I am forced to write something. I must write something before the train gets to Milton Keynes, otherwise I will once again not have written anything. That would mean I'd have to be doing something other than writing, which is mostly working, sitting on trains, playing violin, losing all enthusiasm for exercise, worrying about my... Continue Reading →
Teapots of our lives
Few things could surely be less important than breaking a teapot, in the wider scheme of things. I keep impressing upon my children that the path to happiness does not lie in more possessions. I try not to get attached. But where teapots are concerned, it is oddly sad when they break. We got our... Continue Reading →
Echo chambers
I am never sure if I have changed, or if the world has changed around me. I'm 48, so I'm pretty sure it is a combination of both factors. I correspond to the old adage of " if you're not a liberal when you are young, you have no heart, and if you are not... Continue Reading →
Ballet is not high art
The most striking thing about the reaction to Timothee Chalamet's comments on ballet and opera being irrelevant is that all of the reaction has focussed almost entirely on ballet. No one has shown up defending Siegfried. No one has talked about what Idomeneo means to them, how the music moves their soul. They've talked about... Continue Reading →
The resting writer 