Gold

I spent a couple of days this week working in a church. High above me, an all-women team of gold-leafers were guilding some ornamental features on the ceiling.

The little church was filled with a gigantic scaffold which blocked the small amount of natural light, so strings of site lights dangled everywhere, casting the recesses into gloomy shadows.

As the guilders walked about at the top, small fragments of pure gold floated gently down through the lights, looking like the beginning of a golden snow storm.

They are very careful to use as little gold as possible when making gold leaf, so the heavy metal is beaten so thin that discarded pieces fall exactly like snowflakes. Outside in the rain there was a puddle of water which had quite a lot of gold leaf fragments floating - yes, floating - on the surface, and the wind blew these bits around like leaves. I suppose this is one of the reasons they call it gold leaf. Breathe on a book of gold leaf and you ruin it.

I once ate an Indian milk pudding which had a topping of pure gold leaf. The spoon did not even notice it as you put it through. Eating small amounts of gold is supposed to be good for you, so I have heard.

Before the war, there was a section of the London Underground which was devoted exclusively to the making of gold wire. A little bar of pure gold was clamped between two small but powerful locomotives facing opposite directions on the track. The engines just took off at a slow speed, making one mile of fine gold wire. It was as simple as that.

Every now and then I have the desire to go to Wales or Scotland, buy a licence and pan for gold in a shallow, fast-running stream. With a bit of luck I could find a little nugget which would pay for the holiday.