It’s the small things that drive you mad.
It’s the small things that drive you mad. Every so often I start worrying about the big stuff — God, or lung cancer or early-onset Alzheimer’s — but a cigarette and a cup of coffee usually puts me right, even if it makes cancer a little more likely.
What reduces me to a quaking heap is losing a bank statement or rushing off to work and discovering I can’t find my car keys. Such minor inconveniences make me feel as though my whole life is collapsing into chaos and the universe itself is out of joint. Cue whimpering self-pity.
Just occasionally, however, I am able to summon up a manly rage, as happened the other day when I was contacted by the Today programme on Radio 4. The show itself is bad enough with its predictable news agendas and interviews that generate so much heat and so little light, but have you ever tried dealing with its researchers?
Recently, and with great reluctance as there is no living playwright I like and admire more, I gave a dusty review to a revival at Chichester of Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.
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