The Internet, and in particular social media, is both a boon and a curse. One of the good things about using social media is that occasionally one gets the chance to reconnect to people with whom you have been out of touch for a long time. Here is an example of this that I experienced a few years ago.
George, which is not his real name, was one of my fellow pupils at the primary school I attended in the second half of the 1950s. In those days, he had red hair, which to my then young eyes was a curiosity. More than 20 years later I was visiting a friend who was studying at the University of Cambridge. As we walked past the University Library, I spotted George. It turned out that he was at the same college as the friend whom I was visiting. We stopped and exchanged a few words.
About forty years later, I connected with George on the LinkedIn social media website. Soon after this, he sent me a message, suggesting we meet up. We arranged a date, and agreed to meet at a restaurant near one of London’s railway termini. The location was chosen because he lived out of London and used the train to visit the city.
I arrived at the restaurant before him, and he turned up a few minutes later. Although he had aged and his hair was now grey instead of red, I recognised him. We ordered a meal and chatted pleasantly while we ate. He explained that he preferred meeting at a restaurant rather than at home when he had not met the other person before, or, at least as in our case, not for a long time.
At the end of the meal after we had settled the bill, he admitted to me:
“Well, you are not the person I was expecting to meet.”
I was not sure how to react to that, as he was exactly the person I was expecting to meet. Additionally, although we had a pleasant enough time together, I did not feel any urge to meet him again.
THERE IS NO ‘right way’ to write an essay. However, some essays are crafted in styles that are more pleasing to readers than others.
At school, I was taught or, rather was guided in the arts of essay writing not by my English language teacher, but by someone else who taught a quite different subject …
Back in the 1960s when I was attending my secondary school, Highgate School in north London, we took state examinations known as ‘O Levels’ (Ordinary Levels) when we were 15 to 16 years old. One of the subjects in which we were examined was ‘English Language’, which was distinct from another paper called ‘English Literature’.
Our English Language teacher in the year leading up to the O Level examination was Mr B. This man was far more interested in teaching the better students than assisting the others, including – and I am not being modest – me. Instead of concentrating on grammar and the standard of essay writing that would give us all a good chance of doing well in the paper, he wasted our lessons by filling the 45-minute periods with discussions of contemporary poetry. He was particularly keen on the poems of Ted Hughes (1930-1998) and Philip Larkin (1922-1985). His lengthy analyses of each line of these poets’ works were not only dull, but also helped put me off enjoying poetry. Furthermore, his learned discourses and discussions with the few people in my class, who enjoyed poetry, did nothing to improve the ability of the rest of his pupils to write essays competently.
After O Levels, we began studying for A Levels, the examinations required for admission to university. I chose three subjects: Mathematics, Physical Science (a combination of physics and chemistry), and biology. Our biology teacher was the ageing Mr Sellick. A confirmed bachelor, he told us the following when we reached the part of the syllabus that dealt with mammalian reproduction:
“I need not cover this. You boys know all about it.”
Mr Sellick was not only a biologist but also a naturalist. Like my PhD supervisor, Robert Harkness, Sellick emphasised the fact that a biologist should not only become obsessed with the minutiae of biological processes, but ought to constantly bear in mind the whole organism. One day, when several of us from his class were out walking with Mr Sellick, he stopped, stooped, picked up a leaf from the pavement, and asked us:
“What kind of tree did this fall from?”
When we told him we did not know, he said:
“It’s sad.You know all about DNA and RNA, but you cannot even recognise a leaf from a beech tree.”
Every week, we had to write essays in preparation for our biology A Level examination. Mr Sellick ploughed through them methodically, and on Saturday mornings, we had a one-and-a-half-hour lesson with him. During that double-length class, Mr Sellick used to sit behind his desk at the front of the classroom. In front of him, there would be a tall stack of papers – the essays we had written that week. One by one, he would go through the essays, reading short extracts from them, and then making a comment on each bit he had read out. He used to point out where something had been written well and clearly, or where the pupil had written something badly, and how it could be improved. I found these sessions very useful, and I believe they helped greatly to improve the way I write.
Many years later, in 1982, I qualified as a dentist at University College Hospital Dental School (‘UCH’). One of my teachers there was a dental technician, Mr C, who taught us the techniques involved in manufacturing removable dental prostheses. In addition, he assisted in the teaching of dental materials science – a subject in which we were examined and needed to write essays. After I qualified, I remained in touch with Mr C, who did some of my dental laboratory work for me after I went into general practice. Often, we spent time chatting when I delivered work to his home.
By the mid-1980s, students applying to dental school were required to have scored top grades at A Level, otherwise they were not admitted on the dental course. Interestingly, some of the best dentists I know, both in practice and in academia, were admitted to UCH in the 1970s with very low grades at A Level. They have done well despite their poorish performances at school. Those students were selected at a lengthy interview rather than because of their ability to score well at A Level.
One day in the mid-1980s, Mr C told me that even though the dental students he was then teaching at UCH had achieved the highest grades at A Level, most of them were unable to write essays – they had neither needed to do that, nor had been taught how to write, at school. So, in the second year of their degree course, in addition to teaching them about prosthetics and dental materials, Mr C and his colleagues were having to teach these students with impressively high academic qualifications how to string sentences together clearly enough to produce coherent essays.
Although I have been writing essays since I was at school, I have discovered that only by writing frequently and on a variety of subjects has it become easier for me to write anything at all.
I WAS BORN in the early 1950s, just over 50 years after Queen Victoria died. In those early years of my childhood, London still had a network of trolleybus lines. One of these routes ran along Finchley Road in the Golders Green district of northwest London. Trolleybuses used to run past my co-educational primary school, which was located on the corner of Finchley Road and Middleton Road. Called Golders Hill School and founded in 1908, I attended it from 1956 until 1960. During my time at the school, its headmistress was Miss Davies, a spinster who used to cycle to the school from her home in Highgate every day. She used to be accompanied by her two corgi dogs, who travelled in a wicker basket attached to the front of her bicycle. The rest of the teaching staff were also women, amongst whom Mrs Fitzgerald was a formidable personality. The school had high academic standards, and many of its pupils continued their education in academically prestigious schools after passing their eighth birthdays. We began learning French when we were 7 years old, and if one made it to the top class,which I did not, Latin was also taught.
The day started with assembly and taking the register. We stood in rows facing a photograph of the Matterhorn, while our names were read out. When you heard your name, you had to answer in Latin with the word ‘adsum’. Following the rollcall, we recited The Lords Prayer at great speed. It sounded like mumble-jumble to me, and it was only many years after leaving the school that I realised what we were reciting. Interestingly, although almost half the pupils were Jewish, they were expected to join in spouting out the Christian prayer. During Jewish holidays, there were many pupils absent from the classes. The school was quite old-fashioned. Its teachers would have been brought up in the early part of the twentieth century, and did not have modern or ‘progressive’ ideas, such as was the case at another school in Golders Green – King Alfred’s, where pupils addressed their teachers by their first names and free expression was encouraged.
We ate lunch at the school. Groups of pupils sat around long rectangular tables. The children on the table that finished their entire lunch fastest were rewarded. The prize was a small piece of sugary, melt-in-the-mouth confectionery from a box of Dolly Mixture (first produced in the 1920s). After finishing their meals, the children were allowed to play outside in the playground area attached to the school.
In my childhood I was an incredibly fussy eater. There were only a few things I was prepared to eat. None of these items were ever served at Golders Hill School. Although it might sound ungrateful, nothing, apart from the school’s steam pudding, appealed to me. The food seemed nightmarishly disgusting. Therefore, I was classed as a ‘slow eater’, and forced to sit at the ‘slow table’. This seated four children. I was the only boy. One of the girls was called Rhoda. I remember this because it was a name I had never come across in my then short life.
We had to remain at the slow table with our unfinished food, by now quite cold, on the plates in front of us. Whilst we sat at this table, we could look through the nearby window and see all the other children playing outside. Pointlessly, I used to shift the food around my plate hoping it would disappear, but it did not. In desperation, I would put the unfinished food into the pockets of my short trousers, and then visit the toilet. There, I entered a cubicle, and emptied the contents of my pockets into the toilet bowl. Curiously, my mother who washed my clothes, never remarked on the state of my pockets that had contained unwanted luncheon.
One day, I was defeated by a dish. It was gooseberries, which I hated, in custard. I could not bring myself to fill my pockets with the contents of the dish. Because of this, suddenly my life felt hopeless. I decided that I would carry the dish to the door of the staff room, and hoped that someone would give me permission to abandon it. Full of apprehension and fearing the wrath of the teachers, I knocked on the door. It was opened by one of the younger looking teachers, Miss Dredge. As soon the door opened, my hands must have moved – I might have been trembling – and the bowl with its contents fell at her feet. Miraculously, nothing adverse happened to me, and I was not made to eat any more.
I often wonder whether dropping the gooseberries and custard was an unfortunate accident or, possibly, an act of rebellion on my part.
PS: Many years have elapsed since the dessert slipped out of my hand. Now, I love eating gooseberries, especially gooseberry fool, but sadly they are rarely available in shops in London.
Soon, the Beers London art gallery in Little Britain (near London’s Smithfield Market) will be closing its doors for the last time. Its final exhibition, works by several artists, will end on 29 August 2026.
Over the years, we have been visiting Beers, and always made to feel welcome by Kurt, its owner and his assistant, Rebecca. He has a very good eye, and has been exhibiting works by promising, often not too well-known, artists. We have never been disappointed by what we have seen at his gallery.
A few days ago, we were invited to the private view of his final show, which we attended. Kurt welcomed us warmly, and explained that the art market in London is declining rapidly – there is little money around for buying art at present.
After viewing the show, we said goodbye to Kurt, and wished him well for the future.
As we walked away from the gallery, I had a lump in my throat. I had not imagined that the closing of an art gallery would have seemed so sad and affect me so much.
We visit exhibitions in London regularly. The show I am about to outline was one we visited for a particular reason, which I will reveal later.
THE CAMDEN ART Centre on the corner of Arkwright Road and Finchley Road in north London is housed in a Victorian gothic building, which was built originally as a public library, It has been tastefully modernised to be used as an arts centre with good exhibition spaces. A contemporarily designed annex contains a pleasant café. The exhibitions put on at the centre rarely disappoint. Often, they highlight noteworthy artists, whose works are rarely displayed elsewhere in London.
By Donald Locke
The current show, which ends on 30 August 2026, is a collection of works by Donald Locke (1930-2010). He was born in Guyana (formerly ‘British Guiana’), and died in Atlanta (USA). In the 1950s, Donald came to the UK, where he studied art first at Bath Academy of Art, then at Edinburgh University. He moved to London in 1970, and at the end of the 1970s, moved to the USA – first to Phoenix (Arizona), then to Atlanta (Georgia). The Art Centre’s website (https://camdenartcentre.org/whats-on/resistant-forms?elevation=Headline) noted that Locke was:
“… singularly prolific and heterodox artist, this exhibition represents the most comprehensive survey to date of the range of materials and styles adopted by Donald Locke across his life, reflecting his unwavering pursuit to give form and visibility to the ‘unique and hybrid contributions of Black culture to modernity.’”
The exhibition displayed Locke’s versatility. It contains ceramic works, bronze sculptures, photographs, assemblages of objects (mostly created by the artist), a slide show, paintings, and collages. Many of the paintings have images pasted on them, and some have richly textured surfaces. The sculptural works include many cylindrical phallic forms – they might represent fingers, bullets, or phalluses. Although many of the works on display tend to contain abstract images, they are the artist’s way of exploring the historical, political, social, and physical environments in which he lived at different stages of his life.
The exhibition was beautifully laid out, and well worth seeing. An informative printed booklet provided a useful guide to the exhibits and how they related to the different stages of the artist’s life.
One thing the booklet failed to mention, and we found no note of it in the exhibition, is the fact that Donald Locke was the father of the very successful British artist Hew Locke (born in Edinburgh in 1959). Like his father, Hew is a multi-media artist, and according to Wikipedia, he is one of the:
“… (Black) Artists who continue to produce work with a critical message, like Yinka Shonibare and Hew Locke, avoid the open confrontation typical of the 1980s and instead use humour and satire, positioning themselves as cultural insiders, rather than excluded outsiders.”
It was because we were familiar with Hew’s work, when we learned that there was an exhibition of his father’s creations, we decided to see it, and we were not disappointed.
RECENTLY, WE WERE on our way to Hatfield in Hertfordshire when we made a short detour to see the church of St Mary in North Mymms. Which s not far from South Mimms. The church was open, and we entered. Among several items of interest in this edifice, which dates back to the early fourteenth century, we saw a large tomb next to the north wall.
The tomb, which is made from white Derbyshire alabaster – a sort of gypsum resembling marble – is rectangular, box-shaped. Its top or lid is decorated with a portrait of a lady in Elizabethan clothing with her hands held together as if she was praying. The image is in black and was created by inscribing the stone with the design and filling the grooves with black bitumen (see: https://www.northmymmshistory.uk/2018/08/historical-treasures-of-church-of-st.html#tomb). In its simplicity the image on this sixteenth century tomb looks remarkably modern.
The tomb is the final resting place of a member of the Barforde (aka Beresford) family, but it is not known which one. The family lived in North Mymms when two of their daughters, Elizabeth and Mary, died within three months of each other, in about 1584. The image might possibly represent one or both.
As for the name of the village in which the church is located, North Mymms, the etymology of ‘Mymms’ is not known. And like the tomb which might be that of Mary and/or Elizabeth, the spelling of the places’s name has also been uncertain. Over the centuries the village’s second name has been spelled both as ‘Mymms’ and ‘Mimms’. This uncertainty remained until 20 February 1939 when Hertfordshire County Council decided that the spelling be fixed as ‘Mymms’ (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Mymms).
Once again, we have found that by randomly visiting villages and other places in England, it is highly likely that we come across items of historical interest. The alabaster tomb, whose existence had been hitherto unknown to us, is a fine example.
IN AUGUST 2011, my wife was invited to attend a Loreto House School reunion in Calcutta (Kolkata). As I had never been to the city before, I accompanied her. While my wife took part in the daily activities with some of her former schoolmates, I explored, and fell in love with, the great city on the Hooghly River – one of the channels through which the Ganga (Ganges) makes its way to the sea.
Throughout our five-day visit to the city, the monsoon rains fell heavily and incessantly. I walked around Calcutta in sandals without socks – often wading through filthy water that submerged my feet and lapped around my ankles. Fortunately, my feet did not become infected by whatever might have been lurking in the water. However, the monsoon did not affect my enjoyment of the vibrant, but delightfully decaying. city – one could almost say it is India’s own distinctive version of Havana in Cuba.
One day, I visited Jorasanko, the palatial residence of the Tagore family, whose members included not only the Nobel Prize winner, the polymath Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), but also artists such as Abanindranath and Gaganendranath (both Tagore). After seeing around the fascinating rooms of Jorasanko, which I enjoyed so much that I visit it whenever I am in the city, I sploshed through the flooded streets towards the Hooghly River. On my way, I walked along a busy street lined with shops and filled with crowds of people. A steady stream of rickshaws pulled by thin, sinewy men – each of the vehicles laden with two or three passengers – made its way through the busy throng. The huge wheels of these vehicles keep the passengers high above the water flooding the streets, but the pullers’ feet were permanently submerged.
I noticed that some shops – often those of clothing and textile merchants – men were distributing hot food – rice and dal – to occasional passers-by. I stopped at one of the stores, and asked about the food distribution. It was explained to me that during Ramadan, it was a virtuous thing to feed the poor. This kindness impressed me, especially as those who were serving it were fasting.
Howrah Bridge
Eventually, after boldly crossing a wide road clogged with slow moving heavy traffic, I stepped onto the Howrah Bridge, a gigantic steel bridge – a Meccano lover’s dream come true. It traverses the Hooghly – a section of the great Ganges River system. It was constructed between 1935 and early 1943. At first, the bridge crosses over a large market that is strung along the riverbank. Then, after a few yards, it is over the water. I walked along the downstream facing pedestrian walkway, dodging many porters carrying heavy and bulky loads on their heads. I took numerous photographs until I was two thirds of the way across the river. There, I met a policeman with an ancient-looking rifle – its leather strap slung over his shoulder. Politely, he informed me that photography was forbidden on the bridge. By then, I had sufficient images stored in the memory of my digital camera.
Once over the river, I headed through the streaming rain and thick crowds to a boat station close to the Howrah railway terminus. My plan was to travel on a river bus downstream to a landing stage not far from Park Street. I bought a ticket which was printed on such very poor-quality paper that it had to be kept dry to stop it dissolving or falling to pieces. I asked someone on the floating platform at the water’s edge if the boat that was approaching was heading for my planned destination. I received what I believed was an affirmative reply, and then boarded a relatively empty boat with plenty of free seats. We set off.
To my surprise, the boat headed upstream rather than downstream. Soon, we passed beneath the Howrah Bridge. We sailed a long way upstream away from the city centre. The banks of the river were lined with unattractive industrial buildings, and these were punctuated by occasional bathing ghats. We were heading away from the pleasant old part of the city in which Park Street is located.
I disembarked at the boat’s first stop. Had it not been raining so heavily I would have stepped out of the boat station to explore the area around it. Instead, I bought another flimsy ticket to return to Howrah. This time, I asked several people to tell me at which of the two floating embarkation pontoons I should board the downstream boat. I waited close to the water while a large crowd of fellow passengers gathered behind me. I wanted to be sure of embarking first.
The boat approached where we were all standing. I could see from afar that it was ‘packed to the gills’ with people. When the boat was about 18 inches away from the pontoon, I felt a great push from behind me and I was catapulted across the water towards the approaching vessel. Luckily, I was able to grab something on the boat, and this saved me from falling into the water and being crushed between the boat and the pontoon. Had I not been able to do this, I feel sure my life would have ended prematurely.
The boat was stuffed with people – I am sure that sardines are less tightly packed in tins. I wanted to try to take a photograph to capture an image of this crowd, but I could not because so great was the pressure exerted by those around me that I was unable to raise my hands from beside my body. Thus wedged, I looked around and noticed there were only a few lifesaving flotation items. If our boat had sunk, I imagine that only a few of us on board would have survived.
It was a great relief to disembark at Howrah. I was drenched, somewhat shaken, and hungry. I decided to take a taxi to Flurys in Park Street. It is a European style tearoom/restaurant that served what I was yearning at that moment – toasted club sandwiches. I boarded a dented yellow Ambassador taxi in a car park near the railway station. We inched our way forward into a mass of other similarly damaged taxis. The crowded taxis were so close to each other that it felt as if they might become welded together. It took almost an hour for my driver to skilfully manoeuvre his vehicle a couple of hundred yards from where I boarded it on to the beginning of the bridge.
At last, we arrived at Park Street, where, slightly drier because of sitting for ages in the taxi, I settled down at a table in Flurys. I ordered my sandwich and savoured the peaceful atmosphere in the tearoom*.
Despite my near escape from severe injury (or worse) on the banks of the Hooghly, my enthusiasm for Calcutta remained undiminished.
*Note: when I last visited Flurys in January 2025, it had lost most of its charm; it has become a place for tourists and Instagrammers.
This is a chapter in my book “The Hitler Lock & Other Tales of India”, which is available from Amazon
MANY PEOPLE IN LONDON, including me until recently, me might never have heard of Edward Johnston (1872-1944), but almost everyone in the city, inhabitants and visitors, will have seen his work.
Johnston was a calligrapher. When Frank Pick became the Commercial Manage of The Underground Electric Railways Company of London in 1916, he commissioned Edward Johnston to design a font to be used as lettering on information panels, maps and signs on the Underground system. Its design was novel, quite different from the range of fonts in general use at that time.
Johnston’s easy to read font was so successful that it is still used on London’s Underground railway network.
At Farringdon Station, there is a wall on which an art installation by Fraser Muggeridge has been placed. Created in 2017, it is a large-scale replica of a set of printing blocks for the entire alphabet in lower case letters. Made of wood, it is a very fitting memorial to Edward Johnston, who incidentally also designed the roundel logo that identifies London’s Transport system.
RECENTLY, WE VISITED the Foundling Museum near Russell Square in London. One of the many interesting items we saw there was a painting by the artist William Hogarth (1697-1764), who donated it to support the Foundling Hospital, which was established in his lifetime.
The large oil-painting, “The March of the Guards to Finchley” was completed in 1750. It depicts troops gathering at the northern end of London’s Tottenham Court Road. In the foreground, there is a disorderly-looking crowd of soldiers who are mingling with civilians, mostly ladies. The soldiers and the other people appear to have been having a jolly time, bordering on debauchery. The military do not look as if they were in a fit state to face the enemy, whom they are about to head towards.
The soldiers were about to head north from London to defend it from the second Jacobite rebellion of 1745, which was part of a series of uprisings that were aimed at returning the Stuart Dynasty to the throne after the Glorious Revolution of 1688
Behind the rabble of soldiers and other merry makers, Hogarth had painted an orderly parade of soldiers, dressed in red jackets, heading away from London through open countryside towards a distant range of hills. They appeared to be heading north by northeast. On the summit of a hill, there is a cluster of light-coloured buildings – a hill town, which is shown to the northwest of the soldiers marching in an orderly fashion.
Hogarth’s painting shows what was the northern edge of London in 1750. Eighteenth century maps, including one drawn by Rocque in 1746, show that north of the northern end of Tottenham Court Road, the roadway continued north by northeast, and this was most likely the path being followed by the orderly line of soldiers. Today, this road still exists, and is now named Hampstead Road.
Hampstead Road runs north to Camden Town, and its continuation, Chalk Farm Road that becomes Haverstock Hill, runs northwest and steeply upwards before becoming High Street Hampstead. The modern roads follow the old roads that existed at the time when Hogarth created his painting, “The March of the Guards to Finchley”.
Now, you might be wondering where this discussion is heading. Apart from the wonderful portrayal of soldiers and civilians enjoying a merry time, what interested me most was the small town on the summit of the distant hill. From what I have discussed above about London’s geography both in 1750 and today, it is most likely that the hill town shown in the painting was Hampstead.
Hogarth’s 1745 depiction of Hampstead as a hill town separated from London is a great illustration of what I wrote in my book about Hampstead, “Beneath a Wide Sky: Hampstead and its Environs”:
“The essayist and poet Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), a sometime resident of Hampstead, related in his book The Town (published in 1848):
‘In Elizabeth’s time, you might set out from the site of the present Pall-mall, and, leaving St. Giles in the Fields on the right hand, walk all the way to Hampstead without encountering perhaps a dwelling-place.’
During the first few decades of the 19th century, the village (or town: call it what you wish; I will stick to ‘village’) of Hampstead was still as it was in Elizabethan times: separated from the rest of London by open countryside. It was linked to London by a single road, which followed the course of the present Haverstock Hill and its continuation, Hampstead High Street. However, by 1848, Hunt noted that:
‘…every village which was in the immediate and even the remote neighbourhood of London, and was quite distinct from one another at the beginning of the reign of George the Third, is now almost, if not quite, joined with it, including Highgate and Hampstead ….
George III reigned from 1760 until 1820.”
Finally, when looking at Hogarth’s picture at the Foundling museum, an attendant told me that in the artist’s time, people in London sometimes believed they could see snow covering the hillside around Hampstead, even in the height of summer. What they were seeing was sheets and other laundry that had been laid out to dry. Hampstead was, and is now to a lesser extent, richly endowed with sources of clean water.
Among from the many other exhibits in the fascinating Foundling Museum, I found the painting with its distant view of Hampstead to be most interesting – so much so that I need to revisit the museum to savour its other items properly.
EVER SINCE I was able to count, I have visualised numerals as colour.
In my mind:
1 is black
2 is light blue
3 is green
4 is reddish
5 is brown
6 is yellow
7 is dark blue
8 is light green
9 is dark green
10 is black,
and beyond that, I can no longer visualise numerals as coloured. Mention, for example 3, and in my mind’s eye, I see a green figure 3.
In addition to their colouration, I can see in my mind a pattern between 1 and 12 .
A number pattern as visualised by Francis Galton
For many years, I believed that I was alone in imagining numbers as being coloured. However, this changed when I became a student at University College London, and began browsing the shelves of its many splendid libraries. I came across books by Francis Galton (1822-1911) in which he described exactly what goes through my mind when I think about the numerals.
In the scientific journal Nature (Jan 15, 1880), Galton published a paper “Visualised Numbers”, in which he described in detail the phenomenon that I had hitherto believed was unique to me. According to his research about one man in thirty, and one woman in fifteen can visualise numerals. He wrote:
“Persons who are imaginative almost invariably think of numerals in visual imagerv. If the idea of six occurs to them, the word “six,” does not sound in their mental ear, but the figure 6 in a written or printed form rises before their mental eye. The clearness of the images of numerals, and the number of them that can be mentally viewed at the same time, differs greatly in different persons.”
As for the numerals appearing in colour, he described the following example:
“One of the sisters sees … the figures themselves are coloured, (1) black, (2) white, (3) yellow, (4) red, (5) greenish yellow, (6) blue, (7) black, (8) red, (9) grey. (0) gold. The other sister has a fainter, but still a decided tendency to see figures in a mental diagram. It is without colour but has variations of shade.”
Of the spatial patterning that people including me experience when visualising numerals, Galton said the following:
“Nearly all of my correspondents speak with confidence of their forms having been in existence as far back as they recollect. One states that he knows he possessed it at the age of four; another, that he learnt his multiplication table by the aid of the elaborate mental diagram he still uses. Not one in ten is able to suggest any clue as to their origin. They cannot be due to anything written or printed, because they do not simulate what is found in ordinary writings or books.”
What I began by describing at the start of this essay and that which Galton described in his article are examples of what is known as ‘synaesthesia’ (in USA: ;’synesthesia’). A reliable-looking article in Wikipedia defined this as:
“…a perceptual phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to involuntary experiences in other sensory or cognitive pathways.”
It added:
“In one of the most common forms of synesthesia, individual letters of the alphabet and numbers (collectively referred to as “graphemes”) are “shaded” or “tinged” with a color. While different individuals usually do not report the same colors for all letters and numbers, studies with large numbers of synesthetes find some commonalities across letters (e.g., A is likely to be red).”
On number forms or patterns, the article revealed:
“A number form is a mental map of numbers that automatically and involuntarily appears whenever someone who experiences number-forms synesthesia thinks of numbers. These numbers might appear in different locations and the mapping changes and varies between individuals. Number forms were first documented and named in 1881 by Francis Galton …”
From what I have read, and that which I have quoted, I am not, as I first imagined, alone in experiencing numbers as patterns and colours.
“People with synaesthesia tend to be drawn towards the creative arts and some artists have explored the concept in their works, like the Russian abstract artist Wassily Kandinsky, who had an interest in visualising music in his paintings. In the film ‘Sensorium Tests’ which explores mirror-touch synaesthesia, the contemporary artist Daria Martin challenges the idea that the act of looking is a passive experience.”
And in case this is of any relevance, I have been quite creative during my life. As a teenager, I drew and painted, and then later I spent several years engraving and etching, and more recently, I began writing.
yamey 