She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbour: ‘Winter is dead.’ A. A. Milne, When We Were Very Young The Christmas before last we were treated to an unseasonable ‘host’ of daffodils in our Sussex garden. This year the signs of incipient spring have been scarcer but yesterday our
By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world.
A sonnet written and recorded on New Year’s Eve. Two thousand sixteen is determined to leave us One last verse I’ll write while there’s time The year in which time left – oh so much to grieve us Scoffs at my efforts to sum up and rhyme A handful of lines? – when the thousands of years
So long for air to brighten, Time to be dazzled and the heart to lighten. Seamus Heaney, ‘Fosterling’ (from Seeing Things) A seasonal sonnet celebrating a magical epiphany one winter’s day in Sussex. You may recall that our autumn film ‘Surrealism in Sussex’ featured
You get that right tickin’ rhythm, man, and its ON! Fats Waller A short film inspired by the Royal Academy’s current exhibition of Abstract Expressionism (or ‘AbEx’), the first major survey since 1959. On seeing these mugs in the RA shop A cuppa of Art’s desiccation Expression’s commodification In the pink as we drink Or wash
In the early 1990s, I played Sherlock Holmes in a series commissioned in the US by National Public Radio and produced in the UK by Independent Radio Drama Productions. In one story, ‘The Greek Interpreter’, I also played Holmes’s elder brother Mycroft. The episodes were available as inflight entertainment on Concorde. So I can boast
Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly’s wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron. Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse The formalized early 20th-century depictions of the Battle of Lewes, glimpsed in the film,
I was sad to hear on the news that the director Howard Davies has died; he was only 71. I worked with him on David Mercer’s No Limits to Love back in the days of the RSC’s Warehouse Theatre (now the Donmar), which Howard had established. But what I’m chiefly remembering this evening is his