Small Prophets is a BBC series written and directed by MacKenzie Crook, released in February 2026. The following article might contain spoilers, so watch and enjoy first.

Michael Sleep is a middle-aged man living a lonely existence in a house full of cardboard boxes, with a living room recreating a 1970s Christmas Day. The neighbours nag him about his overgrown garden. He works in a DIY superstore, making fun of customers, and his boss, who focuses on issues like whether the vending machine has enough beef flavour Discos.

He visits his father, Brian, in a care home. Brian has forgotten that Michael’s partner, Clea, disappeared some years previously. When Brian remembers Clea’s disappearance, he offers to help his son by sharing an alchemical recipe taught to him in Egypt by an Italian mystic. This recipe apparently creates small, magical people – homunculi – in water filled glass jars. These creatures have the power of divination and will be able to answer Michael’s questions about Clea.

What’s going on here then? Initially, I assumed the homunculi recipe was just a symptom of Brian’s declining mental state. But no. I was soon confronted by small people in glass jars.

After watching the whole series I had a think. And there seemed much to think about. There’s the fact that this story about fortune-telling homunculi begins with confusion about the past. What happened to Clea? Brian has memory issues. So the past is as enigmatic as the future, into which the homunculi are supposed to provide a glimpse. The present exists between two mysteries it seems. Michael, with the help of Kacey, a young friend from the DIY store, continues to work on his homunculi, developing them towards the stage of divination when they will be able to answer questions. And questions about the past – what happened to Clea? – are wrapped up with questions about the future – will she ever come back?

Is it a coincidence that Michael’s surname is sleep? When Michael first goes to the care home, his father is asleep, as are most of the other residents. Michael himself is shown sleeping a lot. He has strange dreams where he is on a beach holding a large egg, with seagulls flying around his head. Is there a suggestion that we live in a sort of dream state, between a past we are not sure of, and a future we plan for but cannot ever see? In the dream, the egg and all those birds could suggest the chicken and egg conundrum. Which comes first? Or do they exist in a cycle where past and future are part of each other? It is interesting that Michael’s companion in his effort to create the prophets is Kacey, a young woman. Older and younger are working together. Clea, lost in the past, may live on. There could be a chance that Micheal will find her again one day in the future.

Of one thing we can be sure. If Michael does find what he is looking for, it will not be like locating a bucket in a DIY store, or seeing your road illuminated by those pointless security lights, serving only to wake up neighbours with their annoying on and off routine. True answers are revealed in a way that is more like Clea’s name, with its hidden reference to the word ‘clear’, which at first you might not notice. Interesting mystery remains in the clarity.

This is a lot for BBC 2 on a Monday evening in February. Small Prophets is a fascinating, thought provoking and clearly brilliant piece.

Peter Benchley’s Jaws published in 1974 was a massive bestseller, and the Steven Spielberg film version invented the summer blockbuster. Over fifty years later I thought I’d have a look.

I found a story that was a kind of morality tale with no specific moral – an amorality tale if you will.

The shark is the ultimate bad guy of the piece, arriving off the beach of the American resort town of Amity and causing mayhem. An uneasy team gets together to fight the beast, Amity police chief Martin Brody, oceanographer Matt Hooper, and Quint, a local sports fisherman.

As a character the shark is amoral, Hooper explaining that the animal is simply acting instinctively in attacking people. But ideas of morality swirl around the human reaction. Is it immoral to keep the beaches open so that the tourist town of Amity can survive? Should they be closed to protect people from possible shark attack? And while Hooper the scientist, is rational, he can appear cooly unprincipled in his detachment. Look, for example, at how he behaves when Brody’s wife makes a pass at him. Let’s just say he acts on instinct, and doesn’t trouble himself too much with scruples. And Quint, the shark hunting fisherman – a cynical figure who insists on double pay for shark duty, with no care for bathers eaten if the stretched Amity police department can’t meet his demands – hardly a heroic St George saving the kingdom from a dragon.

And then there’s the final section where Quint, Brody and Hooper are hunting the shark. On each side of him, in the characters of his two companions, Brody seems to face a different kind of amorality – Hooper’s scientific detachment, and Quint’s brutish, animal cruelty. Brody has to somehow cobble together a sense of decency in the middle.

Admittedly I did find the writing in Jaws clunky, particularly in its awkward point of view shifts. And the final battle with the shark loses momentum when our heroes take a night off in the middle of the action – which of course didn’t happen in the film. Even so, this remained an interesting and thoughtful read, especially if you think of it as a modern fairytale, where sharks take the place of dragons.

D’Artagnan is newly arrived in 1625 Paris. He is a young man with dreams of joining the King’s Musketeers, an elite group of soldiers who guard Louis XIII. But as soon as D’Artagnan rolls into town, some hot-headed behaviour leaves him facing a duel with no less than three Musketeers – Aramis, Athos and Porthos. On cooler reflection both D’Artagnan and the Musketeers think a duel might not be a good idea, but a sense of honour pushes them forward. They are saved and brought together, not by someone coming along to talk sense into them, but by a challenge from rivals, the guards of the King’s powerful counsellor, Cardinal Richelieu.

The Cardinal’s guard take much pleasure in pointing out that a duel breaks public disorder laws. So what do the Cardinal’s Guard do to teach these rascally Musketeers the meaning of the law? They fight them, which of course is itself public disorder. The Guards use the law as an excuse for an illegal ruckus. In the fight itself, D’Artagnan takes the side of the same Musketeers he had challenged to a duel. He is not trained in fencing, but because of his inexperience, he proves to be an unpredictable and lethal opponent. If he had known the rules, the suggestion is he would have been less effective.

This fight sums up many of the themes of The Three Musketeers – describing a world where allies and enemies, rule and misrule, the forces of order and chaos, are interchangeable.

And over all this I would suggest hangs the symbolic power of three. Three is a contradictory number, suggestive of the Holy Trinity, the divine plan, which Aramis mentions during one of his retreats for spiritual reflection. And yet three is also the number of trouble. While the Three Musketeers are a tight group of friends, the story is full of three sided relationships which are destructive. Louis XIII, Queen Anne of Austria, and the Duke of Buckingham. Constance Bonacieux, Monsieur Bonacieux, and D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan, Athos and Milady. Porthos, Madame Qouquenard and Monsieur Quoquenard. And Richelieu’s rejected attempt to enter a triangular relationship with Queen Anne leads to his vicious vendetta against her, which drives much of the plot.

In some ways The Three Musketeers reads as low brow, pulpy, adventure fiction. But for all that, there are fascinating contradictions playing out beneath the melodrama. This book is subtle entertainment, suggesting that there is order in chaos. I’m tempted to give The Three Musketeers three stars, which in this case would be the top rating.

Ian McEwan’s 2025 novel, What We Can Know, imagines Britain in 2119, as an archipelago of islands, the result of flooding caused by global warming and wars. You could say this is a post-apocalyptic, dystopian novel, and yet the feeling is rather cosy. The narrator is Tom Metcalfe, an academic at the University of the South Downs. I found it reassuring that after global disaster there could still be literary types pottering about with their research – in this case, Tom’s obsessive study of fictional poet Francis Blundy who apparently wrote great stuff in the earlier twenty first century.

I did find it odd dealing with a fictional poet who was supposed to have written his best work by now, particularly as there are also references to the work of real contemporary writers. This did require some suspension of disbelief. Also the future world had a strange combination of advanced technological features – a national AI service – and a sense of regression – no aircraft and, apparently, no cars. People get about by electric boat or bike. I mean, I liked this scenario, being a keen cyclist, but it did not seem very likely. How do you build a university on the South Downs without some serious road transport?

On the up side, there is much interesting reflection on how people respond to disaster, cycles of growth and collapse, and how the study of history might be different in the future. The proliferation of electronic communication could leave a hugely increased amount of information to draw upon, for example. This last theme might seem rarified and academic, but it certainly takes an emotional presence in the second half of the book, when Tom finds a document which shows how close, or far away, he might have been from the truth in his previous years of research.

Overall, What We Can Know maybe included a few things that made its world a little less than believable, but putting those details aside, it remained a very interesting and compelling read.

Old Filth is a 2004 novel by Jane Gardam shortlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction. It’s about a judge, Edward Feathers, aka Old Filth, famous in the legal world. His great career over, Edward has retired to Dorset. His wife’s death leads to a period of mental and physical wandering. We learn about his life, born in Malaysia, sent home to England as a child, looked after by careless family members and cruel paid guardians. Then boarding school, university and a legal career in Hong Kong and England (‘Filth’ stands for ‘failed in London try Hong Kong).

The book is about old worlds passing away, both in terms of individuals and their wider society. Edward Feathers is one of the last so-called Raj orphans. It was interesting that the book’s elegiac atmosphere doesn’t present a picture of progress, or of regression. This might irritate those who think of British history in terms of glories. And it might annoy those who see history in terms of progress away from the iniquities of the past. I will leave you to your personal feelings on that, but in this book there is an overall sense of things coming out about even, as a kind of steady state. This is both true of the wider historical picture and of Edward himself, who at the end of the book faces up to a ‘crime’ committed in his youth. I won’t go into details, as to do so would give away one of the book’s reveals. Suffice to say that Edward confesses his crime to a priest, his wrong-doing existing in a grey area between premeditated offence, accident, self defence and fated denouement. And in the end, even though he feels guilt, Edward has no regrets.

There is the potential for melancholy, as Edward realises his once fancy life doesn’t add up to anything in the end. On the other hand, even if we don’t really get progress, perhaps the sense of a steady state is reassuring in a situation that seems to be all about endings.

Old Filth is a poignant, sometimes funny depiction of the end of an era, set against a sense that life goes on. I enjoyed it.

Barchester Towers is an 1857 novel by Anthony Trollope. It tells the story of a power struggle among the clergy of fictional Barchester following the death of a popular and long serving bishop.

One of the most engaging things about the book is the friendly, mischievous, sometimes indulgent, sometimes exasperated, voice telling the story. Initially we seem to be in the hands of an omniscient narrator from an age when people readily believed in a higher power directing human affairs. But sometimes this voice comes down to Earth, as we find our author sitting in the pews of Barchester Cathedral along with the other characters in the book.

And, fittingly, this omniscient, yet human, narrator, tells a story about the contradictions of power. We meet a bishop who seems powerful, while actual authority lies with his formidable wife, and a unpleasantly ambitious junior Church official intent on rising through the ranks. Some characters decide not to play the silly game of climbing the greasy pole, only to find themselves unaccountably ascending to senior positions. Others who yearn for power are denied it. And yet I was left wondering what is really achieved or denied, when authority remains such a shifting concept. This was a fascinating exploration, especially in a book from 1857.

I enjoyed Barchester Towers – moving, funny and insightful. Yes, there are occasional long passages of biographical background, which might have been best left in the author’s notes. But this author does not set himself up as perfect, and I could not help forgiving the bits and pieces that maybe could have done with the guiding hand of an editor. Do editors have the real power in the writing world? That might be a good point to end on.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret is a young adult novel by Judy Blume, published in 1970. It has since received many awards, and appears on the Time Magazine list of best novels since 1923. In the United States it has also featured prominently on lists of books that have been ‘challenged’ which is the term that the American Library Association uses when people make a complaint about a book and ask for it to be taken off library shelves.

So, I had a look, and found a charming, funny novel about eleven year old Margaret Simon who worries that she will never get her period, never develop breasts and will be some kind of freak for the rest of her life. She also frequently talks to God, but struggles to work out which religion she should be identifying with.

I suppose the book does cover familiar young-adult ground in exploring themes of belonging and identity, but it does so in a way that really takes things up a notch, notably through the frequent chats with God. Strangely these passages reminded me of the film Gravity, where stranded astronauts talk to “Houston in the blind’, a term used to refer to radio communications, where astronauts cannot hear Houston, but continue to send messages just in case Houston is receiving. In Gravity there is much interesting enigma about these messages. Do they get through to Houston? Are they similar to prayer where no one seems to be listening? Even if no one listens, do the messages sent to Houston offer comfort and reassurance in themselves, even if no reassurance seems to be literally forthcoming? Is the fact that the audience hears these messages significant?

Margaret’s one-sided God chats have a similar enigmatic quality. They are comforting in themselves even though no apparent reply comes back. And although the blessings Margaret asks for fail to be granted, this turns out to be no bad thing. Big breasts for example. Margaret envies a girl in her class who has been granted such a gift, only to discover, after talking to this apparently fortunate girl, that maybe a blessing can also be a curse. Maybe Margaret’s prayers are answered in the lack of any response.

You see? This is a book that gets you thinking in broad terms, about more than just fitting in with your friends at school.

These are the themes that have had people in America queuing up to demand the book be taken out of libraries. America is a strange country, seeing itself as free-thinking, but actually fundamentalist in many ways. A good novel will show and not tell. There is a constituency in America that prefers the illusory certainty of telling and being told. Showing is always going to be more nuanced than telling, tending to pose questions rather than apparently giving answers.

Flesh by David Szalay won the 2025 Booker Prize.

This book is apparently very understated. No fancy narrative tricks. No poetic turns of phrase. The central character, István, is a taciturn Hungarian, who we follow from boyhood to old age through the ups and downs of his life. By any objective assessment there are some real highs and terrible lows. And yet, there’s a uniform coolness that accompanies it all.

What was life like in the Hungarian army during the Gulf War?

“It was okay.”

“Is it nice living in a mansion when things look up?”

“Sure.”

The same tone answering questions about post traumatic stress from a therapist as that used answering questions about a day at the office.

It somehow makes the emotion burbling below the surface more powerful, and also gives relief from emotional extremes. I would say this was a British approach, but it seems the Hungarians are potentially more British than the British, which is maybe why István feels vaguely at home in both countries – not too at home, nothing too extreme, no marching with flags. Ah, for that kind of Britishness, or Hungarianess.

When I read Anthony Powell, I felt his books provided excitement for those who felt life was mundane, while at the same time conferring peaceful reassurance on those going through dramatic times. This book manages the same trick. There is no preaching. Take what you need, leave what you don’t.

I really enjoyed it.

Love Triangle is a book by Matt Parker about the history and maths of triangles – mostly the maths.

Never finding maths easy, I’m one of ‘the masses’ to whom Matt says he wants to bring maths. I became interested in triangles not because of Pythagoras, but through planning a novel about a love triangle.

There is no sense of this kind of painful three-sided relationship in Love Triangle. We are mostly in the world of mathematical abstraction, via hot air balloons scaring pigs, and United States presidents revealing secrets about spy satellites by putting classified imagery on social media. There’s one section about art where things started to get interesting, only for the narrative to head off into an odd digression about UK road signs for a stadium, which show a football with mathematically inaccurate hexagons. The author was so exercised about this that he complained to the government. From my non-mathematical perspective I wondered why stop with hexagons? The picture on the sign is two dimensional, when an actual football is three dimensional. And does the picture match the regulation ball size as defined by the FA? Why not just stick an actual football on the sign for maximum precision? I recall an anecdote about Picasso, where someone was giving the artist a hard time about the surrealist portrayal of women in his paintings, producing a picture of his girlfriend as evidence of how they should appear. “And is she really rather small and flat?” Picasso is supposed to have asked looking at the photo.

This book is interesting. The fact that it was hard to follow was no doubt my fault as I’ve always struggled with numbers. But beyond that, I found it kind of… claustrophobic. That might be the word, even when the subject under discussion can be used to measure stellar distances. I would humbly suggest that although Picasso and I have nothing in common, there were moments of sympathy with him in being told to see reality in very particular terms, when other terms were available. No doubt Love Triangle on occasion brings precision to a lazy popular outlook. At other times it felt like it was leading me on an obsessive wander down a dark, cramped, hexagonal alley.

This journey through the history of ancient art is not straight forward. Very little of the art remains, researchers make mistakes and disagree with each other, and the development of art seems to ebb and flow, appearing, disappearing before returning again. Also I found it a little difficult to orientate myself amongst references to dating, sometimes using numbers of years ago, mostly using names of historical periods – early, middle, late Palaeolithic, Neolithic, Mousterian, Aurignacian, and so on – lots of looking things up there.

But reading on, a feeling did emerge of people first noticing interesting details about their world, curious shapes in rocks, or scratch marks on cave walls, and then working to tweak them. For example, some enterprising early artist noticed a patch of bear scratch marks on a wall, and then inscribed the outline of a mammoth around them, the scratches becoming the mammoth’s shaggy coat.

And in creating stone tools, their makers seemed to look at the stone they were using, and wonder if some modifications could be made in the interests of beauty. They’d make tools out of rock that was attractive but perhaps more difficult to work than plain, ordinary rock. They would either buy in, or travel to find exotic material. Or maybe they’d make a tool from a rock featuring a fossil. So art began to emerge from pre-existing natural forms, and from the practical business of living.

The first widely used paint was derived from an iron rich clay called ochre. When heated, powdered and combined with water, the resulting red pigment, was used to create images, probably as body paint, and as a nutritional supplement, being rich in iron. Or you might think of it as a very early form of ink, and the pictures created with it as an ancient writing.

This quote from researcher Leroi-Gourhan:

‘At its start, figurative art was directly linked to language, and much closer to writing in the broadest sense than to a work of art; it is a symbolic transposition and not a copy of reality.

So not only is this book about early art, it’s also about the earliest stages of the writing you are reading now.

The First Artists is an interesting book, a bit confusing maybe, which is an expression of the complicated story it tells as much as anything else. Overall, however, I gained a feeling of art not as something that people did in their spare time when more basic needs were met, but as an activity firmly rooted in nature and practicality.