smokingboot

Maybe it's because I read Northanger Abbey again, but a Henry loomed large in my dreams last night. It was extraordinarily photographic, the closeness of his face,his skin, his beard, his affable smile, the sheer burliness of him. I saw the overgarment he was wearing, a scarlet detailed thing like a waistcoat, but with endless jewels/beads repeated in a pattern on the inside as well as the outside.

And then I saw a woman standing beside and behind him slightly on his right, looking over his shoulder at some written documents he held. I marvelled at the calligraphy but couldn't read it. When he went to sit down in some kind of pew, there she was close by him, this time on his left. She was very much the iconic version of Anne Boleyn, but I didn't get close enough to feel her presence. He on the other hand had just appeared right in front of me, and seemed as real as the keyboard I am using now. Such a shame to think of that face, that pleasant strong person disintegrating into whatever he became but even that is giving him a lot of credit. Sure, maybe he grew ill, but he was 17 when he first had unpopular ministers executed, long before time and tyranny wreaked their havoc on him. Few are better than their era, almost none better than their training. Worth remembering that, I guess.

I am astonished at how pleasant he seemed.

I can't really blame Jane Austen's charming Henry Tilney for Henry VIII turning up in my sleep last night. I think it's about my mistrust of interactions with power and politics. This local stuff is just...

Actually, I begin to suspect a couple of those involved could do with facing some Tudor 'decisiveness'. But then again, today I feel very unwell and find everything difficult. I have not even emptied the dishwasher yet. Grim.