MITCH DALTON
nce upon a ten-to-one-with-possible-overtime, I arrived at Thames Television’s studios in fashionable Teddington. So fashionable that, needless to say, they eventually shut it down and flogged the site for luxury riverside apartments. Ho hum. An elderly gentleman was struggling up the steps to the music studio, laden with piles of ancient manuscript, which looked as if they would have been better served displayed under glass in a Jerusalem museum. I confess that my immediate thought was, “Well, whatever this gig is, there ain’t gonna be a pension
