FW&AF...

For the umpteenth time watched FW&AF tonight. Not sure why, but suspect it was a certain nostalgia for days when light, gentle, romantic British films had an innocence and a gaiety that we relished and adored. Just over ten years on would such sweetness still hold good? I doubt it.

But more, whenever now I see that film I'm so struck that the very crew who made it would have gathered five years ago now for the real and sad funeral of Scarlett - Charlotte Coleman - who died so young of an asthma attack.

I have been dreaming much of coffins these past few weeks - my own primarily, slipping quietly and finally under a lush green turf. Fingers crossed this does not presage anything too deadly, merely morbid thoughts run rampant.

There were - perhaps still are - orders of nuns and friars who would sleep in their own coffins for their beds. A nightly reminder of their final ends. Good for the soul if not for the posture or back. Carthusians though are not even buried in coffins, a simple shroud sufficing. Don't think they sleep in hammocks.

And so to sleep perchance to dream!