Mozart

I've never been one for Mozart and was even, in a dull then argumentative turn, bothered enough to row about him with a talented musical boyfriend. Yet, until this week, I'd not given him much more thought.

Then, I imagined Norman Lebrecht's article being read aloud - in a vituperative, bitter tone - it really is nasty and very welcome.

I was halfway through the article when I remembered a night at the Vauxhall Tavern, some years ago now, when the Divine David read out a piece written by Julie Burchill on the death of Princess Diana. It appeared in the Evening Standard and I'd read it just a few hours earlier, thinking it was, well, kind of critical.

The Divine David's rendition, every word spat out, made me realise that the register in which I read disguises too much.