tank?) and the self-preservation of the psyche get me there for my midday appointment with Dr Chang-A-Sue, a young Chinese woman with exactly the right approach. As I explain my symptoms and my minimal self-analysis she becomes aware she has been called to visit Barbara early this very afternoon. She will do so knowing the state I am in.
I make my way to the Union for lunch. I can manage soup and bread. I have no appetite for more. Mark comes in. Makes sure I have his phone number. If I need to get away from home, he will come and collect me. If it comes to it I have an escape route. In Boswells, Emilia fills my prescription. Makes sure I understand how and when to use the components. I make my way at a fairly steady two miles an hour to St Aldates and the bus stop.
16:30 - plus or minus. The house is full of people. The ambulance arrives. Barbara is taken back to hospital. She has a virus. Nikki, the occupational therapist, fills me in with the past the present and the future. Then they are all gone. I am alone in the house. Yet I am not alone. I am surrounded by animated shadows. I leave everything as it is. Climb the stairs to sleep. When I wake up it is well past seven. I must eat. The Duke of Monmouth is warm, newly refurbished and friendly.
Saturday. That was yesterday. I really remember very little about it. I was in bed. Too far gone for most of the time. Come the evening I return to the Duke of Monmouth. Cheese pie, jacket, salad, a glass of marsala, and change from £7. Incredibile. I sit in my own little island of silence surrounded by the bustle of those for whom the evening is just beginning.
Sunday. This is where we came in, as they used to say in the days when ‘the pictures’ had continuous showings. 11AMTO11PM as the News Theatre at Baker Street station had it. I must post this and then go back to bed. Psyche has rubbed away some of the mist from the window. Physical still has some way to go.
I go back to the top and read through before signing off and posting. The word GOTHIC in large wavy letters floats across the internal screen. Another part of memory reminds me of reading Edgar Allen Poe in the years before the doors clanged shut on that Sunday morning in 1939.
francis cameron, oxford
Saturday, 3 March 2012
saturday 3 march 2012
I decide to have an easy day. I’m all too aware I could start to get to grips with all that needs to be done round the house. But that’s not the wisest course of action. My energy levels are low and I’d be better advised to let those levels build up before I start to put things in order once again. Sleep and eat. That seems to be the order of the day.
francis cameron, oxford