I have been puzzling over a dramatic question from a psychiatrist friend. He had been consulted about a patient who was behaving erratically, obsessed by the notion that his wife was having an affair. A colleague diagnosed “Othello syndrome”, which is apparently the recognised term for pathological erotic jealousy. My friend thinks this won’t do. Othello was not delusional: he was tricked, persuaded by Iago that a hanky was evidence of Desdemona’s infidelity. He wonders if Leontes from The Winter’s Tale, who, on a whim, accuses his wife and best friend of carrying on, might not more accurately lend his name to the condition? Or could I think of another candidate, in Shakespeare or elsewhere, to represent all-consuming but not suicidal jealousy?

I consulted a trio of English graduates: they were stumped – and I am still looking. So far the best suggestion has come from a friend’s 13-year-old son. He thought Adrian Mole would fit the case nicely.

Joke of thanks

The London Review of Books has recently published a small volume of pieces by Penelope Fitzgerald, a terrific reminder of how far-reaching book reviews can be. The novelist’s unblinking brilliance spurred me to look for a small cache of postcards she sent when I was helping to edit her at the LRB (actually, she required no editing): one of them explained she was about to take part in a writing course in Yorkshire – “madness, as it’s only encouraging more writers and there are too many already”.

The cache has temporarily disappeared and the only card I could lay my hands on was a thank-you message written after a party in 1981. She had arrived spectacularly early – the LRB staff were still slicing up strawberries and arranging pots of flowers at the back of the lawn, in imitation of a garden. The novelist sat for half an hour in an easy chair looking out of the window, chatting. Her card (a Maclise painting of The Eve of St Agnes) was characteristic: clearly written but mysterious – tactful? Feline? A joke? “It was a lovely party and obviously getting better and better… ” She had left before anyone else arrived.

Shared square

A small comfort for the Royal Court, from which last week two corporate sponsors withdrew their support following the row about antisemitic stereotyping in Al Smith’s play Rare Earth Mettle. At least Sloane Square itself is for the moment a jollier place. Usually the bleakest of traffic islands, surrounded by cabs and wealth, it will, until 23 December, feature a restaurant and bar run by the theatre, offering cocktails, currywurst – and hot-water bottles.

This is the revival of an old dream. Just over 20 years ago, the architects Haworth Tompkins, commissioned to redesign the theatre, wanted to link the newly placed basement bar to the square via an underground connection next to a former ladies’ lavatory. The Cadogan Estate refused permission.

Covid and the need for outside congregation have caused it to think again and now we can see what we have been denied these two decades. A vivid area rather than a desolate one, with audiences and passersby sharing a space, the theatre part of the flow of life. The Court is working on a new offer in the square for January. I hope it gets it.

Boring a bore

The Archers deserves congratulations on one of its meta-moments, I think scripted by the great Nick Warburton. The son of the recently deceased Bert Fry has turned up, talking animatedly about his obsessions – travel arrangements and stones. He is, Tony Archer complains, “the most boring man” ever. “Boring” is a startling new addition to the Ambridge lexicon. Is Tony, hardly the most vibrant villager, really the best first user?

• Susannah Clapp is the theatre critic of the Observer