What follows, as in many Attic plays, is a series of declamatory speeches, occasionally broken up with snatches of dialogue and the songs and dances of the chorus of foreign women, here costumed by Normandy Sherwood in flouncy, flowery festivalwear – even the male singers.

Sad to say, I can’t remember anything else about him. Only that voice, whispering in my ear.

He straightway broke into bitter lamentations, such as I had never heard from him before, for he had always asserted that such wailing was for craven and lowhearted men.

And why has no one in the [rail] industry advocated for a universal requirement for face covering (even if it's just a scarf or old tea towel), ….