For the first time in more than two decades we are dog-less, and the house feels horribly empty. Our Patterdale terrier, Bonnie, led a long, vigorous life but her balance had gone and her breathing was heavy, so we called the vet. Patterdales are little imps and Bonnie was ‘known to the police’. I never discussed politics with her but she liked Lib Dems; that is, she liked biting them. A public footpath bisects our garden. Most ramblers escaped intact but Bonnie had a habit of nipping tall, grey-ponytailed men with walking poles. She nipped the vicar, too, tearing a cartoon-style square out of the seat of his chinos. The language! Despite that, we remain hopeful Bonnie is in doggy heaven. ‘St Peter won’t know what’s hit him,’ said my wife. ‘You mean St Peter won’t know what’s bit him,’ said our daughter Honor.
Sir Brian Langstaff’s vocal resonance lent force to his verdict on the infected-blood scandal. The Langstaff voice is baritone, not classically posh yet possessing a tone of unflappable command. As he started his speech at Methodist Central Hall in Westminster on Monday, I jotted in my notebook that he had something of the sentencing judge at the start of Ronnie Barker’s comedy Porridge. Yet it soon became evident Sir Brian’s voice was more interesting than that. Whereas the Porridge judge, acted by Barker himself, had a dry, mocking nasality, Sir Brian’s is a richer, phlegmier instrument that delivered his findings with natural composure. It helped that he was closely miked. This amplification meant the vast hall could hear him hitting the ‘h’ in ‘why’, something few English speakers nowadays bother to do.
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