I was hoping for blood, or at least custard, on the walls at the very minimum. And what did we get? An Elizabeth who seems to be bored with malingering and who might graciously condescend to do a tap now and then, and Jill snapping briefly at David.
Along with the, surely redundant, information that Liberty is ‘a bit of a stunner’.
I want to know why I knew what a moydore was when I met that poem age five!
I was read to, but not poetry: my mother recited that, because she had learned reams of it at school and didn’t want it wasted. So when I was ill and couldn’t sleep, and she was sitting by my bed and worrying, I got Sir Patrick Spens and Allingham’s The Fairies and The Highwayman and The Inchcape Rock and The Forsaken Merman and hugely long border ballads and dozens of “songs” – she couldn’t sing to save her life, so she recited instead. There was quite a lot of Masefield, some of it entirely unsuitable: The Tewkesbury Road is fine, but The Seekers? The Ballad of Sir Bors? Maybe the reason I am so weird isn’t far to seek after all.
As for Housman… Well. I’m sure she didn’t learn those at school. Still, I suppose intimations of mortality are appropriate when you are lying sweating with a fever over a hundred and aching eyes.