You come to this place, mid-life. You don__ know how you got here, but suddenly you__e staring fifty in the face. When you turn and look back down the years, you glimpse the ghosts of other lives you might have led; all houses are haunted. The wraiths and phantoms creep under your carpets and between the warp and weft of fabric, they lurk in wardrobes and lie flat under drawer-liners. You think of the children you might have had but didn__. When the midwife says, __t__ a boy,_ where does the girl go? When you think you__e pregnant, and you__e not, what happens to the child that has already formed in your mind? You keep it filed in a drawer of your consciousness, like a short story that never worked after the opening lines.

Of the gladdest moments in human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the slavery of Civilization, man feels once more happy.

In the first play, the crisis is Thomas More. In the second it__ Anne Boleyn. In the third book, and the third play, it__ crisis every day, an overlapping series of only just negotiable horrors. It__ climbing and climbing. Then a sudden abrupt fall - within days.

He says in his defence he never meddled with married women, only with virgins.

_, Sunlight! The most precious gold to be found on Earth.

Paradise was always over there, a day__ sail away. But it__ a funny thing, escapism. You can go far and wide and you can keep moving on and on through places and years, but you never escape your own life. I, finally, knew where my life belonged. Home.