
In a recent Facebook post, responding to an obituary for the late Simon Preston, I recalled how, in the early 1980s, I was practising the organ at the Royal Festival Hall (my goodness, what a privilege for a 17-year-old!) when somebody appeared silently behind me and started turning pages for me. That person was Simon Preston, Organist of Westminster Abbey. He is remembered for many things – he organised the music for the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of York, his playing of Messiaen, his compositions in the style of Messiaen – but for me he will forever be the colossus of an organist who kindly turned pages for me when I was 17.
(Parenthetical thought: even the most devoted of Messiaen fans will agree, I think, that his music is an acquired taste. I have always struggled with this concept. For example, what on earth is the point of acquiring a taste for expensive wine? Surely it makes more sense to be contented with the cheap stuff? I remember on one occasion arriving early for the Christmas Eve service at Oxford Cathedral when Messiaen was being played thinking (actually, probably saying knowing me), “Why on earth are they cleaning the keyboards now? Wouldn’t it have been better to do that before the congregation arrived?” I am aware that I am missing something important and obvious, maybe, long-suffering reader, you can enlighten me? End of parenthetical thought.)
This got me thinking about the nature of gestures, which seem small at the time but are long remembered. Another example: when my nephews were young my brother and sister in law visited me in Leicester. I was playing on the Sunday so went early, they mistimed their arrival and arrived after the service had begun. It was only later that they realised that the person who helped them find 4 seats together, not easy in a crowded church, was in fact the vicar. I confess that I don’t remember what the sermon was that day, but I’m pretty sure that they do!
I hope you’ll excuse the following anecdote on this theme. On one occasion, I was running a mathematics course for teachers in Coastal Kenya in an adjoining room to a colleague running a course on early childhood. Whilst they were two separate courses, we had the same break times and food etc. There was some confusion as to exactly where the course was to be held. So, on the first day, from about an hour before the courses were due to begin, I stood on the road, welcoming people, checking which course they were doing and pointing them in the right direction.
I would also certainly have forgotten about this, except for one thing. On the last day my early childhood colleague came up to me with a huge beam across her face. In a ‘what have you learnt from this course?’ debrief session, one of the participants, herself a trainer, said, “What I have learnt is the importance of giving participants a good welcome when they arrive.” She was used to making a grand entrance just as the course was due to begin. But she really appreciated the welcome I gave her and it made her rethink her own practice as a trainer. To be fair to her, this is one of the times when skin colour does, let’s be honest, make a difference. There I am, on a side-street of Coastal Kenya, dressed smart casual with a lanyard behaving like the lord of the manor. It wouldn’t take much imagination to work out that I was one of the trainers. But nevertheless….
Of course, the opposite can also be true. Many years ago I heard a sermon on the missionary journeys of St Paul. There is only one thing I remember about this sermon, which was the side-swipe at Sunday School teachers who no longer teach facts. I happened to be within ear shot when one of the Sunday School teachers came up to the preacher afterwards to tell him, actually, that is exactly what we do. What was doubtless a good sermon gets ruined in my memory by one single ill-chosen sentence.
And I hang my head in shame at having made the same mistake. It was when I was a young teacher in the early 1990s when graphics calculators were new on the market. I joined a team of teachers across a number of neighbouring schools who wrote materials for their use in the classroom, and ran classes after school for other teachers. It was at the end of one of these classes that I said something like, “That was a Noddy introduction…” which caused huge offence. How dare you call my efforts, in my own time after I’ve already been teaching all day, a “Noddy introduction”. I have no excuse, it was a stupid mistake to make, with many other ways of conveying what I was trying to say which would have been fine.
When I retire I intend to write a book entitled, “What’s important?” the premise of which is that oftentimes what is important in the long term may seem insignificant in the short term, and vice versa. If you have any material for me, I’d love to hear from you? Meanwhile thank you for reading, and – Simon Preston, thank you, thank you, thank you for turning pages for me, may you rest in peace.





































