Wolf Hall

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I wish I had Cromwell’s ear, not literally of course, but he seems to know everything – who better to seek advice from?

Last night’s episode had us all over the place as usual, from one location to another faster than you could say; ‘Supreme Head of the Church of England.’

Daylight brings relief, as otherwise it’s rather difficult to understand what’s happening, and one is in danger of losing the plot so to speak:  During the bedroom scene last night – heavy tapestry-like blankets – I found I was reaching for my candle in some sort of effort to get a telepathic message to Cromwell to light a few himself and maybe shed more light on the topic.

Phew.  After a bit of political pillow talk thank goodness we were transported to daytime again.  Natural light poured in through windows forming a backdrop to Henry VIII sitting sideways on a large chair, his right arm positioned on the armrest, his other bent and placed on his left hip thus showing off his sumptuous voluminous robes – just like in every painting you’ve ever seen.  Bravo the Beeb for attention to detail. Although, the gas fires need work.

Fur collared cloaks were everywhere, and that phrase ‘cloak and dagger’ came to mind – suddenly it all made sense.

‘Huh, huh, huh, huh” laughed Cromwell with a twinkle in his eye and then a lengthy look off into the distance.

We don’t get many glimpses into the ‘man’ as it were – but last night we did when we saw him dreaming of touching Anne B.  She herself, as with all the women in WH manage to look beautiful without a scrap of make up on.  Thinking about that, I’m sure it’s the use of clever lighting.  A bit like the Rembrandt exhibition – spotlight the face and it takes it up a notch, aside from the fact that she’s definitely got false eyelashes on.

Cromwell’s at his peak.  He’s brilliant at chess, acts as Maitre D for the King (note his checking of the banquet food last night in Calais), everyone wants to know what he thinks, and the King’s made him Keeper of the Jewel House.

It can’t possibly last.

The phone rang.  “Mark Rylance – there’s something so sexy about him! I think it’s all that black – Rrrrrrrr!” my friend Sarah gushed.  Which reminded me of something else; all the women want him too.

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