In 1945, an artist in bad health began writing a daily letter to his young son . . .
‘Even though they lived together, for nearly two and a half years Phillipson would scribble a near-daily letter from his office while on his teabreak, his nimble pen conjuring up what he had seen – windy trees, the puffed cheeks and scowl of a bassoonist – or things his fancy had invented: “Would it not be very exciting to ride to school on an ostrich? We should have to let it sleep in the garage.” He even gave each letter a hand-drawn stamp to make his son feel like a grown-up getting real post . . . There is a poignant urgency underpinning Phillipson’s letters, his care to underline tricky spellings, his striving to imagine the world through his tiny son’s eyes.’ Iona McLaren, Telegraph