Last night I dreamt that Anthony Ainley and I were having tea. He was charming, lovely, and we were having the most fascinating conversation about the construction of his gloves. Black satin, with fabulous little box pleats along the back of the hand, in four groups of four.
I have the Master all to myself, and what do I do?
I ask him about his costume.
What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?!
