I started this morning in Oxford, in an attic room overlooking the Warden’s lodging of one of the older colleges. It was an early start (for me) because breakfast was at eight; on pulling back the curtains I saw the Warden’s garden a sheet of white. Because it was also very still, every twig on the two great ash-trees held a perilous two-inch-high crest of snow. It was quite beautiful. At breakfast, we looked through french windows across a white lawn to the Radcliffe Camera which looked as if somebody had been at it with the icing sugar; its delicate structures accentuated by white lines of snow. The Oxford coach made a good job of getting down to town, which was just as well, because I had a date with the BFI: there is a barely-edited film of all the interview material with Ed, which was very funny indeed — one thing which became obvious was that Ed developed a sort of divinatory gift for when the camera was about to run dry — at one point, he actually initiated some comments on Modigliani and was just hitting his stride when the film ran out — off stage the unfortunate young man responsible for this enterprise was to be heard going ‘Aaargh!’ But the real joy of this enterprise was seeing Ed’s Film. This is really SO awful you cannot conceive, but within its tawdry length, there is a complete Ed stage set which nobody — except me, and you, dear reader — knows to exist. The only one to survive in any more developed form than the odd photograph. I am hugging this information to myself joyously.