My night at the Baftas
Sometimes things work out much better than one could have imagined, as if God, looking down, had decided that for whatever reason, a favour should be dispensed in my direction, a blessing. Perhaps occasioned by my diligence and faith, perhaps not. It is impossible to explain these benedictions. Sufficient to say that on Sunday night, at the Baftas in the Royal Festival Hall, the angels looked kindly upon me. I go to this bun-fest every year, dressed appropriately in a dinner jacket and a cummerbund, patent-leather dress shoes and a bow tie. I ought to point out that I do not receive an invitation to this glittering event: no, I
