She clearly likes words, and tells me that as a child she would fantasise about having a library in the most remote place in the world, one which no one else could visit. If ever she ran out of books, someone would air drop a big load down. Sometimes, she says, she’ll “get stuck” on certain words, which then race around her brain almost maddeningly. “At the moment it’s ‘turret’ and ‘buzzard’,” she says, “but a few years ago it was ‘do’, and for a while I couldn’t use it, couldn’t think how it was responsible for all those actions.”
As she talks, I notice the grace of Meg’s hands, which offer emphasis and a kind of kinetic support to whatever she is saying. Somehow, they keep moving, yet seem so very still, frozen in my memory. It’s only later that I realise what they remind me of – the many hand studies drawn by none other than Henry Moore.