121. From red noses to a man's cough

TELEVISION.

QI. This programme provided a red letter day for Alan Davies who actually managed to win.
I put it down to the company he was keeping.
Faced with clever Emma Thompson, clever David Mitchell and clever John Sessions, he abandoned his customary habit of jumping in with the obvious - invariably incorrect - answer and simply left it to whichever of them felt lucky.
When they did, they weren't, he was: clever Alan.

Comic Relief: Funny for Money. In The Independent last week Janet Street-Porter saw red over red noses.
Under the heading I'll be relieved when this charade ends she wrote that she was not impressed with entertainers who "bravely take a few days out of their busy schedule to visit Africa and be photographed with grateful orphans" and declared that "the whole ego trip of such exercises is thoroughly nauseating."
My concern was less with the motives of the entertainers than with the accuracy of the title. With the exception of the French, Saunders, Lumley Mama Mia and the climax of Corden's pep talk I thought 'funny for money' was stretching it a bit.
Occasionally funny...slightly funny...downright unfunny...or even relying on your charitable goodwill to accept as funny...would have been more accurate descriptions.
Truth to tell, much of the show is self-indulgent twaddle.
If you think I'm an old curmudgeon, you're leaning on an open door.
I also have qualms about the obsequious claptrap presented at Royal Command shows: generally finish up thinking this shouldn't befall a bloody politician, let alone H.M. Queen Elizabeth II (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Small wonder she turns out less and less nowadays.
I wouldn't bother at all.

Lark Rise to Candleford. Series two finished last Sunday. Twelve episodes and farewell to ruraltania until next year.
I shall miss it, but there comes a time when the mar-ing and par-ing has to stop. Anyway, I'm pleased that Dorcas Lane, played by Julia Sawalha (my one weakness) has acquired a little man. Suits her. Shall worry slightly about the abandoned hotel, though. Won't it get terribly damp and musty while James Dowland is away seeking another fortune?
He's such a twirp. I knew he shouldn't have given everything to that female former partner.

The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency. The first of a new six part series and I enjoyed it.
My Leader was uncertain and gave it a miss; she has not said why, but one senses that she, in common with the respected television critic Tom Sutcliffe, is concerned that its naivety may be a trifle condescending and doubts it will stand the test of time. I just sat back and allowed the believable Jill Scott and Anika Noni Rose, as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, to free me for an hour from the customary African output.
It's not that I don't care, it is that I feel there is more to the country than prey being killed by beasts of prey and humans being killed by disease, neglect and political corruption. The lady detectives are no more fanciful than Crabbe's Pie in the Sky and Africa is clearly a fascinating place, so I shall accept No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency in the same lighthearted spirit that it is offered.
Life's too short...

READING.

Kathy Reichs. I have started on death du jour and get the feeling one needs to be a forensic anthropologist to properly appreciate it.
Ne'er mind, I'll keep reading. After all, I never miss a CSI.

HOME.

Moving on.Two of my Leader's sisters, widows in their eighties, have recently had to move from their houses. One has gone into a care home and the other to sheltered accommodation. The upheaval experienced by the elderly when this happens is equalled only by the strain visited upon those charged with making the change as easy as possible for them. There is invariably a mountain of surplus-to-requirements belongings to be sorted and disposed of (much of it of nostalgic value and mysteriously required at a later date) and there is often property to be sold and legal things like Power of Attorney to be considered involving solicitors and estate agents and pretty much everyone else with a licence to print money.
Then finally, when all is done and dusted and the bills have been paid, the recriminations start to come from those who now feel they have been unnecessarily deprived of their independence and have consequently become denizens of God's waiting room.
As the youngest of six (originally eight) sisters, my Leader's help is usually sought whenever there is a family crisis. This is both flattering and very tiring. This week she has been involved with moving her oldest sister who lives on the Island. Next week she will be on the mainland, helping deal with the aftermath of the other sister's move. I don't think there will be much negative output from either of them. Well, not in Maureen's direction there won't. She may be the youngest but she is the one who most resembles their late mother.
Funny the effect that can have.

Anonymous John. News from friend Sheila (via my Leader) that our old friend Anonymous John is labouring with the dreaded man's cough. (I know that one, it's much worse than the discreet hack into a handkerchief cough suffered by secretary girls with shorthand notebooks on their knees.)
It's no joke to you, John, so keep warm, take such medicine as you are allowed, and get back to fighting fit very soon.

120. Billy,Feds,Julie,Tom,Alan,Sigourney & Catgut.

TELEVISION.

Billy Connolly: Journey to the Edge of the World. (ITV1)

We have thoroughly enjoyed Billy Connolly's journey from the Atlantic to the Pacific via the Northwest Passage. Wonderful scenery, fascinating people along the way and a lively, sympathetic commentary from ol' Bill.

You either like him or you don't. We do.

Those who don't should shelve their prejudice: this is too good to miss.

US Cop Shows.

The more I see of Dexter, and many another US cop show, the more convinced I become that we should not, under any circumstances, introduce the equivalent of the FBI into this country.

It alarms me slightly that we are now producing a British television version of Law and Order. I do hope it is not the thin end of the wedge.

Thames Valley tossers and public school wallies in wigs are bad enough, but at least they are our tossers and wallies.

BOOKS.

Julie Walters.

I finished That's Another Story, the autobiography with a faint feeling of déjà vu.

Fine actress, many acclaimed performances in the theatre: Mrs. Overall of Acorn Antiques on television and that marvellous old waitress serving - and corpsing - Celia Imrie and Duncan Preston in Victoria Woods' Two Soups sketch: Rita in the film Educating Rita, dance teacher to Billy Elliot, Molly Weasley in the Harry Potter films: awards galore.

But the more successful the acting becomes the less time there is for anything else. This, along with a desire to maintain a private life, must be a common problem for popular actors seeking to avoid unwelcome attention and prying eyes.

Trouble is, the desire for privacy, no matter how understandable, does not make for a gripping read and at times I had the feeling, just as I did when reading Angela Lansbury's biography, that I might as well be reading the Wiki entry.

Never mind, she says she enjoyed writing it so who am I to carp?

What? Criticise Mrs. Weasley? Never!

FILMS.

Mission Impossible Three.

I like Tom Cruise but I didn't much like this film.

Well, even an all action thriller has to be a bit sensible: Ethan Hunt (Tom) would have killed off Philip Seymour Hoffman's Owen Davian as soon as it became obvious that nothing was to be gained from him but personal threats.

Everybody (not least ol' Tom) would then have been spared the tedium of Ethan sprinting everywhere like a leftover character from Chariots of Fire.

Snow Cake.

Starring Alan Rickman and Sigourney Weaver, this gentle film, shown on BBC2 earlier this year, was described in my copy of The best TV and radio listings you can get! as a tragicomedy.

An unpromising story line dealt with the death of a bright, quirky girl, reluctantly given a lift by Alex (Alan Rickman), who is killed when his stationary car is hit by a lorry. The guilt he feels for his guiltless involvement in the matter is lost on her mother (Sigourney Weaver), a fully functioning autistic woman who sees no point in pointless apology.

For me, the two leading players were enough to sell it and from the outset it was clear that they were were made for their roles.

If you missed it make a note to watch it next time around. Lovely acting from all concerned and a unique take on a small town in Canada.

MUSIC.

At Home.

The cat Shadow is settled in his chair behind me at the other end of the little computer room which my Leader still declines to think of as the study because, at five foot wide by ten foot long, it falls short of study status.

Nigel Kennedy is playing Bruch's Violin Concerto No.1 (a tape on the ancient aiwa) with the English Chamber Orchestra conducted by Jeffrey Tate.

We are at peace with the world.

I don't know what it is with cats and violins, but our first ever cat would come running from anywhere to join me in listening to the Tchaikovsky.

Shadow is the same.

Try telling them that catgut comes from the intestines of goat, sheep, horse, pig or suchlike creature, but never from a cat.

When they believe they're listening to the innards of an ancestor?

Do come on.