Love (and hate) in the time of Convid 

With apologies to Gabriel Garcia Lorca

'It was inevitable: the scent of South Australian Oaked Chardonnay always reminded him of the fate of justifiable anger.' *

Anthony Eastwood, whereabouts currently unknown, is recalcitrant, unrepentant, grumpy, vitriolic and on a mission to reveal the criminal enterprises and excesses of those who presume to run our lives. Anthony has nurtured playwrights and scriptwriters for forty years and always leaned towards the stirrers of solid bodily effluence.  'Sharon', he said, 'It's the whistleblowers and truth seekers, the warriors for justice that keep me going.' And although he had no children himself he would often raise his glass of Petaluma Chardonnay and toast the next generation. ‘To our children,' he would say. 'May they forgive us.'

My relationship with Anthony was deep friendship. We didn't work together although I wanted to. We shared a love for the world of theatre when it stood against the sins of bigotry and conformism, gone the way of all flesh I fear. 

I do not know where Anthony Eastwood is now and I have no intention of helping anyone find out. 

* 'It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.' Lorca.

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