
Anthony Arnold obituary
My father, Anthony Arnold, who has died unexpectedly aged 67, was a historical instrument maker, a Quaker and an advocate for equality. He dedicated his life to finely crafting baroque and Renaissance instruments, with his earlier years focused on recorders and the later ones on flutes.
He set up his own business to produce instruments by hand and, a perfectionist, would spend days working on each one until it was faultless. He also took a keen interest in restoration of musical instruments from woodwind to harpsichords, violins and viols.
Born in Belfast, to Elsie (nee Dawrant), a teacher and research assistant, and Denis Arnold, a music lecturer at Queen's University Belfast, Anthony was encouraged to follow his passions by his father, who later became Heather professor of music at Oxford University. The family moved from city to city for Denis's career, with spells in Venice, Hull and Nottingham.
While at Mundella grammar school in Nottingham, Anthony developed an interest in making wind instruments;. This led to him studying instrument repair at Newark Technical College, from 1975 to 1977.
Anthony became a Quaker in his 20s; he once lived in the flat attached to the Nottingham Quaker meeting house and administered the running of the building. He would attend anti-war demonstrations with handmade placards inscribed with statements such as Vivaldi Not Violence and Brahms Not Bombs.
He met Wendy Hancock, a professional flautist, in the mid-1970s, and they bought a house in a village on the outskirts of Nottingham, which allowed her to teach from home while he produced instruments in the adjoining workshop. They married in 2015.
Anthony was a devoted husband who took care of Wendy, who died in 2016, during a long period of coping with cancer. His project after her death was to recreate the glass flutes owned by Henry VIII that had fascinated Wendy.
Examining frescoes in the Veneto, Italy, alongside other works, Anthony continued to research the use of glass flutes during the Renaissance. He worked alongside a glass-blower in Murano to discover the techniques used at the time and the sound profile of these instruments, a project that continued up to his death.
Anthony is survived by his children, Helen and me, and his brother, Christopher.
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Telegraph
4 hours ago
- Telegraph
We fell in love over cocktails, and wine. Could our relationship survive when I went sober?
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We'd cook, we'd buy nice wine, we'd host and attend boozy dinner parties. We'd make noises about taking a week off drinking, then we'd meet in the pub after a particularly tricky day at work, drink more than we meant to, and buy chips on the way home. We'd attempt dry January or Sober October, with varying levels of success. We'd have a drink when we went to the cinema, or the theatre. We became engaged in the summer of 2014, and we married in the Autumn of 2015 – I reckon I was drunk on champagne for the best part of 18 months. However, as my 30s progressed, I started to question my relationship with alcohol. I was struggling to manage my anxiety, and drinking exacerbated it. My hangovers got worse – I'd wake up feeling afraid – it was as though my bones knew something dreadful was going to happen, even though my brain could find no evidence to back this up. I became hypervigilant about work, worrying obsessively about making a mistake and failing, checking my emails constantly and obsessively. My alcohol-related anxiety shrank my ambition. I turned down exciting assignments, because I convinced myself that I wouldn't be able to do a good job. I never did anything dreadful – my worst drunken stunt was usually ordering a large Dominos pizza and then trying to beat it home. The binge eating was another issue: I was gaining weight and always trying a new diet. I'd drink on an empty stomach, then eat the contents of the kitchen cupboards for dinner. Dale was patient and kind, but baffled. He'd always been better than I was at knowing his limits and calling it a night. Yet, the more unhappy and anxious I became, the more I drank. Sometimes I'd go out without him and come home hopelessly drunk. We'd argue in the morning , because he'd been worried about my safety. I'd feel terrible about what I'd put him through and promise myself that I'd never do it again. Until the next time. For years, I wrestled with alcohol and my mental health, in secret. I thought that if I could get my anxiety under control, I'd be able to drink happily, in moderation, like everyone else. I still loved drinking with Dale. We moved to the Kent coast – we'd walk off our hangovers beside the sea, and he'd tell me everything was going to be OK. But mentally, I was going to some shockingly dark places. I was scared to tell Dale just how low I felt, because I was scared to express my thoughts out loud. I started reading memoirs about sobriety and addiction. At first, I was trying to reassure myself that I was fine and I didn't have a real problem. Maybe I was going through a phase, but I was startled to discover how much I had in common with the people I was reading about. The books made me feel less alone and less ashamed, but I couldn't ignore the facts that were in front of me. I couldn't drink like other people – not even my husband. We'd fallen in love under the spell of a magic potion. Now it was poisoning me. Every day, I went back and forth. I couldn't quit. I had to quit. I just needed a month off. We were going on holiday, then to a festival, then to a fortieth birthday party... As soon as the calendar was calmer, I'd take a break. The holiday was our first post-Covid trip – starting in Copenhagen, then on to Malmö and Stockholm. I'd been looking forward to it for a long time. On our first night we went out for gin cocktails, before dinner with a wine flight. And on our second day, I started crying, and I couldn't stop. I cried all the way to Malmö. I was in the dark and I couldn't get out. I realised I had to try sobriety, because nothing else was working. For Dale, a lot of this seemed to come out of nowhere. It was hard for both of us. He was sympathetic, but frustrated. He knew people who had problems with addiction, and I didn't fit the profile. For him, the trip marked the end of a big work project – he wanted to celebrate and have fun. 'At the time, I thought 'Can't she just wait until we're back from our holiday?'' he told me, later. But he knew that I was desperate and frightened. Together, we took it one day at a time – some occasions were more challenging than others. At first, I struggled when I was socialising, and we'd bicker about when we could go home – if I had my way, we'd leave 20 minutes after arriving. We tried to go to bars together, and I turned into a whiny fun sponge, complaining that everywhere was too loud, too crowded and too hot. I suspect that we came quite close to divorce when I was about three months in sobriety, and I'd wake up every morning and give Dale a TED talk on how well I'd slept. We missed our favourite drinking rituals, but we found new ones. When I finished a novel, Dale bought me a bottle of Wild Idol non-alcoholic champagne to celebrate. Instead of seeking out new cocktail bars, we went on missions to discover the best gelato. And I started to realise that without booze, I was, on balance, a better partner. I still had dark days, but they didn't become dark weeks or months. I had more energy and enthusiasm for trying new things, from exhibitions to cinema trips. We went out for dinner less, but we went out for breakfast more. I often thought it was a shame that neither of us could drive – poor Dale missed out on the biggest potential benefit of a newly sober spouse, a late-night chauffeur. I asked Shahroo Izadi, a psychologist, addiction specialist and behavioural change expert, about the challenges that a couple in our situation might face and how you can both support each other when one of you goes sober. 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'It's been much easier than I thought it would be. Drinking together was always fun, and I never thought you had a problem, so I was a bit shocked and sad when you stopped. Maybe the hardest part was not knowing how much you were struggling in silence. But three years on, you seem calmer and happier and our life and our routine hasn't changed that much. We still go out and have fun together. I drink a bit less, and I feel better for it. For me, the biggest benefit is probably that I don't worry as much when you're out late without me.' Quitting drinking was hard. Having a supportive partner made it much easier. I don't know that I'd still be sober if I was with someone who pressured me to come to the pub, for 'just the one'. I know that this has been challenging for both of us, in different ways. I worried that without booze, I wouldn't be any fun. But before I quit, I wasn't fun at all. Just anxious and unhappy. Now I'm calmer, more confident and more energetic – and hopefully, nicer to be married to. Sometimes sobriety seems bittersweet. I miss getting tipsy with Dale, and I'm sad that there aren't any more shared Old Fashioneds in our future. But we can still toast each other if I'm holding a mocktail. And there's always gelato.


Telegraph
4 hours ago
- Telegraph
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BBC News
5 hours ago
- BBC News
Skipton cellist visits Arctic to record sounds of climate change
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