Stilettos and an oven glove

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I always like to have a musical theme in the headings for the blog. Sometimes they’re obvious, sometimes they’re more cryptic, sometimes positively obscure (though generally googleable, if anyone's that interested) … but occasionally I defeat myself and bottle out entirely.

Yesterday my heading came courtesy of Joyce Grenfell, who is one of my all-time literary heroines whose use of words was sublime in its understatement. She was a master (mistress? Damn political correctness) of subtlety and could suggest, in a short phrase, a million possible images. All it required was a receptive listener. Although I was fortunate enough once to meet her, albeit briefly, I deeply regret that I never had an opportunity to see any of her performances. Her monologues can still reduce me to tears of laughter (George … don’t do that) and her songs conjure up very clear images – I too have been in church wondering whether I turned off the cooker before I left the house …

Her modern equivalent must surely be Victoria Wood, who is also a master wordsmith and is extraordinarily observant of the mundane details of life. I sincerely hope I find a chance one day to be in her audience.