DOREEN PERRY R.I.P.

We were sorry to report the sad news that our friend Doreen passed away last week.

If you have been to our private views, you will have conversed with this extraordinary lady.

We first met Doreen, aged 90 something, dressed in leathers in the Bethnal Green Library. She became a great encouragement to us. With every visit, we learned something new, usually about the finishing of good quality underwear, which she always wore.

When Stephen Jones and I-D Magazine asked us to make an Easter Bonnet for the parade at the V&A, Doreen came with us. She brought a couture hat for each of our girls to model.

We all cut a dash, but on arrival in the V&A foyer, Doreen was shocked that none of us posed for the cameras properly. Flinging her cape, fluttering her eyelashes, and strutting across the hall, she showed us how to do it and a mob of men shouted 'to me! to me!'

For the short time we knew Doreen, we have learned what a wonderful time we could possibly have when we grow old. Her world was huge and she will be missed by many. Lets hope Doreen has found a really good party to go to.

Doreen's obituary is written much better in the Times but this is how we knew her.

Thank you to her daughters for the lovely knitting books which we shall cherish.

IN MY CRAFT OR SULLEN ART BY DYLAN THOMAS.

It's huge! We finished it last night and had a lot of fun jumping on the letters. The poem was shown at the British Library this morning, and it will be at the Royal Festival Hall tomorrow. (Thursday) You can also hear about it on BBC 's Poetry Please.

Left to right measurement: 13 metres (43 ft) at its widest point
Top to bottom measurement: 8.7 metres (28 ft) at its widest point
Number of squares: 1200+

Dylan Thomas

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art

Exercised in the still night

When only the moon rages

And the lovers lie abed

With all their griefs in their arms,

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon I write

On these spindrift pages

Nor for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the griefs of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

Copyright Dylan Thomas.

Used by

Permission of David Higham

Associates.