For some reason, the image of an elderly aristocrat understanding that the revolution has begun when he reaches for the bell-pull beside the carved marble fire surround and nobody comes, came into my head this morning.
In the next scene, he grabs a hand-bell, opens the door to the long corridor and rings it madly, angrily and impatiently. It's not until he resorts to bellowing down the deserted hallway that he realises he is utterly alone.
Then the sound of the Wainwright dynasty of musicians incestuously talking about themselves behind each other's backs impinges on my consciousness, and I have to leave the kitchen. It's not even as if I like their dreary, self-obsessed music - music which has been polished to such a high degree that they can see their own faces in it.
When Kate and Anna McGarrigle were singing with each other, they could be forgiven anything, but Kate had to die leaving Loudon the kids (I am told) - result: highly talented brats, with an even bigger brat for a father.
What is it that makes children so charming and refreshing before they reach their teenage? The fact that they came without baggage.
Like the babies that are born addicted to heroin because of their parent's habit, some children never get the opportunity to arrive in the world unencumbered.
Mushrooms - By Silvia Plath Overnight, very Whitely, discreetly, Very quietly Our toes, our noses Take hold on the loam, Acquire the air. Nobody sees us, Stops us, be...
33 minutes ago