Myles Scriven’s inquest judgement

Assistant Coroner Crispin Oliver today read out his judgement in the inquest of 31 year old Myles Scriven who died of a pulmonary embolism on April 16 2023 at Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. The full judgement can be read here: https://www.georgejulian.co.uk/2025/07/11/myless-inquest-coroners-conclusion/

This fifteen page judgement is an excoriating and devastating read. The coroner’s meticulous engagement with the evidence (which included witness statements and spoken evidence, hospital and GP medical records going back two years before Myles died, four expert witness reports and the recordings of earlier parts of the inquest) is clear. The judgement reads like an intensely plotted narrative with every word underpinned by evidence sources, the workings out carefully documented. It ends with an unexpected and beautifully sharp twist.

It is also a refreshing read, shot through with common sense and hints of incredulity. Myles should not have died, he experienced a bewildering set of failings across primary and secondary healthcare despite the active interventions of a loving family which includes a senior medic.

The coroner discusses how deaths from natural causes can be made unnatural, reminding me of the defence barrister at Connor’s inquest arguing drowning was a natural cause of death. The Oxford coroner sharply rebuked this argument and while largely fair, lacked the understanding Crispin Oliver demonstrated. His understanding was in part due to the commissioning of an expert witness report from learning disability expert Dr Liz Herrievan which offered incontrovertible evidence of the numerous failings. Having an expert witness in autism and learning disability is so obvious, I’m still pondering why it is not done as standard practice. We recently published a paper discussing how the ignorance of coroners can contribute to the harms generated by coronial processes for families, as well as obstruct accountability. Getting an expert in this area is a superb workaround leading to more robust engagement and arguably a knock on effect on outcomes.

Like many of the inquests covered by George Julian, the facts in Myles’ case offer an extraordinary array of failings; blood thinning medication was clearly not working and yet the consultant refused to switch to warfarin, an ECG was performed but the results not communicated to anyone leading to a lack of a follow up appointment and review three months later. The discharge letter from the hospital was “borderline useless”. By this time, despite Myles’ obvious deterioration in health, a phone call with the GP led to a note of ‘sounded ok on the phone’ on his file and an appointment three days later resulted in the incomplete recording of medical notes and safety netting advice. Myles died three weeks later.

What the coroner lays out in this judgement is a) the knowledge about Myles communicated to the hospital by his family (take time, don’t use long words or jargon, listen to the family, etc etc etc) and b) the absence of any engagement with this knowledge by professionals. This can only be wilful. The coroner reported a sense of disbelief earlier in the inquest that the hospital had in place all the necessary adjustment mechanisms, including a learning disability nurse and ongoing training, and yet none of this had any impact on the care Myles received. The lack of a hospital passport was flagged as problematic, though given the (non) actions of most professionals around Myles, I’m not sure they’d have even noticed it through their disinterested and disconnected lenses.

The coroner noted that these adjustments were essential to Myles’ care and should have been followed to the letter. Of course they should. As they should in the case of any autistic person or person with learning disabilities. And yet they aren’t. “The evidence is that this did not happen at any point in the timeline of events”. How is it possible for none of these standards to be adhered to? Again, returning to George’s inquest coverage, how many other deaths were due to failings in the most basic standards of care?

The coroner states “GPs demonstrated in their evidence that they had very little real grasp of the technical and regulatory requirements” in connection to patients with learning disabilities. Two GP’s who gave evidence did not understand what the Learning Disabilities register was or how it worked. I’m reminded of a study which found GPs didn’t know what the flag was or where to find it. Extraordinary ignorance that you think would be remedied by implicated professionals hastily with some mortification. But no. This is all apparently fine.

[Myles’ death was of so little consequence to the GPs they did not instruct legal representation until forcefully told they should by the coroner.]

In a gruelling paragraph, the coroner described how he’d come to the conclusion that the GP surgery was so woeful in practice that the character of neglect was not present; neglect can only be considered if the person obviously presents as ill. Drs Clownster and Clownstar were too clueless to notice.

I had to read the final pages of the judgement a few times as the coroner’s narrative arc is blistering. Myles died of a pulmonary embolism. The lack of adjustments made in relation to his learning disabilities resulted in incorrect decision making contributing to his death. I question the coroner’s use of ‘incorrect decision making’ here. The Dr who refused to change the medication that clearly wasn’t working couldn’t really account for this ‘decision’ saying he thought Myles had compliance issues around medication. This strikes me as more of a post-hoc rationalisation. The character of medical decision-making seems to involve more gravitas than simply not bothering to do something or ever following it up. 

A Prevention of Future Deaths (PFD) Report was unsurprisingly issued to the GP surgery. In relation to the NHS Trust, there was the usual bullshit about changes implemented since Myles died which generated more words for the continually overflowing learning pot. And then the coroner smacks the judgement out of the park by issuing a second PFD to the Trust:

Tell me how best practice is going to be complied with and by when.

Wow. Yes. Please do. Adjustments (including mandatory training) simply don’t work. Ticking the box is a pointless and dangerous distraction.

I hope this judgement is read by other coroners as well as health (and absent social care) professionals. Myles was let down so blinking badly the report is a devastating, important, even groundbreaking read. Yet another much loved young person treated as disposable by health and social care professionals. Crispin Oliver, however, showed him and his family much respect, listened to their consistent and informed interventions and questions thoughtfully, and shed light on the absurdities woven through our supposedly universal healthcare system.

Thank you.

30 years.

So Connor turned 30 a week ago last Sunday. Thirty years. I look at the word thirty and wonder what it means. 30. Older than I was when I gave birth to him.

He died 11 years ago, aged 18, before his 19th birthday 5 months later. My maths is rubbish.

These three photos turned up on Facebook this week. Not sure if they were posted in the moment, in the recording of everyday life or later as memories. The latter probably as they landed around Connor’s birth-day.

Artefacts of moments/minutes/hours/days/weeks/months/years of devastation. Of writing, posting, searching, writing, howling, raging and writing some more. Always some more.

Until there wasn’t.

This is a good thing. You can chuck your models of grief in the nearest bin. There is no model. Instead random, shifting levels of sadness, pain, anger, despair, horror, rage, relief and whatever other emotions and feelings you fucking feel. Anything goes.

Oh. And those tears, the broken tap tears that feel uncontrollable? Lean into them. Cry your socks off. How could you not. At home, on a bus, train, walking here, there or anywhere.

I look at these photos.

Summer holidays, a day out, and so much rain.

Cheekiness. Love. Determination. Movement. A brown caguoule among uniform blue. The warm easiness of together.

British Summer time.

Llamas or alpacas at London Zoo.

When a child dies, you study photos, forensically. Attempt to climb in them almost. To be back there for a moment, for the feels and smells.

My mate Fran sends a random pic or two every so often. From school trips or adventures. This new treasure allows fresh exploration. A forgotten hoodie or lunchbox opens a window to a particular time and the wondrous space around it.

What is Rosie holding? How did that sand feel in bare feet? What’s Connor saying to Tom? Where the hell were we heading on that rainy day?

30 is a big one. We went for a long walk on Great Moor. It rained so hard my eyes filled with water. Rain tears.

30 years.

What if Connor was boring?

Eleven years this week. Since that day. That morning.

I’ve dreamed about Connor two, possibly three times during this time. Fleeting absorption, the tantalising, sadder than sad touching, holding, smelling, holding on to, almost knowing within that dream state it isn’t real. Or knowing so immediately after waking, a scrambling to hold onto disappearing feels, smells, warmth. 

How is it possible he’s dead?

Two, possibly three, clairvoyant type people have been in touch during this time to say Connor’s been knocking about their space with something to say. I’ve not replied. I don’t know what to say and it doesn’t feel comfortable. I kind of think the boy was savvier than a lot of us and would have worked out some way of getting in touch if he could. 

I don’t know how to make sense of his death and as more time passes, I realise words don’t exist to do so. This is probably ok. Well intentioned people talk about models or stages of grief, trying to coax the unsayable into coherence. This maybe important for some. A bit of a roadmap, guidance, perhaps hint of an ending at some point to the searing pain. 

I clamped Connor to my heart. He’s just there. I think I did it a year or so after he died, walking to walk one morning along St Giles in Oxford. Looking at the enormity of an endlessly blue sky along that wide stretch of road. Teasing through the agonies and incomprehensible sadnesses for a billionth time. Knowing his woodland grave lay a mile or so ahead on the edge of town. Bus 2, 2A, S4, X4…

Gotcha matey. As I should have.

I sit in work meetings where we discuss the lives of people with learning disabilities or family carers, with people with learning disabilities and family carers, aching for the days when work meetings happened in person and I had a regular ponder about what Connor was doing at school. Reading his school diary; a mechanism of communicating info and an unrecognised at the time log of his thinking. 

We have been looking at how Hindu’s celebrate for Diwali. Connor said he is a Pagan and Pagan’s worship Stonehenge, Vince Noir and public transport.

The countdown to July 4 seems different this year. Maybe we because we got over the 10 year mark. Instead of doubling down at home with family and friends, we smashed Kinder Scout with a picnic last year. 

Maybe it’s different because of the joy and distraction of Laughing Boy and everything that came with the production. Alfie Friedman (Connor) and Daniel Rainford (Tom), had a joke about what if Connor was boring. Apparently Daniel would say his lines with enthusiasm with Alfie’s lacklustre response;

‘You loved buses didn’t you, Connor?!’

[Silence and a shrug…] ‘They’re ok.’

I chuckled when I heard this. I mean what if Connor was boring…? ‘Mum, am I boring, mum?

That people are talking about Connor in this way all these years later is astonishing. The play did its job in very publicly sloughing off the destructive coating of the learning disability label, presenting Connor as pretty much who he was. A beautiful, funny and thoughtful young person with a strong sense of justice. Once again, thank you to Steve Unwin, the cast and creative teams, and both theatres. Memories of the whole experience are warm and dazzling.

So, I’ve been cooking a storm for a feast tomorrow as the kids/partners head this way. And here’s a photo of Connor and his cousins on holiday in France back in the day. The attire that year, disposable shower cap and turquoise swimming goggles.

Love him.

But does it bollocks?

Connor’s headteacher and two (more) staff members saw the play last week. Sally Withey, now retired, posted on facebook, remembering ‘that call’ in her office nearly eleven years ago. She commented “and of course […] love for our Connor – we shared lots of stories of him during our day together.”

‘Our Connor…’

Connor sprinkled more than his share of stories across his school years and beyond. I don’t think there was a ‘formal’ meeting which didn’t include a right old belly laugh relating to something he’d done or said. This blog became a mechanism for capturing some of this magic, his humour, his righteous, beautiful ‘outlandishness’. Tales of teaching staff and Connor chuckling at the latest mydaftlife blog post at lunchtime, the absorption of school diary entries and more.

On Saturday, Rich and I were tromping in the peaks with Sid when the matinee was about to start. We bumped into a couple (doubling the number of people we’d seen in two hours of walking) on Revidge hill and got chatting. A semi retired journalist and headteacher. With a 21 year old autistic son now in a supported living gig after an unspeakable spell of sectioning. Talked about against a backdrop of impossible beauty, space. And sadness.

I’ve developed a Laughing Boy ritual before each performance (when possible). I listen to songs from LB’s mixtape (played to the audience pre-show), watch the #107days intermezzo and look forward to the daily show report/post-show comments a couple of hours later. Descriptions of rapturous, warm and tearful applause in the report and more detailed personal accounts on social media…

Then there are the selfie opportunities. Last night, Caoilfhionn Gallagher KC and Molly Osborne added to Michael Buchanan and Norman Lamb’s Daniel Rainford hall of selfie fame photos.

I don’t want to preempt a final London performance selfie with Lee Braithwaite and a certain silver fox… or Charlie Ives and George Julian at Bath. Let’s see what unfolds.

Tonight, listening to Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping from LB’s mix tape before the second performance of the day, I finally listened to the words spoken at the start of the song. Turns out it’s Pete Postlethwaite from Brassed Off:

“Truth is I thought it mattered, I thought that music mattered. But does it bollocks! Not compared to how people matter”.

Connor was clearly writing the script way back then.

Love him beyond words.

Laughing Boy, Crunchie the support dog and more…

Extraordinary responses to Laughing Boy continue post performance by performance. Some of this captured by two kickass posts by George yesterday; Witnessing solidarity: the power of Laughing Boy and Evidencing Difference: beyond Laughing Boy. I’ve seen the play four times now and the moment when this beautifully crafted and devastating photo montage by Matt Powell (with London Transport font) and Holly Khan’s haunting melody is shown, is the stuff of pin drop silence.

The audience and cast share intense horror with respect too often brutally absent.

The juxtaposition of JusticeforLB magic alongside this horror continues. The London South Bank University Annual Lecture was organised to celebrate the play with Rosemary Garland Thompson as an extraordinary guest speaker alongside Peter Cronin, who generated more pin drop moments in a chilling exercise in understatement.

A coach trip organised by the Manchester Met Department of Social Care and Social Work ferried students, self-advocates and staff down to London in a mammoth 10 hour round trip. Feedback included “I had an absolutely brilliant time yesterday, aside from the river of tears that went along.”

Theatre attendees continue to be cheerfully photographed with cast members outside the theatre, while documenting their awe of the play. As Michael Buchanan tweeted;

The play is magnificent – funny, moving & infuriating. If you are in London or Bath, I thoroughly recommend seeing it. As for my fleeting appearance – what an honour. It’s not often you hear a Hebridean accent on a West End stage – well done

My mate Ulla flew over from Finland to see it with me and George. A Danish colleague who randomly sat next to her said (when I ‘properly’ met her at work yesterday), Ulla watched the play with such raw and audible emotions adding further authenticity to the performance. She began sobbing at Alfie Friedman’s opening line and continued between laughter exclamations that reverberated around the tiny space, almost flattening the indefatigable cast.

We fell into the nearest pub after joined by cast members and jabbered till closing time.

‘We need another drink’, Ulla, George and I chorused and moments later were transported to a basement club in Soho with Charlie Ives, Daniel Rainford, Alfie and Rose Quentin, the sweetest enabler. George’s suitcase stashed in a cupboard by the hoover.

People are tweeting their journey to the play, their position in the theatre and more.

I bumped into this bunch in Euston Underground hours after this photo was tweeted. And there, waving in the background is Lloyd Page who also spoke at the London South Bank event. A couple of spare tickets were shared on twitter and Lloyd attended with Steve Hardy (in the blue and green t-shirt).

The daily show rehearsal reports continue though we are on a countdown now with only a week left at Jermyn Street, and four days at the Bath Theatre Royal. [Sob] Apparently the cast, and I suspect theatre staff, are loving the relaxed performances.

Audience participation involved Crunchie the support dog wandering on stage at a matinee performance on Tuesday.

Life. As it should be.

Laughing Boy. The ‘around’ stuff…

‘A technically tight performance, LX, SND and VIDEO. All cues fired correctly…’

Back to a Susi Petherick photo of the #JusticeforLB quilt to see some detail of the intricate artwork involved in the making of it. Layers of working around individual patches to create something more than the sum of its patches (as brilliant as each one is). People tend to concentrate on patches when they look at it. The around stuff becomes less visible despite being central. The better the around stuff is done the less visible it becomes…

I mean, what about the colours, intricate joining stitches, shapes, tufts, busy and invisible beauty?

Laughing Boy has an extraordinary ‘around’ cast of brilliance in Holly Kahn, Matt Powell, Simon Higlett and Ben Ormerod. Music, video, set design and lighting.

Matt has come round a couple of times to talk about and collect files, links and the quilt. To show how the tech stuff is developing. Home movie clips of Connor as a tot have been beautifully folded into new footage of school children recording Louis Armstrong’s Wonderful World at a school in London. Headphones, concentration and wondrousness (possibly never seen before on a London stage).

The careful arrangement of photos of children, young people and adults who have died since Connor presented with meticulously selected fonts and sizes.

The intermezzo countdown of the 107 days campaign to mark the time Connor spent in the unit is an extraordinary blend of the colour, reach and content of that phenomenon, accompanied by Holly’s haunting and visceral composition.

I’m only just recognising the power of set production and lighting, thank you Simon and Ben for this.

Realise I’m kind of going full on theatre critic now which may be hilarious or horribly grating. No apologies either way or anywhere in the middle. It’s been a blast and privilege to follow the workings and working outs of this production and see the love, care and attention paid throughout.

https://www.alexbrenner.com/

Post preview and tales of the unexpected

Sorry, so blinking behind on these posts. Full on absorption during the course of the play wasn’t expected and is unexpectedly cool. Pre and post show tweets from audience members, daily show reports, messages, jibber jabber, awe and regular ‘what the actual fuck’ moments? I mean WTAF…?

I walked slowly round the block taking in Piccadilly Circus, St James’s Square, Haymarket before one performance. An unusually warmish evening with a slight breeze and constant flow of passing London buses. Thinking about Connor and what he would think of the extraordinary anchoring of him, his story in this way to his favourite place.

Laughing Boy at Jermyn Street Theatre… So beautifully, breathtakingly executed.

On Tuesday (April 30) afternoon, official Laughing Boy photos by Alex Brenner were unexpectedly released by Jermyn Street Theatre (though referenced in technical reports). Dazzling images to treasure alongside Charlie Ives‘ artwork of cast members sketched while tech (lights/audio/visual cues) were sorted a week or so ago.

(c) Alex Brenner.

Rich and I gave Press Night a swerve in the end. Attending the first preview night, late, late night drinking, chatter and laughter with the cast/creative team followed by a day with Rosie, Jack, Owen, Catherine, Tom and Katie walking the Walthamstow wetlands and nosh was enough. [Will and Kiyora much missed and watching from Japan.]

And then the critical reviews… I didn’t anticipate the anticipation of the publication of play reviews on Wednesday.

About 10am, Rich called upstairs “Guardian review is on the website… 3*.”

[Gulp]

A day peppered with reviews appearing and shared on social media. 3*, 4*, 5* reviews…

Peer review is an integral part of being an academic and here are theatre critics doing a kind of similar yet unfamiliar process. Sending their reviews directly out into the public domain.

‘This is what I think about this production…’

Boom.

[As an aside I love how the International Journal of Disability and Social Justice is asking for non-traditional contributions about the play. Boundary blurring and joyousness.]

There were so many reviews, links flying around messages and Whatsapp. I lost track in the end.

Comments from audience members have been unfailingly wondrous. Personal experiences, life, connections and meet ups between people – self-advocates, family members, allies, journalists, human rights experts, health, social care, education professionals, politicians – on a nightly (or afternoon and nightly) basis. Warmth, love and awe.

Annie Kershaw and the Jermyn Street Theatre team have designed and implemented a set of shifts and tweaks so that people can attend. [I wrote so many different versions of this sentence each of which had problematic words or associations. Could be a whole separate blog post…] Relaxed and captioned performances, audio and visual stories, and more. The lack of wheelchair access is grim and insurmountable, the commitment to ensuring people can come and feel comfortable and welcome is impressive. The JusticeforLB quilt at St James’s Church a minute or so up the road offers further grounding and a space to think and be.

Photo by Susi Petherick

There are more stories to tell though I’ll leave it here for now. It all starts again tomorrow.

Previews and voucher lives

The official first week of Laughing Boy. Tonight the play will be reviewed by theatre critics. I’m ambivalent about the reviews. The play is political to its core. It’s being performed against an unfolding backdrop of the further brutalisation of disabled people and proposals for (selective) ‘voucher lives’. It’s likely, at least possible, the glimpses of family life portrayed will be unfamiliar to critics and it’s impossible to know how it will land. At the same time, I hope they are as blown away as numerous other audience members have been by love, humanity and righteous anger.

Meanwhile, the layers of care and love at Jermyn Street continue. The willingness of staff (a tiny team) to make sure people are comfortable, help with ticket mix ups (gulp) and answer questions. The visual story to familiarise people with the approach to the theatre and setting. The Spotify playlist of Connor’s favourite songs in the background as people take their seats. The quilt displayed at the church next door for the London run (and then in the Theatre Royal, Bath).

We went to the first preview on Thursday night. Tears, sadness and laughter. A friend messaged yesterday ‘And I did cry all the way through, but as 80 others were doing the same thing I didn’t feel alone.’

The seven (yes, only seven) extraordinary actors are a family, and their love for each other shines in stark contrast to the absurdity and inhumanity of the public sector response to the unthinkable. The behind the scenes work of the creative team has generated an astonishing and breathtaking visual and audio feast.

In a truly moving and hopefully never to be repeated moment, I was encouraged onto the stage during the standing ovation for a heartfelt tribute by Janie Dee. It is hard not to love this bunch.

Then an after show party in a pub around the corner. Joyfulness, chatter, play dissection, analysis, thought, thinking, more talk and laughter. Connor. Always Connor.

Randomly, we ended up in the early hours in a David Bowie pub. The boy still working his magic and the latest I’ve been to bed in yonks.

So break a leg tonight! Not sure there is anything you could do better which is really quite something. ♥️

One more day…

Ooof. Almost here. There. The first preview of Laughing Boy is tomorrow. Updates about production progress and the sharing of gems of film and music magic projections continue. A family whatsapp jibber ujabber earlier sparked a playlist of Connor’s favourite songs for when audience members take their seats. Another tumble into joyful memories. The bus trip from Oxford tomorrow afternoon will include Connor’s favourite sarnies; cheese and pickle and sandwich spread [don’t judge]. Among the audience will be Connor’s babysitter Izzy, and two of his teaching assistants Sue and Jude, as well as family, friends and campaigners. Funny exchanges with the theatre box office as Penny Horner cheerfully juggles our chaotic ticket sales, returns and more. The #JusticeforLB quilt will be on display at St James’s, Piccadilly for the next five weeks.

I still blink in awe at the insights this gig offers. It seems like the (cosy?) 4 weeks in the rehearsal room has a ritual ‘ending’ (last Saturday) when a van picks up traces/props and moves the team to the theatre for the final few days of rehearsals. The set designer, video creative, composer and music designer move in with tech gear and spend 12 hour days working, with the cast in out in out, costumes on and shake it all about, to a final dress rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. Wincingly sharp timelines seem to be calmly absorbed by everyone.

Work. Expertise, absorption, creativity. Commitment.

Photo of the creative team sitting at the back of the theatre, laptops and a jumble of wires.

Media coverage has continued with thoughtful contributions from John Harris in the Guardian and Victoria McDonald on Channel 4 News. Re-watching the Sloven director being carefully questioned by Victoria McDonald in a news clip from the end of Connor’s inquest was quite something. Nearly nine years on it offers brutal clarity around the absurdity and ignorance of those involved who should have known better and done better.

This coverage led to several people getting in touch. People who have experienced ‘similar’ failings, old friends, acquaintances and colleagues, names and faces from the distant past before life took a turn. People involved in the campaign. A warm wash of well wishes. [Thank you.]

The play is, as Steve Unwin has consistently said, political. It highlights wider systemic failings that should be the making of scandal and action. Over and over again. Following on from The Lonely Londoners, the play will, through its writing, direction, design and execution make audiences (and those involved in the production) take notice, think and question. As we all should.

Right now though, I’m thinking about this…

A week to go and so much more…

The first play preview night is a week today. Not been back to the rehearsal room for practical reasons, so I’ve been absorbing rehearsal reports from stage manager, Daisy Francis-Bryden, updates from Steve Unwin and messages from the cast/creative team (language/terms are now well bedded in.)

No props originally, there are now mobile phones. Daisy shared a photo of this development; ‘I hope this brings you joy the way it did me.’ [It did.]

And a bus. Discussed in many a rehearsal report. The size, colour, tone, finish. Where it will be on stage. (On the floor, no shelf needed.)

Alfie shared this photo earlier.

Just love.

Last night, Jermyn Street Theatre shared an eight page visual story info document to help people find the theatre, have some idea of the layout and other important stuff.

A document that demonstrates more thought and care than Connor received from many health and social care professionals. In a work meeting earlier, we puzzled over the why (how) of this. Why (how) is this level of thought, sense and attention so often absent, and yet clearly doable in this space? [In a week in which George Julian is reporting the inquests of Marcus Hanlin and Fern Foster, and Dawn Cavanagh and allies organised a #StolenLives protest outside the Senedd, Cardiff.]

Matt Powell, video designer and Holly Kahn, composer and music designer have created a piece of brilliance packed into 75 seconds of film capturing #107DaysOfAction. An intermezzo. I watch it and rewatch it, wondering how this magic is possible, how the hell we pulled it off, and what an extraordinary cast this play draws upon. Literally hundreds of people.

There’s a section about the play with pieces by Saba Salman, Ramandeep Kaur, Steve Unwin, George and me in the latest edition of Byline Times. And other media stuff brewing. Oh, and a book of the script is in preparation. A playtext.

I’m quietly confident it will be a smasher of a play. Setting aside the extraordinary brilliance, commitment and experience of the cast/creative team, I know in practical terms Jermyn Street team thoughtfulness has already helped people. There’s been a shuffling of tickets and attendance behind the scenes. Becca has her (funeral) clipboard back out to organise a bus from Oxford and a large chunk of those in the play will be in the audience on that opening night.

It is really quite something.