I met Glenda Jackson once. She had returned to the British stage at the age of 80 to play King Lear at the Old Vic, and the theatre had asked me to hold a Q&A session with her after the performance. Lear is a long play and this was a long production; I had been sternly warned that I mustn’t overtire her and that the interview had to end after half an hour.
Yet from the moment she walked on stage, to endless applause, there was no stopping her. Her answers weren’t drawn-out, but they were detailed and full of insight. She more or less ignored my questions, talking about what she wanted to speak about and relishing taking questions from the audience. It was utterly riveting, so I just sat back and enjoyed it.
Stage management virtually had to drag us off-stage to get it to stop. The last I saw of Jackson, it was nearly midnight and she was still standing in the theatre lobby, talking animatedly, wrapped in a red coat, unlit cigarette in her hand.
