Driving to Tunbridge Wells to teach, I listen to Under Milk Wood. It's a clear morning, windy but bright after yesterday's rain. Captain Cat longs for Rosie Probert and Mr Pugh dreams up his 'venomous porridge' to serve to Mrs Pugh. Wind blows the daffodils on the verges as I pass.
I talk with my class about fairy tales: what makes a fairy tale, what fairy tales can teach us about writing. We tell tales, helping one another when we forget what comes next, squealing as the huntsman chops the wolf in two, right down the middle. We're children again. We learn that no one's too old to tell a tale or to listen.
I drive home. My old tape of Richard Burton and cast goes round again. A spring tradition. I sing with Polly Garter, 'Little Willy Wee was the man for me.'