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Pay attention to your neighbours

At the funeral this afternoon there was a moment of complete and utter silence. The chapel was full of people, standing room only. We'd had the hesitation about who goes first, the shuffling, the singing, the praying, the coughing, the not too unctious address from the diffident vicar. The Lord's Prayer and for Those in Peril on the Sea. Because it was Dancing Sailor John who had died. He who had been a merchant seaman.

Then the moment. Quite naturally out of nowhere. Catching everybody by surprise and lasting just long enough to count. Long enough to register. To look and look away again - Marlon Brando spotting stars. The congregation settled into the space and time stretched. The clocks stopped like in the Four Weddings poem. Time froze and lost its references.

It stood still for us at Caversham Crematorium this afternoon. Saying goodbye to Sailor.

Central Line

The visceral central line.

It's red on the underground map. It runs like an artery through the heart of London. It has a pulse as trains run through it every three minutes or so. A slow mechanical pulse as if there were a beating heart, somewhere, connecting the city - keeping it alive. And the underground is deep vein, hidden beneath the layers. Systolic with the rush of air and pressure and sound and full of humanity. The Tube.

All of us down there in the mornings. Mostly maintaining a delicate separation even in the extreme moments when, forced together, we inhale each other's breathe. Which can be sweet, of course, as well as foul. And now in winter we have our coats about us like shells. And some of us have our earphones in and a strange detached gaze - especially me today when I was listening to Bowie's Outside (Architect's Eyes) amongst others as loud as I could stand it.

The ultimate urban music track after Low. I never expected to enjoy the filmic effect of my iPod quite as much as Ido. I've started choosing tracks to fit the environment I'm walking through. Looking for counterpoint. So, for example, I might play Babylon's Burning by Lee Perry on my way down Gresham Street to meet the bankers. Or the Goldberg Variations walking down Oxford Street.

Get the idea? It happens accidentally all the time, but I'm starting to introduce some intentionality into the dynamic. I'm starting to flex my tracks to accompany my routine pathways through the city. See how different I feel arriving at the office. Mood management. On the city streets.

All Those in Favour

Here is where we begin. Standing on a crowded high speed train from Didcot to Paddington. It is 0749 and Mozart's Requiem is on my iPod.

We are all about something this morning, mostly irritated in that slightly fuzzy commuter style. Not quite in your face, but on the edge of cracking wide open with anger. Or practising avoidance. Locked into one of our digital devices. Distraction and time passing.

God forbid we should ever make eye contact or actually speak to one another.

Three minutes early for a change and the maw of the tube waits ........ 0834 rush hour and body space management. Central line.