Orbs at St. Paul's

If your eye has wandered down this page, and you've seen the photo waiting for you at the end of the letter, well . . . you'll be wondering how I've the nerve to precede it with any pedestrian prose!
You're perfectly right. Words rarely enhance pictures, and, in this instance, words are completely unnecessary.

But, may I offer you a small touch of the ridiculous before you enjoy the sublime? Let me, at the very least, tell you just how I managed to take the photo.

A friend of mine is a member of the Esterhazy Singers, a choir that was invited to take part in Evensong at St. Paul's when the regular choir was on holiday. My friend wondered whether I'd like to attend the service.

I love St. Paul's . . . I'm also a great admirer of the Esterhazy Singers . . . and, well, you can guess the other thought that went through my mind. Might there, I wondered hopefully, be the slightest chance of photographing orbs in this superb setting?

Before the guest choir filed in, some of us, those who had arrived early for the service, were invited to occupy the remaining seats in the choir stalls.
I was delighted at this chance to participate from such a privileged viewpoint. However, there was no doubt that this move greatly diminished any chance of trying to take a photo afterwards. It would be almost impossible to take an unobtrusive photo whilst being chaperoned out of the choir stalls in procession.

The service was truly beautiful . . . the singing was glorious . . . a responsive and worshipful congregation added depth to the experience. The perfect setting, I thought wistfully, to attract the most wonderful orbs.
So . . . in between participating in the service and appreciating the singing, I hatched a cunning plan!

What if, instead of filing out of the choir stalls with everyone else, I could delay my departure a little?
What if I intentionally 'forgot' my handbag?

The service, which seemed all too short, was over. The choir had departed. Those of us remaining in the choir stalls rose to our feet and started to file out in their wake. Obediently, I shuffled out with the others . . . only to come to a halt as we approached the nave.
"Oh dear," I apologised to those on either side of me, "I seem to have forgotten my handbag . . . I'm afraid I'll have to go back . . . "

Smiling helpfully, they moved to one side, enabling me to return to the choir stall.
Seconds later . . . . there I was . . . alone in the chancel, able to retrieve my handbag and, at the same time, to take this snatched photo!

Now you can gaze, in peace, for as long as you like. Should cunning plans be rewarded? This one most certainly was!

An emotional trim!

Oh dear, please don't look at my hair too closely. Or, at least, not until it's had a chance to recover and grow a little. In fact, I think I need to sip a restorative cup of coffee as I write to you!

In case you haven't guessed, I have just returned from a visit to the hairdresser. Normally, these are occasions that I thoroughly enjoy. The Polish girl who regularly trims my hair is charming and intelligent. Not only is she skilful in her attention to my hair, but I also enjoy hearing of her other activities. She is quiet, and attractive, unassuming and diligent.

Preliminaries over (how much needed trimming . . . did I require the same shaping as before?) I sat back to let her efficient fingers take over.
"Did you and your husband enjoy your holiday in South America?" I asked.
She assured me that, apart from a slight problem with sunburn, they had had an excellent holiday.
"And what about Poland?" I continued innocently, "have you any plans to visit Poland?"
To my surprise, my hairdresser's normally pale face became flushed with animation.
"I do NOT want to go!" she exclaimed, "My husband . . . he has a cousin who is marrying next week . . . he insists, we HAVE to go!"
A little startled, I shifted in my chair.
"But what's so wrong about going to Poland for a wedding?"
This proved to be a question I'd regret!

For the next ten, turbulent minutes I was subjected to an outpouring of emotion as to the total undesirability of attending a traditional Polish wedding!
I gathered that the festivities lasted for two days . . . that the guests were forced to play games, stupid games . . . that you were expected to be traditionally-dressed, over-dressed . . . that the preliminaries and subsequent celebrations were over-long and exhausting . . . if there was a good word to be said for a traditional Polish wedding, my hairdresser had clearly never heard of it!

Throughout this outburst her hands were flying in all directions, transported by the strength of her emotions. This would not have been so bad had not one hand been carrying a very sharp pair of scissors, whilst the other grasped very vulnerable strands of my hair! There was no doubt that, although professionalism governed the majority of her actions, my hair was also subjected to her anger!

Worried, I watched the flashing scissors.
"Er . . . in two weeks' time it will all be over," I said soothingly, "You'll be back and it will all be forgotten."
The scissors careered dangerously close to my left ear.
"I will not wear those stupid clothes!" declared my hairdresser emphatically, "I will wear just a smart shirt and a skirt . . . nothing more! It is so ridiculous!"
I tried to put the event into context.
"But from a cultural point of view," I said, "a traditional wedding must be rather interesting. How far back does this tradition go?"
It was no use. My hairdresser was now energetically drying my hair with the hair-dryer, despite having forgotten to spray it with water in advance!
"How does it look . . .?" she demanded, "You happy . . .?"
I assured her that she had made a perfect job. I could have added that she had done so in record time, but this didn't seem wise!

The next time I go to have my hair trimmed I don't think I'll even enquire about that Polish wedding!
Best stick to the weather . . . English weather!