Her novels, including A Village Affair and Other People’s Children, drew on what Fay Weldon called a ‘gift for putting her finger on the problem of the times’

British novelist Joanna Trollope, whose portrayals of British domestic life made her one of the nation’s most widely read authors, has died at the age of 82.

Trollope published more than 30 novels during a writing career that began in 1980. Her early works, written under the pseudonym Caroline Harvey, were historical romances, but from the mid-1980s onward, she turned to contemporary fiction, a shift that would define her reputation.

Her novels, including A Village Affair and Other People’s Children, drew on what Fay Weldon called a ‘gift for putting her finger on the problem of the times’

British novelist Joanna Trollope, whose portrayals of British domestic life made her one of the nation’s most widely read authors, has died at the age of 82.

Trollope published more than 30 novels during a writing career that began in 1980. Her early works, written under the pseudonym Caroline Harvey, were historical romances, but from the mid-1980s onward, she turned to contemporary fiction, a shift that would define her reputation.

Her novels, including A Village Affair and Other People’s Children, drew on what Fay Weldon called a ‘gift for putting her finger on the problem of the times’

British novelist Joanna Trollope, whose portrayals of British domestic life made her one of the nation’s most widely read authors, has died at the age of 82.

Trollope published more than 30 novels during a writing career that began in 1980. Her early works, written under the pseudonym Caroline Harvey, were historical romances, but from the mid-1980s onward, she turned to contemporary fiction, a shift that would define her reputation.

Just as lullabies send babies to sleep, so songs can help those at the other end of life on their way. The leader of a threshold choir reveals what they do – and the personal tragedies that convinced her we need to get better at dealing with death

It’s a brisk November afternoon in the village of South Brent in Devon and, in a daffodil yellow cottage, two women are singing me lullabies. But these aren’t the sort of lullabies that parents sing to their children. They are songs written and sung for terminally ill people, to ease them towards what will hopefully be a peaceful and painless death.

We are at the home of Nickie Aven, singer and leader of a threshold choir. Aven and her friend are giving me a glimpse of what happens when they sing for people receiving end-of-life care. These patients are usually in hospices or in their own homes being supported by relatives, which is why 67-year-old Aven – who is softly spoken and radiates warmth and kindness – has asked me to lie down on the sofa under a rug while they sing. She says I can look at them, or I can close my eyes and allow my mind to drift. In fact, my eyes settle on Lennon, Aven’s large black labrador retriever who squeezes himself between the singers and is as gentle and well-mannered as his owner. The pair sing a cappella and in harmony. Distinct from elegies or laments, the songs are gently meditative, written to provide human connection and foster feelings of love and safety. They are not just for the benefit of the dying but for friends and relatives caring for them or holding vigil. Their singing is simple, intimate and beautiful. It is also utterly calming.

Just as lullabies send babies to sleep, so songs can help those at the other end of life on their way. The leader of a threshold choir reveals what they do – and the personal tragedies that convinced her we need to get better at dealing with death

It’s a brisk November afternoon in the village of South Brent in Devon and, in a daffodil yellow cottage, two women are singing me lullabies. But these aren’t the sort of lullabies that parents sing to their children. They are songs written and sung for terminally ill people, to ease them towards what will hopefully be a peaceful and painless death.

We are at the home of Nickie Aven, singer and leader of a threshold choir. Aven and her friend are giving me a glimpse of what happens when they sing for people receiving end-of-life care. These patients are usually in hospices or in their own homes being supported by relatives, which is why 67-year-old Aven – who is softly spoken and radiates warmth and kindness – has asked me to lie down on the sofa under a rug while they sing. She says I can look at them, or I can close my eyes and allow my mind to drift. In fact, my eyes settle on Lennon, Aven’s large black labrador retriever who squeezes himself between the singers and is as gentle and well-mannered as his owner. The pair sing a cappella and in harmony. Distinct from elegies or laments, the songs are gently meditative, written to provide human connection and foster feelings of love and safety. They are not just for the benefit of the dying but for friends and relatives caring for them or holding vigil. Their singing is simple, intimate and beautiful. It is also utterly calming.

Just as lullabies send babies to sleep, so songs can help those at the other end of life on their way. The leader of a threshold choir reveals what they do – and the personal tragedies that convinced her we need to get better at dealing with death

It’s a brisk November afternoon in the village of South Brent in Devon and, in a daffodil yellow cottage, two women are singing me lullabies. But these aren’t the sort of lullabies that parents sing to their children. They are songs written and sung for terminally ill people, to ease them towards what will hopefully be a peaceful and painless death.

We are at the home of Nickie Aven, singer and leader of a threshold choir. Aven and her friend are giving me a glimpse of what happens when they sing for people receiving end-of-life care. These patients are usually in hospices or in their own homes being supported by relatives, which is why 67-year-old Aven – who is softly spoken and radiates warmth and kindness – has asked me to lie down on the sofa under a rug while they sing. She says I can look at them, or I can close my eyes and allow my mind to drift. In fact, my eyes settle on Lennon, Aven’s large black labrador retriever who squeezes himself between the singers and is as gentle and well-mannered as his owner. The pair sing a cappella and in harmony. Distinct from elegies or laments, the songs are gently meditative, written to provide human connection and foster feelings of love and safety. They are not just for the benefit of the dying but for friends and relatives caring for them or holding vigil. Their singing is simple, intimate and beautiful. It is also utterly calming.

Architect who pioneered the idea of the collective workspace as a socially and economically supportive environment in London in the 1970s

Now a familiar part of modern working life, the collective workspace, whereby small firms share office space and communal facilities, was the brainchild of the architect David Rock, who has died aged 96. He established a pioneering working community at 5 Dryden Street in Covent Garden in 1972, at a time when London’s famous fruit and vegetable market was in decline, and the wider area was resisting ambitions to terraform it into the West End equivalent of the Barbican. Characterful old buildings were available and ripe for conversion and Rock, in his role as an enterprising architect-developer, spotted an opportunity.

At Dryden Street, a collective of more than 30 independent, design-related firms was billeted in a remodelled 19th-century warehouse, with fashionably exposed brick walls and timber roof trusses. Rock recognised that it was often small outfits that exuded the greatest energy, potential and creativity, and that a communal workspace could offer a different kind of socially and economically supportive environment. After Dryden Street came a similar initiative in Chiswick, west London, where a former Sanderson wallpaper factory was converted into the Barley Mow Centre , providing workspaces for craftspeople, designers and architects.

Architect who pioneered the idea of the collective workspace as a socially and economically supportive environment in London in the 1970s

Now a familiar part of modern working life, the collective workspace, whereby small firms share office space and communal facilities, was the brainchild of the architect David Rock, who has died aged 96. He established a pioneering working community at 5 Dryden Street in Covent Garden in 1972, at a time when London’s famous fruit and vegetable market was in decline, and the wider area was resisting ambitions to terraform it into the West End equivalent of the Barbican. Characterful old buildings were available and ripe for conversion and Rock, in his role as an enterprising architect-developer, spotted an opportunity.

At Dryden Street, a collective of more than 30 independent, design-related firms was billeted in a remodelled 19th-century warehouse, with fashionably exposed brick walls and timber roof trusses. Rock recognised that it was often small outfits that exuded the greatest energy, potential and creativity, and that a communal workspace could offer a different kind of socially and economically supportive environment. After Dryden Street came a similar initiative in Chiswick, west London, where a former Sanderson wallpaper factory was converted into the Barley Mow Centre , providing workspaces for craftspeople, designers and architects.

Architect who pioneered the idea of the collective workspace as a socially and economically supportive environment in London in the 1970s

Now a familiar part of modern working life, the collective workspace, whereby small firms share office space and communal facilities, was the brainchild of the architect David Rock, who has died aged 96. He established a pioneering working community at 5 Dryden Street in Covent Garden in 1972, at a time when London’s famous fruit and vegetable market was in decline, and the wider area was resisting ambitions to terraform it into the West End equivalent of the Barbican. Characterful old buildings were available and ripe for conversion and Rock, in his role as an enterprising architect-developer, spotted an opportunity.

At Dryden Street, a collective of more than 30 independent, design-related firms was billeted in a remodelled 19th-century warehouse, with fashionably exposed brick walls and timber roof trusses. Rock recognised that it was often small outfits that exuded the greatest energy, potential and creativity, and that a communal workspace could offer a different kind of socially and economically supportive environment. After Dryden Street came a similar initiative in Chiswick, west London, where a former Sanderson wallpaper factory was converted into the Barley Mow Centre , providing workspaces for craftspeople, designers and architects.