Myths of Thanksgiving - An Encore!

 From the Vault Dept.: This originally ran in Metroland, and I posted it to this blog about a decade ago. I think it’s time for a reprise.

                                                                                          

BACK IN THE UNENLIGHTENED ’60s, we elementary-school wretches celebrated the run-up to Thanksgiving by collecting dying leaves, cutting endless amounts of corn ears and turkey tails out of colorful cardboard, and most annoying of all, holding some manner of classroom pageant complete with hastily made approximations of the received image of Pilgrim haberdashery.

"The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth"
Painting by Jennie Brownscombe, 1914

You would have thought, to see this spectacle, that the 17th-century Pilgrims threw an annual party to which they invited their Indian neighbors, reflecting the general goodwill that prevailed and endured among the races. At the expense of many a turkey.

Like leftover turnips, such misbegotten ideas accumulate until someone mercifully gets rid of them, so let’s clean up a few of them. I’m indebted, not surprisingly, to the Internet, where Plimoth Plantation and snopes.com contributed info. Not to mention The Thanksgiving Book by Jerome Agel and Jason Shulman (Smithmark Publishers, 1987).

Thanksgiving Menu & Music Fiesta!

Thanksgiving comes but once a year, but it sure takes up a lot of space in the fridge and on counters and stove. Here's today's menu, and you'll find a slide show menus past - dating back to 1990 - here.

Dance the Atlantic

IT ISN’T LONG after we struggle upright and walk on shaky legs that we wish we could fly. We see birds in flight; we’ve yet to believe in gravity. Soon enough we learn our earthbound limits and do our flying in dreams.

The dancers on board: Daniel McCormick,
Francesca Velicu, Ivana Bueno, Eric Snyder,
Julia Conway, Miguel Angel Maidana

But there is one special type of person who can fly. You see it on stage in “Swan Lake,” in “Le Corsaire,” in “Sleeping Beauty” as the principal dancers lift off, soaring into the space humans aren’t supposed to occupy. But they’re up there, for dazzlingly long periods of time, their bodies portraits of a grace that hides the incredible athleticism of their art.

“I grew up in Bucarest,” says Francesca Velicu, Junior Soloist with the English National Ballet. “I started dancing when I was four. Eventually I danced with the Bolshoi before moving to the English National Ballet.” She’s speaking on Tuesday morning from the stage of the Royal Court Theatre, an entertainment venue on board the Queen Mary 2, and she’s part of the “Dance the Atlantic” theme of this particular voyage. Entertainment director Amanda Reid has gathered four dancers and Ballet Master Antonio Castilla to describe the dancer’s life. Velicu may be the one who summed it up best: “Ballet is not meant for the human body.”

The NYC Ballet in Rehearsal - 1984

From the Dance Vault Dept.: I began my journalism career writing about everything in the arts that appealed to me, including dance. Here’s one of my first such pieces, when I was given an interview with then-New York City Ballet Principal Dancer Heather Watts, one of the true stars of that universe. (Next week I’ll publish my most recent ballet-oriented piece.)

                                                                                               

THE MUSIC IS QUICKLY RECOGNIZABLE as Bach’s Double Concerto: The two violin
soloists stand in the pit, one of them is introducing the first theme with the orchestra. The stage at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center looks enormous, the deep blue of the backdrop matching the color of the surrounding twilight. Eight women, in two groups of four, are onstage. They are dressed in white, their costumes reminiscent of tennis outfits. 

Heather Watts and Peter Martins

With the first solo violin passage, another woman dances on, then another as the second violin begins a contrapuntal statement. That enormous stage is suddenly filled with movement, and two of the special qua1ities of the New York City Ballet are evidenced: talent and presence. They don’t merely occupy the stage: they overwhelm it. This is “Concerto Barocco,” one of NYCB founder George Balanchine’s signature ballets.

It’s a startling contrast to their rehearsal earlier in the day. The music came from an upright piano stage right, and there were no costumes, lights or scenery. The proscenium was ringed with dancers, colorfully dressed in the practice uniforms of tights,, leotards, leg-warmers and such, each dancer with a large handbag nearby. While they watched the rehearsal, some worked on their ballet shoes, some stretched. Nobody talked. Ballet Master Peter Martins sat on a metal stool. He wore blue jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves pushed up. Beside him, in green tights and leotard, with a white sweater tied around her waist, stood Ballet Mistress Rosemary Dunleavy. She and Martins whispered ideas. She strode hack and forth along the stage, watching, nodding.

Manchester, Part Two

I BOUGHT A KOBO E-READER for this trip and promised to buy no books. We have made trips to England in the past where I ended up shipping home a couple of cartons of acquisitions at great expense, but this was before you could easily find such things on an e-site. But then I bought Eric Schlosser’s “Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs, and Cheap Labor in the American Black Market” at the Hidcote bookshop and Moz passed along three books – two of them by mystery writer Andrea Camilleri, featuring his eccentric Inspector Salvo Montalbano (but what literary detective isn’t eccentirc these days?), alongside Alastair Cooke’s “Letters from America,” so I figured what the hell and walked to Paramount Books our second day in Manchester while Susan lay immobilized in our hotel room, felled by a hookah-adjacent headache.

Lobby of the Manchester Indigo

Paramount is what a shop of used books should be, with organized sections in each of the rooms alongside cascades of the yet-to-be-shelved. During the height of my bookshop-browsing days, when Manhattan’s South Fourth Avenue sported a zigzag of worthy emporia, I was collecting fiction. Now I’m more interested in vintage theater and music books, with nothing particular in mind. I hoped that this would be an occasion to engage a bookseller in conversation, bridging our divergent origins with a shared interest, but nothing doing. The elderly fellow working the sales counter offered not even a greeting, never mind some chat.

Sir Charles Cochran was a British theatrical producer, best know for presenting a number of Noël Coward’s best-known plays as well as musicals by Cole Porter and jerome Kern; he also managed the Albert Hall for a dozen years. On the shelf was his 1941 reminiscence titled “Cock-a-Doodle-Do.” I weighed it in my hands. I riffled through it. It was tempting. Had the shop felt friendlier, I would have bought it. I recall a price of £15. As with any appealing book left behind and any uneated dessert, the thought of it haunted me. Back home, I found a copy online for under ten dollars, with the un-noticed bonus that it was autographed by Cochran. It proved to be a dull recitation of dates and name-drops.

Fried and True

From the Food Vault Dept.: While we’re on the subject of fish and chips, here’s a look back at a wonderful restaurant in Bennington, Vermont, that I reviewed in 2011. At that point, Kevin Wright had been running his shop for three years; in 2018, wishing to pursue other interests, he sold the place to Nathan Johnson, a Vermont native and regular customer, who has been operating Lil’ Britain ever since. Needless to say, the prices quoted below have changed.

                                                                                       

LONDON’S FIRST FISH-AND-CHIPS SHOP opened in 1860, unless an 1863-dated Lancashire shop came first. But the glory of deep-frying potatoes (the chips portion) was noted at least two centuries earlier, possibly as a substitute for fish during freezes: it seems that the Belgians carved their potato slices into fish shapes.

The popularity of battering and frying slabs of cod or haddock took off during the Industrial Revolution, spurred by the boom in North Sea fisheries and the ease with which fresh seafood could be transported.

Well-traveled Yanks can attest to the appeal of a true British chippy. It’s remarkable for being prosaic, a taken-for-granted part of the UK landscape that never successfully migrated to these shores.

Unless you count the brief popularity of the chain to which Merv Griffen sidekick Arthur Treacher lent his name, its terrible food probably doing much to ensure that the hamburger remained the fast food king.

Manchester: Part One

THIS PART OF OUR JOURNEY actually begins in 1972. Allow me to quote myself: I was a high-school junior in suburban Connecticut, freshly infatuated with the stage, so it was only natural that I would join my fellow theater-arts students on a week-long show-going excursion to London that February. A mere $300 bought airfare, hotel room, and tickets.

The first show we saw was a musical version of “The Canterbury Tales.” I didn’t like it very much. Next was “Never the Twain,” a quirky mash-up of works by Kipling and Brecht, which was far more appealing, but by then I realized that some of my favorite actors were performing on the West End, and I forsook the rest of the scheduled offerings in favor of such fare – beginning with Alec Guinness in John Mortimer’s “A Voyage Round My Father,” which I wrote about here in 2012.

Three years later, I received this email message:

I was crawling around, looking up a show I was once in, when I came across yr blog, where you write about a trip to London in Feb 1972, and a theatre-binge you went on. Hah - I'd been in Canterbury Tales in 1970, which you thought crap, and was in Never the Twain, a Brecht-Kipling conflation you thought more interesting.

Rachel McDermott and Dancing Grain

In Memoriam Dept.: For quite a few years I wrote for the website knowwhereyourfoodcomesfrom.com, founded and eagerly maintained by Frank Barrie, a retired administrative law judge for the NYS Division of Tax Appeals. He was as passionate about the arts as he was about good food, and we’d often see each other at various concerts and plays. Below is the last piece I wrote for him. By the time I submitted it, I learned that he had died suddenly on October 1, just a week after he posted his last piece to the website.

                                                                                             

TRAVEL NORTH ON ROUTE 9 from Saratoga Springs NY and you’ll see the city’s urban characteristics fall away, revealing the rural aspects of the county. By the time you reach Dancing Grain Farm Brewery, which is in the town of Gansevoort or Moreau, depending on the map, it’s farm country. But the brewery’s parking lot is full of cars and you see people lined up to taste the beer or settled on the deck to enjoy it. This is Rachel McDermott’s dream come true but, like anything to do with farming, the easygoing nature of the place hides the tremendous amount of work that’s behind it.

“I didn’t buy a farm in order to brew,” she explains. “I built a brewery in order to farm.” But there’s a more complicated backstory to her mission, because she grew up here, on this farm, then left to become an investment banker. Her father, Jim Czub, and his brother Robert leased what eventually became over 2500 acres in the Moreau area, growing corn, soybeans, and hay. As land values increased in Saratoga County, they lost access to more and more of that land, eventually purchasing what has become the 308-acre brewery property in 2016.

The Manchester Man

Guest Blogger Dept.: Before we travel to Manchester, I offer a vintage taste of the town. These are the opening pages of The Manchester Man, a novel published in 1876 by Isabella Banks. In the tradition of what was once termed lady novelists, it appeared in three volumes, issued using her married name, Mrs. G. Linnaeus Banks. And who can resist a writer who parts her name on the side? The story chronicles the life of the fictional Jabez Clegg, alongside whom we see many significant historical events, such as the Peterloo Massacre of 1819 and the disastrous launch of the cargo ship Emma, which capsized and cost some 47 passengers their lives. Although the book is not very well known today, you can celebrate it by visiting the pub named Jabez Clegg in central Manchester. We meet the infant Jabez when his cradle is carried along the flooding river Irk in 1799.

                                                                                       

Old Market Street

WHEN Pliny lost his life, and Herculaneum was buried, Manchester was born. Whilst lava and ashes blotted from sight and memory fair and luxurious Roman cities close to the Capitol, the Roman soldiery of Titus, under their general Agricola, laid the foundations of a distant city which now competes with the great cities of the world. Where now rise forests of tall chimneys, and the hum of whirling spindles, spread the dense woods of Arden; and from the clearing in their midst rose the Roman castrum of Mamutium, which has left its name of Castle Field as a memorial to us. 

But where their summer camp is said to have been pitched, on the airy rock at the confluence of the rivers Irk and Irwell, sacred church and peaceful college have stood for centuries, and only antiquaries can point to Roman possession, or even to the baronial hall which the Saxon lord perched there for security.

Afternoon Tea, Part Two

HISTORY INSISTS that the Duchess of Bedford, on a visit to the Duke of Rutland in 1840, grew uncomfortable peckish as she awaited supper. It wouldn’t be served until at least 8 PM. She asked for a snack. It consisted of tea and some feathery sandwiches. Friends joined her, both for the refreshment and a chance to catch up on the news.

Thus was born afternoon tea, or “low tea,” as it’s sometimes termed, owing to the low tables (now, inappropriately, called “coffee tables”) on which it was served. Which also distinguishes it from “high tea,” which is a meal unto itself, a tradition born during the Industrial Revolution, when workers returned home ravenous. High tea is dinner; low tea is scones and cucumber sandwiches.

The latter is the ritual practiced each afternoon at 3:30 on board the Queen Mary when the ship isn’t easing in or out of port. A large ballroom, the Queen’s Room, is the main service area, but such can be the overflow that the Britannia Restaurant may be pressed into service.

Afternoon Tea, Part One

From the Vault Dept.: Inspired by my voluble chronicle of my recent travels, here’s a throwback piece. It’s chronicles a delightful stop on a trip to London my wife and I took 36 years ago. The prices mentioned below are, of course, now only a nostalgic dream.

                                                                                                

THAT ELUSIVE FOURTH MEAL OF THE DAY, afternoon tea! What is its appeal and how should it be practiced? For an answer, my wife and I traveled to London with a vision of all traffic stopping and all shops closing down at 4 PM to enable visitors and residents to indulge in this custom.

It's not that dramatic. In fact, we came upon our high tea quite by accident, while visiting the place that's as much of a tourist attraction as it is a department store: Harrods, in the wealthy suburb of Knightsbridge.

A Rolls-Royce was parked outside. Behind it sat a Mercedes-Benz 560SL. Several other no doubt pedigreed, hyphenated cars followed. The doorman sported more buttons than an elevator in a high-rise.

Inside was a mixture of British restraint and American let's-sell-'em fervor (the sale was to begin in a week: “There's only one Harrods. There's only one sale”' is the tagline).

This is the Crossgates Mall of central London, assuming you stripped Crossgates of its more useless stores and jacked the prices at the rest. Admittedly, that eliminates over half the mall, but you get the idea. Lots of stuff, full retail price.

Next Stop: The Cotswolds

THIS IS WHERE I GOT stuck in the bathtub. My wife and I share plenty of wonderful memories of our three days in England’s Cotswolds region, but there was something almost surreal about the bathtub incident that causes it to hijack at least my own memory.

We took the three-and-a-half hour drive from Seaford to Moreton-in-Marsh in an extremely comfortable Peugeot SUV, chatting with Haroon, our driver, all along the way. That may seem like too much, but it was a fascinating conversation as we learned about his years in his native Pakistan – which at one point involved a shootout where he got in the way and lingered near death for a while – and his now-happier life living in Birmingham with a wife and kids. You can understand that the ride never grew boring.

The uniformity of appearance from building to antique-looking building in the town is due to Cotswold stone, a type of Midlands-mined limestone that dates from the Jurassic Period. It’s prized for its oolite appearance, taken from the Proto-Hellenic word for egg, “ōyyón,” referring to the egglike bumps on the stone’s surface. And if the stone looks familiar, it’s because it also gives its distinctive appearance to Blenheim Palace and St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Our immediate destination, the Manor House Hotel, on M-i-M’s High Street, showed the charming combination of Cotswold stone on the outside and imaginative design within. The airy ground floor offered areas in which to relax, to work, to quaff; our third-floor (or, in England, second-floor) room waited at the end of a slanted-ceiling corridor along which I carefully ducked. And it couldn’t have been more charming and nicely appointed. And just look at that capacious bathtub!

First Stop: By the Sea

Travel Diary Dept.: My wife and I uprooted ourselves to travel for a month this summer. I’ve given a couple of accounts of our version of ocean travel, and I’ll get back to that shortly, but here’s a break from chronology and the water to explore the first dry-land stop on our itinerary: Seaford, a coastal town in southern England. All of the photos are my doing.

                                                                                 

AS A TOURIST, it seems hypocritical to seek “non-touristy” places to visit: after all, aren’t I traveling in order to see and otherwise experience that which has proven its appeal to others? Yes, but too often too many of those others are clogging the place I want to see. In planning a trip to the UK, my travel agent suggested a first stop on the south coast of England. Brighton was mentioned. So was Seaford, both of which lie east of Southampton, where our ship would dock, and south of London, which we would save until last.

Google Maps provided insight I could have gained nowhere else. I used the Street View function to walk along Brighton’s waterfront street, and I saw a row of ocean-facing buildings built to accommodate the tourists who’d be occupying the nearby beach. Seaford, on the other hand, not only had residences facing the ocean but also an esplanade facing a waterfront of large pebbles. Accommodations were fewer, but we found a place to stay in The Wellington Pub and Hotel, one block up from the esplanade, with its rooms atop what promised to be an old-fashioned pub.

Kiddie-Kar Travel

Guest Blogger Dept.: Speaking of travel, here’s Robert Benchley on the subject. Drawings, as usual, are by Gluyas Williams.

                                                                                            

IN AMERICA there are two classes of travel—first class, and with children. Traveling with children corresponds roughly to traveling third-class in Bulgaria. They tell me there is nothing lower in the world than third-class Bulgarian travel.

The actual physical discomfort of traveling with the Kiddies is not so great, although you do emerge from it looking as if you had just moved the piano upstairs single-handed. It is the mental wear-and-tear that tells and for a sensitive man there is only one thing worse, and that is a church wedding in which he is playing the leading comedy role.

There are several branches of the ordeal of Going on Choo-Choo, and it is difficult to tell which is the roughest. Those who have taken a very small baby on a train maintain that this ranks as pleasure along with having a nerve killed. On the other hand, those whose wee companions are in the romping stage, simply laugh at the claims of the first group. Sometimes you will find a man who has both an infant and a romper with him. Such a citizen should receive a salute of twenty-one guns every time he enters the city and should be allowed to wear the insignia of the Pater Dolorosa, giving him the right to solicit alms on the cathedral steps.

The Ocean Beneath Our Feet

WE HAVE NEVER crossed an ocean before. We have never even taken a shore-hugging cruise. With airplane travel growing ever more hellish, our recent vacation destinations have been places reachable by car. This year, we decided to go for broke. And I do mean broke, as we’ve never spent anything approaching this amount of money on fun before. We have conflicting stories of motivation. Susan insists it was to celebrate our 40th anniversary. I say it’s because we’re at an age at which coevals are dropping dead. I suppose both are true.

Let’s back up a bit to see how we got ourselves on board the Queen Mary 2. The home stretch, so to speak, occurred as we wheeled off the elevator and turned the corner. We faced a long, a very long hallway, although it seemed too small for a hallway, yet too large for an aisle. It was flanked with doors, as you’d expect in a hotel. But this was no ordinary corridor. My wife and I were proceeding to our stateroom on the Queen Mary 2, beginning what would be a month-long getaway. I sat in a transport chair. Susan pushed. We anticipated, correctly, that my weakening legs would be daunted by aspects of this trip. Besides: A chair gets you places denied to those attempting ordinary ambulation.

A Life on the Ocean Wave, Part 1

ONE OF THE ANNOYING FEATURES of the 1976 Gene Wilder-Richard Pryor movie “Silver Streak” was the amount of time the various characters spent explaining why they were taking a train, as if making apologies for this time-honored means of travel. Airplane travel could be luxurious through the 1950s, but fares fell and the carriers figured out how to fit more and more people into those airborne shells. At one point in the 1960s, my father, a frequent air-traveler for his business, realized that a newly hatched cabin-seating plan was little different from slave-transport ships, a comparison that has picked up some internet life.

The 1965 Broadway musical “Do I Hear a Waltz?” has a Stephen Sondheim lyric that finishes “Your chance of survival is so remote,/You're far better off to cut your throat – /But who has the time to take a boat?/What do we do? We fly!” So it was bad even then and, as you undoubtedly know, it has become far, far worse.

Especially for me, as I am large both in vertical and horizontal directions. I’m the fellow that late-arriving passengers hope like hell not to be seated beside. I’m the one getting yelled at by flight attendants because my foot has intruded into the aisle. So when the subject arose of taking a post (such as it is)-pandemic vacation, I insisted on a domestic, driveable itinerary. Until a friend decried my short-sightedness and reminded me that there’s a ship that crosses the Atlantic.

Major Impact

AMY ENGELHARDT IS A VERY FUNNY PERSON. I hesitate to label her a comedian, although comedy seems to bubble from the soul of her being. But she’s also an excellent singer, as deft at ensemble singing as she is putting across a solo song. And that song may well be one of her own, because she’s an extremely skilled songwriter as well, whose solo recording “Not Gonna Be Pretty” is an amazing distillation of her talents. She also writes prose with the deft hand of one who lives comfortably among words.

Amy Engelhardt

So I should call her a comedian, because it’s the funny people who are most adept at being serious. They understand how irony works; they play with sounds and language to underscore serious points. And Engelhardt brings this all together in “Impact,” which I saw at the Edinburgh Fringe. It’s an intense hour of songs and words with Amy front and center telling a story she needed to tell. That it celebrates – in only most moderately joyful sense of the term – the tragedy of the airplane disaster in Lockerbie, Scotland, in a labyrinthine journey of heartbreak and grief, without lapsing into the maudlin or making a cheap sale of the heart-warming finish, is a testament to Engelhardt’s many skills, all brought together in a piece speaks to all of us who have been anywhere near a tragedy. In other words, all of us.

She establishes three things at the outset of her show: First, that’s she’s a Syracuse University grad; second, that she grew up in New Jersey; and third, that the story to follow will celebrate “thin moments.” Let’s take the last one first. Thin moments, she explained, are those moments in which you feel an uncanny resonance between whatever it is you’re up to and something related, portentous, and less-defined. It’s not déjà vu, although there’s some overlap, and it’s not the phenomenon of “thin places,” another Celtic term, but this one describing a resonant location.

I Put a Spell on You

THE WORLD OF SHAKESPEARE’S “Midsummer Night’s Dream” begins and ends in a nobleman’s home, taking us into the woods only after the plot has leapt into complications. Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears fashioned an opera libretto that invites us into a fairy-kingdom right away, keeping us there until the final scene forces us back into a fancy drawing room. The emphasis thus shifts from quarreling nobles to the magic of this Athenian wonderland, even as the music that Britten wrote suggests uneasiness. “Take nothing for granted while you’re here,” it says. “However well you think you know the play, your expectations are about to be confounded.”

Puck (Oliver Barlow) and fairies.
Photo by Tristram Kenton.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream” is one of the more popular of Britten’s many operas, and this revival of Peter Hall’s 1981 production, playing through the end of August at the Glyndebourne Festival, is more spirited and charming than any other version I’ve seen. Why this opera is part of this season is examined below; why you should see it now follows immediately.

I like an old-fashioned curtain-up, and this one is thrilling. As conductor Dalia Stasevska leads the London Philharmonic through the unsettling glissandi that open the piece, we see sparkles, a forest, an aggregation of sprites. The glade of glistening trees ease back their branches and leaves to allow the spritely chorus to advance to the proscenium. The singing begins – and it’s an augmented Trinity Boys Choir, so the difficult music is effortlessly sung – and what seemed at first to be merely a moon-drenched sylvan woodland reveals itself as anthropomorphic, each black-clad tree wearing foot-baskets of shrubbery with leaves-laden branches for arms. John Bury’s designs were inspired by the art of Arthur Rackham, but if they’re of an era, it’s a timeless one.

The Money of Power

WHENEVER I LAMENT the lack of cultural awareness across the U.S., I point to the support given to the arts in Europe, where it’s generally understood that opera and dance, theater and classical music will never draw enough paying customers to provide a livelihood to anyone who professionally sings or dances or otherwise writes or performs. Every nation needs its cultural identity to be buttressed by the fine arts, as they’re (unfortunately) snootily known, and smart government entities come up with money in support.

Sir Simon Rattle

If, in the U.S., it splits across party lines, that’s no surprise. Cultural literacy goes hand-in-hand with education, and education encourages liberal thinking. That’s why so many conservatives weaponize their lack of smarts and attack the institutions and traditions of education. Thus the book-bannings, the arts-money cuts, the general hostility toward universities. When Republicans seize enough power in Washington, DC, these days, one of their first targets is the National Endowment for the Arts, whose already minuscule budget is dwarfed by such precious commodities as defense spending. But Republicans are fighting for their own survival. The smarter you are, they understand on some smart-ass level, the more likely it is you’ll vote for someone else.

You Don’t Say!

I DISLIKE speaking with strangers. In fact, I resist speaking with almost anyone, but circumstances rarely allow such silence. Pandemic isolation was glorious, as most of my conversations were conducted through electronic means and allowed time to reflect and time to answer or ignore. Two problems typically arise: I have no wish to engage in a conversation about trivialities – weather conditions, sports scores, Presidential indictments – and, when you get right down to it, I usually have nothing worthwhile to say.

I recently wrote and performed a one-man show as Sydney Greenstreet, the brilliant stage actor who made his movie debut in 1941 in “The Maltese Falcon” and had eight more years of film stardom. Many of the lines I put into his mouth resonate deeply with me. For example: “At heart, I am a bashful man. I approach social gatherings with trepidation. My thoughts, my emotions, are wont to gallop into untoward areas. To speak without forethought brings the risk of betraying myself.”

In the company of my wife, with whom I’ve lived for forty years, I have a chatty buffer. She loves to talk. She offers herself, fully and honestly, to friend and stranger alike. Where some are tongue-loosened only after a couple of potent cocktails, she’ll be the life of the party after only a single cup of tea. This gives me the chance to fade into the background, to hide in an armchair and silently study the fireplace.