I woke at about 2.30 filled with a strange dread which I now can’t remember at all, I just know that I experienced it and it wasn’t a dream. I did what I usually do in the middle of the night, and started to listen to radio programmes I’ve downloaded onto my phone. I can’t listen directly because the wifi doesn’t reach to the bedroom, and when I first moved here I kept running out of mobile data, but the downloads work fine as long as I remember to keep them stocked up by downloading them when I’m in the wifi zone. Most of them are only streamed for a month, but there’s always plenty more.
I’ve downloaded episodes of Hilary Mantel’s ‘The Mirror and the Light’, third of her Thomas Cromwell books, read (abridged) in fifteen 15 minute episodes on Radio 4 last month. I’d played back the first few, when I found out yesterday that they’re only available till tomorrow. The 15 minute serials are good for listening to in bed, because if I fall asleep I only miss a few minutes, whereas if I fall asleep half an hour into a two hour drama I have to start it all over again another time, or worse, sometimes I wake up again while it’s still running and I’ve missed great chunks of the plot, or hear the denouement and spoil it for when I try to listen to the whole thing.
Anyway, life being what it is, I’ve got a good excuse to spend some time today and tomorrow listening to the last eight episodes.
I’m two thirds of the way through reading ‘Wolf Hall’, the first of the trilogy, on kindle, and I’ve seen the TV series (which I think was the first two books). The radio version is read by Anton Lesser, who has a wonderful voice and a great face for radio (as the saying goes). I could listen to him all day. In the telly version he played Sir Thomas More, but now I will always associate him with Cromwell – it’s not first person, but very much written from his point of view, and very sympathetic to it – which most historians haven’t been.
I wonder why I don’t spend more time reading, but the real answer is that these days I like being read to, for the simple reason that I can do that and crochet at the same time, whereas I can’t read and crochet – it’s mostly to do with holding the book and turning pages, (whether real or virtual). There’ve been times when reading has been the greatest joy in my life. It makes me quite sad to see ‘read a book’ appearing on lists of goals of ‘improving’ things to do during lockdown, an achievement to be proud of, when the essence of reading for me has always been that it’s an indulgence, and a great pleasure, something to be done for love and the excitement, satisfaction and happiness it brings.