The Suicide Journalist

In London last week, I popped to the pub with David, Pippa and Simon. At some point Pippa and I started talking about Bernice Warren’s drama group which we both used to attend when we were kids. We mentioned a few of the people we’d known there, and at some point Pippa said “Fritha Goodey”; before she got any further, I launched into praises, I’d read a review a few years previously in the Evening Standard, of her performance in Rememberance of Things Past at the National Theatre. It sounded like she had matured into an excellent actress, the review couldn’t sing her praises too highly. Pippa cut me short. Told me Fritha was dead, she had stabbed herself through the heart a few months ago. I was stunned (well, you would be, wouldn’t you). Fritha was a wonderful person (and I used to have a huge crush on her older sister Tabitha). And… I had a vague memory of somebody else killing themselves not very long ago (it took me a few minutes to remember that it had been Tom). I grew emotional with thoughts of the melodrama, but also the selfishness, of suicide.

And then, this morning, I wake up to the news that HST has done a Kurt Cobain.

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