Diary

I'm sorting out my books. Forgotten treasures are coming to light. One of them is Winifred Rushforth's autobiography, "Ten Decades of Happenings".
I met her in the last couple of years of her life, and was a member of one of her dream groups.
Soon afterwards I found my voice as a playwright: I am convinced this has to do with her.
It's beautiful to re-discover her story.
She tells of how when her sons was small, he did something "naughty" and she smacked his hand.
Quick as thought, she says, he smacked her back.
According to the standards of her time, she should then have smacked him - harder - and the common dreary cycle of unhappiness and repression would have resulted.
Instead, she says, "in a blessed moment" she hugged and kissed him.
And peace was immediately restored.

Moving moment on the News tonight which showed the relatives of each of the demonstrators killed in Bloody Sunday, whose innocence has been finally vindicated taking centre stage in a public meeting in Derry, reading out their loved one's name, and declaring his innocence.
There is talk of prosecution of the soldiers involved.
I hope it comes to nothing.
Retribution of this kind is so much than useless.

Labels: Winifred