It’s been a long wet winter by all accounts. Suddenly the tulips are out and everyone in London is having a beer at a pub by the river–we passed them by while on a long walk on the Thames tow path.

And in the evening Clarissa and I went to the tiny Orange Theatre for a revival of the excellent play about Van Gough, Vincent in Brixton. We were in the front row; during some scenes I could have touched the actors.

From the play: “I call myself Mr. Vincent because nobody in this country can pronounce my name. Say fen, then the Scottish word for a lake except with a G. Or don’t, because you won’t get it right. Fengogggh.”