Talking of the Palace of Peace..here are some memories.

John Sheridan giving endless satsang. He seemed to enjoy being 'heavy'. Same for Nick Seymour Jones only he was lighter on the whole and a bloke with one leg who I believe later died of cancer. (as did Nick SMJ). Glen - he was generally relatively amusing. Mike Finch giving intellectual satsang- much to the relief of some of the straighter aspirants who would come in wearing suits and sometimes clutching briefcases. Mike would stand very straight to deliver his satsang.

Premies sitting on the chair at the front meditating before they spoke. They'd typically breathe very deliberately and clearly have their tongues firmly ticking their tonsils doing the Nectar technique. The funny thing was that, because the microphone was placed right in front of them, the PA system would amplify these tongue slopping sounds and deep breaths to a horrifically loud and disturbing degree that strangely contrasted with the otherwise pin-drop silence!

The inner-sanctum 'Knowledge room' at the back where, on July 28 1974 I was initiated by Krishnasuchanand. I went back there a few years ago and observed from round the back (although the place was shut up and seemingly unused) that the lovingly varnished wooden windows with cut out wooden hearts in the shutters still remained - looking rather forlorn, weather-beaten and sad.

That little cafe bit upstairs that sold flapjacks etc. I think Ron Geaves lived in the flat there with his wife and kid.

Yes I frequently swept the floor there and remember being ticked off for wearing a leather Afghan jacket by an over-zealous vegie premie girl. I remember that security premies had this bizarre uniform of ill-fitting suits .

Then there was the gallery of Indian Saints portrayed in numerous huge Indian paintings hung around the walls.

God did I listen to Satsang till I was blue in the face. I was always too shy to speak in front of people at that time but of course got into it later. (never at the Palace of Peace)

Jumbling or leafletting around South London was our usual service before evening satsang. The factory in Camberwell housed several premie businesses - 'Divine....' this that and the other.

Various exotic pink-robed bald-headed mahatmas wafting in - their robes stirring a welcome breeze in the stuffy atmosphere. Stepping over people to sit cross-legged on the foor -legs aching - for hours.

The ubiquitous large photo of Maharaji above all, suspended where the screen used to be when it was a cinema.

Girls from the ashram busily arranging flowers to be 'just so' perfect - seemed so pure and holy. All very English.

I could go on...but supper awaits