Honoured. When I was a kid I lost my tamagotchi on holiday in France, and was so distraught that my parents had to put up 'missing' posters around the campsite.

I'd rather write a piece called 'Subito Subbuteo'

Is it the wrinkled old crackhead's *hair* that is waving a paintbrush around? Is the hair doing so in the unwearable couture? Is it the passenger lift that they start redecorating?

This kind of thinking is always bullshit, except when it prompts imagination that wouldn’t happen otherwise - a potential prompt, not a divine intervention

clue: it's an enormously famous violin concerto, beloved of me and Classical FM alike…