The Shaftesbury Theatre, the largest independent theatre in the West End, will be renamed the Judi Dench Theatre.
The renaming will take place in February 2027 and celebrates Dame Judi Dench’s unparalleled contribution to British theatre and the performing arts.
Was in a taxi near Euston yesterday, and saw two men waving a Union Jack flag on a pole, storming along, shouting in an intimidating way to everyone walking by peacefully.
It was both grotesque and ridiculous. Don’t let anyone fool you that this is patriotic.
Just heard Richard Young talk about his first wife dying of breast cancer and how he coped with it. How his second wife when he met her understood and “held his hand through it”. So touching. Thanks Desert Island Discs @BBCRadio4 now crying at my desk ❤️
@ThrillaRilla369 If I could I’d do a buffet. Everyone wants a roast so into the kitchen it is. It would be so nice to have lovely salads and picky bits instead. I never eat it when it’s cooked - I’m too hot!
My son hasn't spoken at school in four months. Complete selective mutism since the kids started calling him "the weird craft boy" who makes things instead of playing sports at recess. He's eleven and autistic, and art class used to be the only place he felt safe until his teacher told him his projects were "too babyish for middle school." He stopped making anything, stopped talking about his ideas, just came home every day and disappeared into his room with the door closed.
Last week he was watching me work on snowman decorations for my online shop, these whimsical couples I make and sell for people's holiday mantels. Didn't say anything, just sat on the couch observing while I hot-glued fabric scarves and painted faces. Then two days ago I came home from work and found him in the garage surrounded by foam balls and fabric scraps he'd pulled from my supply bins, hands covered in paint, completely absorbed in creating these two figures. He'd been working for six hours straight without stopping, something he hasn't done since his teacher destroyed his confidence.
He made himself and his little sister. The boy snowman has the same serious expression my son gets when he's concentrating, the same careful attention to detail in every button and hat decoration. The girl snowman is wearing pink because that's all his sister will wear lately, has flowers on her scarf because she picks dandelions for him every day after school. This is his first complete project since September, the first thing he's made that wasn't for a grade or an assignment, just pure creation because he wanted to express something he couldn't say with words.
When he finished he asked if people would think they were stupid, if kids at school would make fun of them like they make fun of everything else he makes. I told him they were incredible and he needed to see that I wasn't just saying it because I'm his mom. He finally agreed to let me post this after two days of me begging, but he's been refreshing my phone every ten minutes checking for comments, needing to know if anyone besides me thinks he's talented. I buy a lot of my supplies from other crafters online, and I keep showing him their work trying to prove that handmade art matters, that people value things made with this much heart and skill.
So what do you think? He's reading over my shoulder right now, hands still shaking slightly, waiting to see if anyone else sees what I see.
Credit - Katie Thomson
After a rubbish week on top of a horrible fortnight this made my day and made me realise I’m moaning about nothing. People have their plates piled far higher. Love it 🥰
"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces.
But I see everything.
Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments.
One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?"
"6:15," he said, confused.
"Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it."
He blinked. "You... you can do that?"
"I can now," I said.
Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?"
"Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing."
He cried. Right there in the parking lot.
Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic.
But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!"
"Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel."
He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us."
The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over."
Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it.
But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note,
"Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends"
People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket.
I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece."
So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones.
Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees.
It's not glamorous. But it's everything."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Credit: Mary Nelson
Donald Trump viciously attacks a female journalist by calling her "piggy" to her face and not one man or one woman in the White House Press Corps stands up for her, objects or calls out Trump.
This video is emblematic of the last decade in this country.
https://t.co/rv7f9rqAs6
This is Jennifer Jacobs, the reporter Trump barked “quiet, quiet, piggy” at for asking about the Epstein files.
Stop normalizing a president abusing reporters, especially women, because he’s terrified of a question.
No Wes Streeting, the BMA is not acting like a cartel. It’s acting like a trade union. And frankly it’s disgusting to hear you talk like this while huge numbers of doctors can’t get NHS jobs because you haven’t created them, while millions of patients are on waiting lists🚨🚨🚨