HOME.
Falling down report.
We are pleased to
report gradual improvement in confidence and mobility following our
recent falling down experiences. My Leader battles on come rain or
shine and my appreciation of the kindness shown by the people who
aided me is still equalled only by my anger at whatever useless
bastard jettisoned an empty carrier bag in such 'don't give a fuck'
fashion.
Mostly the reaction of friends has been concerned and sympathetic. There was one slightly negative email, but that was from an old mate who managed to fall over his own feet on some stairs last December and doesn't now seem inclined to have much sympathy with anyone else. Well...why should he?
Anyway, our particular thanks go to 'Anonymous' John Appleton and Ian Dillow, both of whom sent messages that cheered us up enormously, and to our constantly supportive family. We're lucky people.
Storm report.
It happened last Sunday evening and we have not had a storm like it on the Island for many years: it reached its pitch just as grandson Ellis got to bed. Sunday nights he stays with us no matter what. It is written in stone. But he is, he informed his grandmother, a bit nervous of thunder and lightning.
She allowed him to watch her ipad for a little while, then told him a (small-boy-ribald-humour-laden) story about how thunder and lightning really comes about. Really?
Then she settled him down, still giggling, for the night. I looked in ten minutes later and he was sleeping the deep, deep sleep of a happy lad who knows no fear. Every child should have a gran like that.
That bloody hour again.
As I write this piece, the schools are on half-term (which is OK) and the clocks have been put back an hour (which is not). Well, I suppose the kids being on holiday gives us a week to try and get used to waking up at six o'clock when we're totally geared for seven and being ready for lunch at eleven, an hour and a quarter before the bloke with the silly hats and bow ties invites us to go bargain hunting.
I still hate it, though. It's bright too early and it's dark too early and our little gardens are a haven for migrant leaves – religious ones from the church along the way and educated ones from the school opposite – all the more galling because we don't have any trees. I still think we only alter the time because some bugger in parliament has shares in a car battery firm. Have I said all that before? No matter. Think about it.
REST OF THE WORLD.
Spying.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel has accused the American secret services (a bunch called the NSA – look 'em up if you're interested) of intercepting her mobile phone calls. She has responded by taking the logical course of action, a telephone confrontation with President Barack Obama: Well you would, wouldn't you?
The President strongly denied the accusation: Well he would, wouldn't he?
And now the French have joined in: Well they...
So once again the Alice in Wonderland world of the super spook is left looking downright ridiculous. What do these paranoid pallbearers expect to discover? How many expert codebreakers have been enlisted to unravel Chancellor Merkel's hairdressing appointments, supermarket shopping lists et al and turn them into coded messages to and from a sinister figure hellbent on world domination? Took our minds off the shit state of the economy for a couple of minutes though, didn't it?
Lies and insults.
When I was a youngster the standard antidote to name calling was "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you."
Isn't it about time the Plebgate crowd, together with the ubiquitous army of politically correct malcontents waiting to be racially offended by every look or word, were gently advised to knock it off?
As to: "Who told a lie, the police or the MP?" Other than them, who bloody cares?
The sensitive little souls should be told to get a life.
TELEVISION.
Did you see the proms this year?
If you didn't, they
were good. If you did, weren't they good?
For a start, they included a couple of hugely popular piano concertos: Beethoven's 4th played by wonderful Mitsuki Ochida (back to the Proms after nearly twenty years and accompanied by the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Mariss Jansons) and Rachmaninov's 2nd played by the sightless young pianist and composer Nobuyuki Tsujii, (with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Juanjo Mena).
Beautiful music; wonderful presentation.
For the romantic classics enthusiast there was a good selection including a fine performance of Beethoven's 5th Symphony given by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra conducted by Donald Runnicles and (a truly wonderful experience this year) the Last Night of the Proms where Nigel Kennedy again showed himself to be the finest, funniest, most endearing violinist (and Aston Villa fan) born here in my lifetime and the American mezzo soprano Joyce DiDonato (a glorious voice, a fantastic personality) sang Rule Britannia as though she meant it.The NSA can listen to my telephones any time it likes. I'll listen to her.
Watching the detectives appear and disappear.
After all the hoo-ha over CSI New York outlasting CSI Miami, we now have neither. The New Yorkers, too, have been pensioned off. I never got over the departure of Melina Kanakaredes anyway. Nice bunch of actors, though, and I wish them lots of broken legs in the future.
Now there's only dear ol' D.B. Russell (Ted Danson), with the long-running CSI Crime Scene Investigation crowd, left on the scene and their future has looked uncertain ever since Gil Grissom (William Petersen) left.
NCIS is still soldiering (or should that be sailoring?) on, but trusty Mark Harmon and his magical team mates can only be there until the suits distributing the dollars decide to dispose of them. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Viewing figures will always be less important than advertising revenue to the people holding the purse strings.
Poirot is currently making his last four appearances (discounting endless repeats on some of those channels that could not exist without them). David Suchet has been the only actor ever to transform the two-dimensional little egotist into a real person and in the first of the series he was joined, fittingly, by old friends Hugh Fraser (Hastings), Philip Jackson (Japp) and Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon).
.jpg)
Lastly...and for the only time this year: The Specsavers Crime Thriller Club. This is a six part run-up to the SCTC Awards evening when radiant looking actors and actresses – and some rather uncomfortable looking writers - turn up to feign enthusiasm as the people they didn't expect to get an award are presented with an award by the people they hoped would get an award, but didn't.
Bradley Walsh
adequately hosted all six programmes and the Awards show. No surprise there.
He is, after all, the most realistic Detective Sergeant on our
television screens today. He didn't get an award.
AND TO CONCLUDE.
254 OBA.
This year we were again unable to make it to the 254 Old Boys Association AGM.
It was held in Derby and we originally booked to go. Maureen has, however, had a difficult time since the hip operation and is currently still awaiting information about a scan that took place some weeks ago. [Nobody could ever accuse St. Mary's I.W. of rushing anything. One just has to trust that no news is good news.] So she was not up to the rather lengthy journey and we were compelled to apologise and pull out. In the event, our subsequent falling over sessions would have put paid to any imminent travel plans.
Never rains but it pours, does it. I am just looking outside the window...
Falling down report.
Mostly the reaction of friends has been concerned and sympathetic. There was one slightly negative email, but that was from an old mate who managed to fall over his own feet on some stairs last December and doesn't now seem inclined to have much sympathy with anyone else. Well...why should he?
Anyway, our particular thanks go to 'Anonymous' John Appleton and Ian Dillow, both of whom sent messages that cheered us up enormously, and to our constantly supportive family. We're lucky people.
Storm report.
It happened last Sunday evening and we have not had a storm like it on the Island for many years: it reached its pitch just as grandson Ellis got to bed. Sunday nights he stays with us no matter what. It is written in stone. But he is, he informed his grandmother, a bit nervous of thunder and lightning.
She allowed him to watch her ipad for a little while, then told him a (small-boy-ribald-humour-laden) story about how thunder and lightning really comes about. Really?
Then she settled him down, still giggling, for the night. I looked in ten minutes later and he was sleeping the deep, deep sleep of a happy lad who knows no fear. Every child should have a gran like that.
That bloody hour again.
As I write this piece, the schools are on half-term (which is OK) and the clocks have been put back an hour (which is not). Well, I suppose the kids being on holiday gives us a week to try and get used to waking up at six o'clock when we're totally geared for seven and being ready for lunch at eleven, an hour and a quarter before the bloke with the silly hats and bow ties invites us to go bargain hunting.
I still hate it, though. It's bright too early and it's dark too early and our little gardens are a haven for migrant leaves – religious ones from the church along the way and educated ones from the school opposite – all the more galling because we don't have any trees. I still think we only alter the time because some bugger in parliament has shares in a car battery firm. Have I said all that before? No matter. Think about it.
REST OF THE WORLD.
Spying.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel has accused the American secret services (a bunch called the NSA – look 'em up if you're interested) of intercepting her mobile phone calls. She has responded by taking the logical course of action, a telephone confrontation with President Barack Obama: Well you would, wouldn't you?
The President strongly denied the accusation: Well he would, wouldn't he?
And now the French have joined in: Well they...
So once again the Alice in Wonderland world of the super spook is left looking downright ridiculous. What do these paranoid pallbearers expect to discover? How many expert codebreakers have been enlisted to unravel Chancellor Merkel's hairdressing appointments, supermarket shopping lists et al and turn them into coded messages to and from a sinister figure hellbent on world domination? Took our minds off the shit state of the economy for a couple of minutes though, didn't it?
Lies and insults.
When I was a youngster the standard antidote to name calling was "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you."
Isn't it about time the Plebgate crowd, together with the ubiquitous army of politically correct malcontents waiting to be racially offended by every look or word, were gently advised to knock it off?
As to: "Who told a lie, the police or the MP?" Other than them, who bloody cares?
The sensitive little souls should be told to get a life.
TELEVISION.
Did you see the proms this year?
For a start, they included a couple of hugely popular piano concertos: Beethoven's 4th played by wonderful Mitsuki Ochida (back to the Proms after nearly twenty years and accompanied by the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Mariss Jansons) and Rachmaninov's 2nd played by the sightless young pianist and composer Nobuyuki Tsujii, (with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Juanjo Mena).
Beautiful music; wonderful presentation.
For the romantic classics enthusiast there was a good selection including a fine performance of Beethoven's 5th Symphony given by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra conducted by Donald Runnicles and (a truly wonderful experience this year) the Last Night of the Proms where Nigel Kennedy again showed himself to be the finest, funniest, most endearing violinist (and Aston Villa fan) born here in my lifetime and the American mezzo soprano Joyce DiDonato (a glorious voice, a fantastic personality) sang Rule Britannia as though she meant it.The NSA can listen to my telephones any time it likes. I'll listen to her.
Watching the detectives appear and disappear.
After all the hoo-ha over CSI New York outlasting CSI Miami, we now have neither. The New Yorkers, too, have been pensioned off. I never got over the departure of Melina Kanakaredes anyway. Nice bunch of actors, though, and I wish them lots of broken legs in the future.
Now there's only dear ol' D.B. Russell (Ted Danson), with the long-running CSI Crime Scene Investigation crowd, left on the scene and their future has looked uncertain ever since Gil Grissom (William Petersen) left.
NCIS is still soldiering (or should that be sailoring?) on, but trusty Mark Harmon and his magical team mates can only be there until the suits distributing the dollars decide to dispose of them. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Viewing figures will always be less important than advertising revenue to the people holding the purse strings.
Poirot is currently making his last four appearances (discounting endless repeats on some of those channels that could not exist without them). David Suchet has been the only actor ever to transform the two-dimensional little egotist into a real person and in the first of the series he was joined, fittingly, by old friends Hugh Fraser (Hastings), Philip Jackson (Japp) and Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon).
.jpg)
Over the years the
four of them have done Agatha Christie proud.
The English Ripper
Street is back: the American Person of Interest is back: and the
Sicilian Montalbano is back. All are welcome in our house. We also
thoroughly enjoyed The Young Montalbano, an excellent
in-between-Montalbano-series series. Well you can't have too much of
some good things. Lastly...and for the only time this year: The Specsavers Crime Thriller Club. This is a six part run-up to the SCTC Awards evening when radiant looking actors and actresses – and some rather uncomfortable looking writers - turn up to feign enthusiasm as the people they didn't expect to get an award are presented with an award by the people they hoped would get an award, but didn't.
AND TO CONCLUDE.
254 OBA.
This year we were again unable to make it to the 254 Old Boys Association AGM.
It was held in Derby and we originally booked to go. Maureen has, however, had a difficult time since the hip operation and is currently still awaiting information about a scan that took place some weeks ago. [Nobody could ever accuse St. Mary's I.W. of rushing anything. One just has to trust that no news is good news.] So she was not up to the rather lengthy journey and we were compelled to apologise and pull out. In the event, our subsequent falling over sessions would have put paid to any imminent travel plans.
Never rains but it pours, does it. I am just looking outside the window...
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