“Colour images tell a story, whilst black and white photographs move us a step away from reality, as none of us see the world in black and white. But by subtracting colour, we as viewers, are prompted to add our own emotion to the images.” So wrote Father Paul in relation to a black and white photograph by Alex Majoli, ‘Paramedic spraying down Hospital Beds’ that he had chosen for the front cover of last Sunday’s Service booklet.

His thought reminded me of how, when I went to see the film of a book I’d enjoyed, I was frequently disappointed. It was because the way I had seen in my mind the characters in the book, as I read, was not the way they were portrayed on the screen. And it wasn’t only the characters, sometimes the landscape in the film, the light and even the atmosphere was ‘wrong’ – to my mind. I had ‘added my own emotion’ to the words. So I invest myself, perhaps, more in the black and white of a photograph than I do in the colour.

Of course there was a time when photographs could only be black and white. My early photographs, taken with a box brownie, were black and white because that was all their was for the ordinary photographer. Photography was never my strong suit which is why I took to travelling with a notebook rather than a camera. Now it’s not necessity it’s a stylistic choice, to chose black and white, that encourages the imaginative investment in the photograph.

Then again I know, from listening to the radio and from my own broadcasts that the image people have of who is speaking can be quite different from the reality. It’s obviously the case with radio drama. But more than once when I met radio listeners for the first time, listeners who had heard my programme, they said, “You’re not at all how I imagined you.” And when I asked in what way, I was often told I was taller than they thought I would be – from my voice. Do I have a short man’s voice?

From another angle the tone of voice in the spoken word can be totally and completely different from the tone I choose to hear in someone else’s written word. That is why I have had to teach myself to pause when I read what seems to be an unappealing or downright rude comment made by some public figure or even a friend. I need to hear their tone in what they are quoted as having said, not mine.

A ‘throw away’ comment in conversation is, literally, thrown away whereas in print it can’t be. It’s there for all time. A spoken witticism or comment can be quite appalling when seen in print and out of context. This surely is why so many ‘blogs’ get people into trouble. Reading is quite different from hearing. Perhaps also this is why I was brought up never to send a difficult letter I’d written until I’d slept on it and then, in a new day, read it again to get the feeling of it. I choose the colours when I look at black and white.

Somewhere in all this, when I am investing my emotions in what I see or read, I must also consider the comment made to me when I’d made a fairly critical remark about someone else, “Do not ascribe to others the motives you might have in their situation.” That shut me up. It must have done. I still remember the incident very clearly. It seems nothing black and white is black and white. Even a black and white photograph. I add the colour.

It was bound to happen and now it has. We in the slow lane of the swimming pool were joined by someone new. Someone with no manners. They are fairly rare – those with no manners. So now there were two. Two people, totally oblivious to the existence of others, in the same lane of the same pool at the same time. To be fair they may each have a condition or be on a spectrum but, be that as it may, the inevitable happened. They collided. One of them once with me and I coped but more importantly with each other. And not just once. And neither was pleased at all. They each seemed bewildered the first time it happened and rather cross the second. The third time it was not good at all. And they made it known. I happened to catch the eye of one of my fellow swimmers, one with good manners, and we smiled. We didn’t gloat but for my part I didn’t mind that it had happened. What I now wonder is whether either will have learned from the experience. Perhaps time will tell.

PS They are both of a similar age, gender and ethnicity.

In a recent television documentary about the Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama she was recorded as saying, “Now that my life is entering its last phase I am putting all my energy into my art.” I’m not sure when the documentary was made but she is now 92 and still working. I find Kusama and her work fascinating and her life story no less so.

Her comment made me wonder where I am putting my energy and, more than that, where I am putting my naturally decreasing energy. For many younger people, I suspect, old age is presumed to be a time of gently, ‘winding down’. I’m not convinced that is the case. Of course there are some things that I used to be able to do that I can’t do now. Playing tennis is now totally beyond me and I can’t hop. My memory for dates is not great but then it never has been. Then there are things I can do that I’ve promised my family I won’t do. Such as going up a ladder when there’s no one else here. But within those limitations where do I put my energy? What is my aim in life?

My paternal grandmother, with whom I was close, told me of a young woman who went to visit her. Whether her visitor went for advice or just to visit I don’t know but I do know that my grandmother asked what was her aim in life. Her visitor said, ‘To be happy’. That did not go down well. Happiness, my grandmother told me, was a result not an aim. I doubt she knew of Ravindranath Tagore’s “I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” But she would certainly have rejoiced in that.

And, of course, it’s not simply energy it’s energies. And it’s not just one aim there are many. Years ago in conversation with Bishop John Taylor, a great and holy man, I told him of my worry that I wasn’t following God’s plan for me. He told me, and I believe him still, that there’s not a single plan there are a myriad plans always there always ready to be positively fulfilled. He explained to me that failure was never a conclusion and that there was, always, the possibility of a positive fulfilment.

So my energies are being directed into swimming and going to church, gardening and playing patience, cooking both for myself and for friends, saying my prayers, listening to music and watching yet again a repeat of Poirot on television and, importantly, conserving my energy to do all these things and more.

We were talking about that in the changing room at the swimming pool. About conserving our energy. I told the others about my daily attempt to improve my ability to stand on one leg. One of my fellow swimmers commented, “I suppose if you have to have an aim in life to be able to put on your trousers while standing up is as good as any.”

A friend has written:

Serendipity
“July 31st “Remote Control”.
“I thought I had lost the remote control for Laetitia”. The name was new to me. So was the word. In Bath, when the sun is shining, I like to go for a walk in the delightful Henrietta Park, a short distance from my home. There are certain park benches which I favour for their seclusion. Sometimes I look at the brass plaque recording the name of the generous benefactor and send an unspoken word of thanks into the empyrean.
August 6th Henrietta Park
I selected a bench I had never sat on before. I read the plaque:-
The Harley Family. Wendy, Eleanor, Bethan, Trevor. Amicitia et risus, Laeta Tempora. Laetae Memoriae.*
In the course of my 91 years l have met the words Laetitia – Laeta for the first time within less than a week.”

* Friendship and Laughter. Joyful Times. Happy Memories

Before a Prom
I went to the Royal Albert Hall on the 360 bus, wearing a mask of course, and, me being me, early. The bus takes nearly an hour and is almost door to door. At South Ken a woman got on, wearing a mask, and glanced at me as if in recognition. I thought I knew her as well. When we got off the bus at the Royal Albert Hall and took off our masks we realised we didn’t know each other at all. However as we were so early and were both going to the Prom we went into the Hall, had a glass of wine together, and put the world to rights. It was most enjoyable and the concert that followed was wonderful.

At the swimming pool
There’s a young Italian who swims four lengths in the fast lane while I swim one in the slow lane. He’s a swimming teacher, he has told me, and is studying to be a Personal Trainer. He has given me a few tips to help me with my swimming and has suggested I learn to ‘love the water’. On Wednesday when I got out of the pool having swum my 500 meters to his 2000 he beckoned me over and said, ‘I watched you. You’re doing really well!’ That was most encouraging.

On the bus
I walk to the swimming pool. It only takes a little over ten minutes. And I usually take the bus back. As it’s about the same time, most days, there are some of the bus drivers who have become familiar to me and, it seems, me to them. They’re almost all friendly and there’s one, a Muslim woman, who always says good morning with the nicest smile when I get on and waves when I get off. It really lifts my spirits.

Payless
‘Paymore’ would be more apt, I’ve always said. And, at Payless, you do pay £1.20 for the same amount of milk that is 80p at the supermarket. However I needed a ripe mango for a cold sauce to go with cold chicken. The sauce was a friend’s suggestion and I was a bit sceptical but I thought I’d give it a go. There was a very ripe mango, a bit black at one end, on the £1 a bowl fruit and veg stall outside Payless. I took it into the shop showing the bad end of the mango to one of the staff and asked, “How much?” He said, “Take it, it’s yours.” The sauce was delicious.

At Lil’s Funeral
Lil Chaplin was a parishioner at St Agnes for years. Originally from Jamaica she was very much part of the community and I heard how some of the parishioners, now old, had all, including Lil, when young done things together when their children. Lil hadn’t been well for some time and her death was a release for her. At the Requiem Mass a number of Lil’s family spoke about her, quite briefly and very affectionately. When one of them couldn’t continue, because of the tears, two others got up and came and stood with them, close, to give them strength. And it happened with another. Nothing dramatic. Simply calm and strong and together.

City and Guilds
This week has been the Degree Show at the City and Guilds of London Art School Just across the road. I usually go and keep in touch with the school when there’s something on. This year the work seems especially good but then I think that every year. I’ve had a good talk to one of the stone carvers and one of the painters. I especially liked their work and bought a carving which I hope I can put into a wall. I’m thinking about one of the paintings. The place is alive with creativity and the graduates I spoke to were full of enthusiasm and looking forward to the future.

Walking Back
Walking back from City and Guilds as I passed the bus stop there were quite a few people waiting for a bus so the pavement was crowded and someone was walking towards me, wearing a mask. As we tried to pass each other we did one of those strange dances with each of us stepping in opposite directions so that whichever way we moved we were still face to face so neither of us could go ahead. So I stood still, smiling. I realised then that you can tell if someone wearing a mask is smiling because their eyes crinkle up at the corners. He was smiling too, and passed me, and we each went our separate ways.