Iestyn Edwards is...what?

  I did notice, apropos the BBC not being able to afford to keep the show, that Radio 3's afternoon programming on Saturday included random people playing their Grade Eight piano pieces.

  When I go back to opera, I must make sure that my programme headshot these days doesn't look exactly like the mortuary photo of Annie Chapman, second canonical Jack the Ripper victim.   Yes, I really must.

  I passed a small lorry being loaded with a child's stuff to take away to halls. Pillow and plants went in last.  A mother got on the 29, making sure her son knew where he was going. 'It's near the college itself, but the roads all seem too small.'   Everyone involved in the migrations was smiling their bravest and not fooling anyone.  

  A hyphenated, body warmer old lady once referred to me as a catamite. It reminded me of my dad referring to sex as twanging .  My singing teacher once had to remind me that in Down by the Sally Gardens, the poet's love is just a flibbertigibbet of a girl wandering around in her bare feet.  'The tone you're using sounds like it's all a bit muckily Freudian.'   

  In the street just now, two women catching sight of a late teen boy coming out of college stopped dead. A scowling, kipper footed much older woman clocked this, looked at him, said, 'Get a bloody job, no hoper!' and looked around for approbations.   One of the woman explained to her that, no, actually their reaction to  him - he was now gesturing What the fuck?  - had been one of delight at how handsome he was. 'Like a young Brando!'    The old lady snapped back, 'What the fuck are you involving me in all that for?'