2 (15) So you wait, you wait and wait...

GIRL DON'T COME.

It's a matter of height. 

If I still had the Sandie Shaw recording of Chris Andrews' timeless words it would have been getting a considerable airing of late. The girl from the estate agents did not come for quite some time; even as I was bemoaning the fact, however, she arranged a viewing. The prospective purchasers came, declared the ceilings too low, and went.We have a step-grandson who stands six foot four or more and he never seems to have found the ceilings too low. So there y'go. Hagrid height viewers apart, all is quiet on the property front. Oh, the agents have changed the offending Garage and Parking notice: six footers with good eyesight and a clear head will easily be able to decipher the replacement. WATCHING. 

Funeral of Lorna Kill. 

The usual family gathering. If it ain't the (what seems like) annual gathering at Portchester in Hampshire, it's the alternative one on the Isle of Wight. This year it was the Island's turn. I refer, of course, to the gathering of solemn faces at a Crematorium. Last Monday family members and friends of 'our Lorna' met at the I.W. Crem to pay their final respects to her. My introduction to the proceedings would have been more solemn had Maureen and I not reached the crematorium doorway alongside Mo's nephew Kelvin who, taking in the rapidly filling block of pews on either side of the central aisle, inquired quietly:“Bride or groom?” Nothing that came afterward could follow that. The pious pedantry of a Jehovah service certainly couldn't. Ah well, to each their own. 

THE DETECTIVES. 

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. 

Season 14 ended in strangely abrupt fashion with Paul Guilfoyle (Captain Jim Brass) finding a measure of realignment with his drug addicted murderous daughter and, presumably, choosing that moment to retire from the police. How many writers did it take to come up with quite such a tame ending? Mr. Guilfoyle (and Jim Brass) deserved better – much better. 

Scott and Bailey. 

Another series end, but this time a tidy, two-part, feel-good finale to the illustrious career of station boss DCI Gill Murray (Amelia Bullmore, who also wrote the scripts).They'll be back and, with any luck, Ms Bullmore will continue to contribute scripts; her on screen presence will be greatly missed. 

THE BOOK WORLD. 

Current reading: I am a chapter or three into Half Bad by Sally Green, Buried For Pleasure, by Edmund Crispin and Moving Pictures by Terry (“A month went by quickly. It didn't want to hang around.”) Pratchett. More next month. It will go by quickly...

LAST SAY. 

Clockomania. It's that bloody hour again. “Fall back in the fall” be damned. Fortunately the weather here has been good and the kids are on half term this week, but I'm now wide awake at six in the morning and probably will be for a couple of months. Why? There's absolutely no need for it. I'll vote for the first politicians who promise to retain British Summer Time forever. Well, there's always a faint chance the lying sods will keep their word. 

Halloween. It's that 'intimidate the old folks' time again. Doors will be hammered and “trick or treat” demands will be made. My Leader has just gone out to buy a load of sweets for the little gangsters. I blame the Americans, but I blame them for just about everything. The Google Halloween icons are fantastic though, aren't they? 

Mobile phone pics. Thanks to Facebook, since Mo's sister's funeral took place, we have been sent - with the best of intentions I know - several pictures taken on mobile phones by family members. Might have been tempted to print one or two of them but we are all older now and I am, maybe, a bit wiser. The last pic to arrive had me looking a bit like an elderly, overweight Peter Dinklage. It was sent by Kelvin Fay's younger brother, Peter. I'm not sure whether I should thank or throttle him. The jury is out. That's enough for this month. Trick or treat! 

2 (14) More comings and goings.

WATCHING.

Social media friends.

Thoughts on losing them. 

This week the journalist John Walsh's amusing little article in i bewailed the loss of three followers from his list of Twitter buddies. It was not so much that he had lost them, it was more the realization that he would never...ever...know why. Gave me pause for thought, that did. I have thus far avoided Twitter, but (with my Leader's encouragement) now have a Facebook account. I'm not much good at it. In the first place, the craze to spread pictures around passed me by way before computers and ipads came along. I still shudder at the memory of other people's holiday lantern slides. Never sought to inflict my seaside snaps on them. Then there is the one line chitchat. I can't do that. If I could I'd be a stand-up comedian. So I guess someone will defriend me sometime. Bound to happen. May already have done so without my noticing. Fact is, I shan't lose much sleep over it. Most of my Facebookers are relatives – the more distant of whom would pass me in the street without a flicker of recognition – others are virtual friends who seem to collect network buddies like velvet collects dog hairs. I don't have that many close friends. Just a few old ones I cherish. So, nice as it is to have word of the outside world occasionally, I lack the curiosity that would drive me to dip into the lives of others on a regular basis. Good luck to them all, though, even the ones I'd probably loathe (and be loathed by) if we ever met. Keep at it and try not to hurt anybody on the way, eh? 

Another departure. 

And then there were two. 

When I married my Leader I acquired seven sisters-in-law. It came as a bit of a shock. My sole experience of siblings had been two foster brothers. Most of the sisters lived in and around Portsmouth and Gosport. After we moved to the Isle of Wight we saw little of them other than during their short annual visit to a holiday complex here at Puckpool. Five of them have now expired, four in the past few years. At around 3 am on Sunday the fifth October, Maureen's oldest sister, 91 year old Lorna Kill, (a resident of Cowes for her entire married life and more) died here at St. Mary's Hospital, Newport: she had suffered a lengthy, thankfully painless, heart attack and her death was a peaceful one. Back when Mo was very young and needed support, Lorna was one of the sisters who provided it, even though she and her husband were not wealthy and had two children of their own to raise. She possessed a lively temper, but her heart (along with her sense of humour) was in the right place. My Leader once posited to her: “As a girl you were Plymouth Brethren, then you became C of E; now you're a Jehovah's Witness. Are you hedging your bets, Lorn?” I believe her suitably choice response was delivered with a smile. Though we seldom met, I liked her. Whichever heaven you have found, RIP Lorna Kill.  

THE DETECTIVES. 

Television. 

Chasing Shadows. 

This little series starred Reece Shearsmith, Alex Kingston, Don Warrington and an impressive supporting cast. It had a quirky premise and, given the chance, D.S. Sean Stone (seemingly an Autism or Asperger's sufferer), who runs investigative circles around his bemused colleagues, could be on our screens even longer than it took Gary McKinnon to avoid extradition to America. Preposterous but watchable. 

Lewis. Series 8.

Kevin Whately and Laurence Fox are still Lewis and Hathaway. In one of those bizarre twists only feasible within a television police force, Hathaway (after forty days and forty nights – or perhaps it was a year - in the wilderness) has been promoted to DI and is busy rejecting sergeants and struggling with a dicey murder case. To 'boost his confidence,' Chief Superintendent Innocent (Rebecca Front), obviously a very poor psychologist, recalls the retired Lewis to back him up. The first story went quite well and Hathaway did not murder Innocent or Lewis. Give it time.

FILM. 

What we did on our holiday.

Maxie, who comes every six weeks to cut our hair and keep us up to date with what's happening in the world, recommended this little film to us. She and her youngsters, Ruby and Raff, thought it was great. My Leader and I duly went to see it yesterday. It was our first trip to the local cinema together since the last Harry Potter film. I don't much like the cinema. The refreshments are too expensive, the adverts are too loud, the trailers go on too long, the seats are less comfortable than my armchair at home and, in the long run, it costs a damn sight less to wait and buy the video. That having been aired, we enjoyed the film. It is, of course, 'Outnumbered' with beautiful Scottish scenery. Written and directed by Andy Hamilton and Guy Jenkin, the cute kids still have their own say, the grownups still struggle to keep up and ol' Bill Connolly, who clearly has no qualms about acting with children, gives a fine performance as their terminally ill granddad. If you liked Outnumbered, you'll love it.

LAST SAY.

 The cat Shadow, ensconced on my printer, his current favourite work spot, said of a sudden: “I've been reading the blog.” 

“Oh aye,” I said. “What do you think?” 

“Well you seem a bit down,” he said. “I've told you before, things won't change just because you don't like 'em.” I grunted a halfhearted warning, but he knows how to pull the strings. “Take this social media thingy,” he said. “It is something you can either do or you can't. Seems to me most young people can, but they've been brought up with it. Nobody but you is going to care if you're not that good at it. It will still be going long after you've kicked the bucket.” 

I nodded. “Right. Anything else?” 

“Yes. You've always moaned about sound in the cinema. Last time you went you said the bloody adverts were designed either for the totally deaf or to make you totally deaf. You said the noise wasn't that loud in the bloody gun club.” 

“That was a long time ago,” I reflected. “Haven't touched a gun for years.” 

He was not to be sidetracked.“Well, those adverts in the cinema, like the adverts on television, are not going to get any quieter because you don't like 'em.” 

“And they'll still be there long after...” I murmured.

“Precisely,” he purred. “Same goes for reality television in all its forms: the cooking, the quiz and chat shows, bullshitting business people, property stuff, antiques, auctions and celebs going on jollies. It's cheap-to-make tele and you're the only one I know who truly detests it.” 

“Oh dear,” I said. “Shall I buy a dog and stop watching the box altogether?” 

He grinned his best cat grin. “N-a-ah. Anything's better than long walks in the rain with a poop bag in your hand, ain't it?” 

“We must talk again sometime,” I said faintly.