In [J. M. W.] Turner's distinctive work, colour is scarcely acknowledged unless under influences of sunshine. The sunshine is his treasure; his lividest gloom contains it; his greyest twilight regrets it, and remembers.

He had a turn of foot that could see him outsprint many a staying horse over the 2400 metres, but that was his limit.

It is a sunny morning in Amman and the three uniformed judges in Jordan’s state security court are briskly working their way through a pile of slim grey folders on the bench before them. Each details the charges against 25 or so defendants accused of supporting the fighters of the Islamic State (Isis), now rampaging across Syria and Iraq under their sinister black banners and sending nervous jitters across the Arab world.

It was … followed by feelings of immense guilt and self-flagellation. What did I do wrong? What did I forget?