Melanie McDonagh

To not wholly rapturous reviews, the movie Wicked, the prequel to The Wizard of Oz, is released this week. Tragically, it’s too late for Halloween, so we can expect alienated witches of colour (green) based on Cynthia Erivo to be absolutely everywhere by Christmas. For anyone who loved the Wizard of Oz, 1939 version, this is one to miss. Could there be any narrative more forward looking, more of our time, than this little story of gender transition? But, in a spirit of goodwill, let me put a better idea to Universal, the studio behind the film. They have missed a trick. L.

Oh. My. Lord. I’ve been looking at Dawn Butler’s spoken verse as presented by her on X and it's difficult to know what to say. It is, it seems, Dawn’s contribution to Black History Month.  The lyrics are at the bottom of the page, though for the full effect you really need to hear her delivery, with the accompanying shots, made up mostly of fetching images of Dawn, but with some material illustrative of her point, if I've discerned it correctly: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHVs4XyKx1E&feature=youtu.be What she seems to be doing is addressing a racist troll, though it might be helpful if she made that clearer at the outset, because at present her unseen interlocutor would seem to be any random white person.

There are two untraditional ways to take your leave of this world in Britain. The bleaker is the ‘direct cremation’ method whereby, with no prayers and no mourners, a funeral director will take your remains from mortuary to crematorium to be burnt without troubling your friends and relations. The other is the ‘celebration’. According to Co-op Funeralcare in its new report, called ‘Go Your Own Way’, no fewer than 68 per cent of people it polled regard funerals as a celebration of life, up from 58 per cent five years ago. Out go prayers, black funeral dress and solemnity; in come Doctor Who themes, glittery coffins and guests dressed in football shirts. Or as the report puts it: ‘Personalisation is key.’ The venues are quirky too.

According to canon 1220 of the Catholic church's code of canon law, 'all those responsible are to take care that in churches such cleanliness and beauty are preserved as befit a house of God and that whatever is inappropriate to the holiness of the place is excluded'. So, if Canterbury cathedral were still Catholic, as it was for 900 years before the discordant event of the Reformation, it is fair to say that the ghost of Thomas Becket would not have been disturbed by the rave in the nave which took place last night and is repeated tonight.

So, another place where men have to mind their language: on mountains. In an article in Scottish Mountaineer magazine by one Dr Richard Tiplady, he advises male walkers never to call women ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’. They should not assume that women can’t read a map. ‘If they ask for advice about kit or their route, be polite without being condescending – but don’t offer advice if you’re not asked for it’.  If we carry on at this rate, the human race is going to die out A brief chat about hills, the weather and the man’s intended route is fine, but ‘don’t ask what route they are taking’. If a male walker catches up with a lone woman walker, the rule is a brief ‘hello’, and then onwards.

On the bright side, Nuala McGovern isn’t Emma Barnett, she of the combative approach to broadcasting. The new presenter of Woman’s Hour is a bright, cheerful experienced broadcaster. She’s Irish, spent time in Italy and America, and has lived and worked in the UK for many years. She covered for Emma B when she was on maternity leave and did well. Mind you, I’ve been going out of my way to avoid Woman’s Hour for years now, with some success. The whole notion of a daily broadcast specially for the ladies seems downright odd, but since it’s now firmly embedded in the schedule, it’s not much use complaining.

There’s one way of getting the look of the Chelsea Flower show winner, Ula Maria’s forest bathing garden, and that’s not to mow your lawn but let the flowers and long grass spring up. 'This is not,' I would say austerely to the neighbours if they hang over the wall to suggest a man who could cut the grass, 'an unkempt and neglected space; it is immersive, relaxing and calming'. Actually, that would be pushing it given that most people’s grassy area lacks flint, a blue shed and trees, but you get the gist. And one of the important aspects of this garden, according to Liz Nicholson, the chair of the judges, is that it created 'possibly the biggest insect habitat I’ve ever seen' – in Chelsea, presumably.