2 (13) Scotland. So now we know.

WATCHING.

Scottish Independence. 

So now we know. 

Scotland, as the entire world will have noted, narrowly rejected independence. It was a satisfying conclusion for just over half the reported 84.5% turnout, a bitter disappointment for the rest and a narrow victory for the Union. I don't think anyone is crowing (yet) and, in true political fashion, the wild promises made by the headless chicken who scurried north from Westminster are already being back-pedalled by the mouthy bantams convinced that Churchill or Thatcher would simply have sent a gunboat up the Clyde and the army into Glasgow. 

In the end it was good ol' Gordon Brown (the jaw-dropping Scot himself) who saved the day for the UK with a spate of rousing deliveries reminiscent of the late Ian Paisley: so persuasive was he, he may possibly have booked himself the most unlikely seat in the House of Lords this century. I'm still glad the Scots are staying, but I'm not looking forward to the aftermath. Stronger local powers in England? Devolution? I do hope not. What crafty, delegating dickhead thought that one up? It sounds like divide and conquer to me. 
The Middle East. 

Haven't we done enough? 

So now it is British bombs on Iraq. Not enough that we went in, toppled the regime of a leader we had helped put in power, made a sorry mess of the aftermath before quietly departing. Not enough that thousands were killed or maimed and there has been religious/tribal war ever since. Now we have become back up team to current American 'assistance' in the country's affairs. Has anybody seriously considered how close this US obsession with draining the entire Middle East of its oil is bringing us to a third world war? Has anybody seriously considered anything at all? We should never have invaded the country in 2003 and our further involvement will only be rubbing salt into a very ugly wound: rushing around arresting turbans all over the UK is no mitigation, either. Will we never stop being bombastic little Britain? Will we never wake up? 
THE EMPIRE HAS GONE!

University time. 

Jessica Daisy Patricia White. 

Our granddaughter, Jess (Director of CSI: Isle of Wight in 2008), departed for Hertfordshire Uni at Hatfield last Saturday. 

Her parents went with her and saw her settled in. I believe she will be studying pharmacy: ask me no more, I spent years paying chemists for their NHS work and know little else about them other than that the majority were very pleasant people with whom to deal. We are delighted that Jess gained a university place (despite Gove's decision to totally fuck up the exam marking system this year) and our love and every good wish go with her. We shall miss her bright presence around here much more than she may think. The absolute best of doom on you, my love. 

THE DETECTIVES. 

Cherchez la femme. 

Rizzoli and Isles is going strong with Angie Harmon as Jane Rizzoli and Sasha Alexander as Maura Isles, Scott and Bailey unflaggingly entertains with Lesley Sharp as Janet Scott and Suranne Jones as Rachel Bailey and the short series Crimes of Passion is good for two more nonplussing films, with Tuva Novotny as Puck Ekstedt attracting corpses like no other honeymooner in Swedish history. For better than good measure, Dana Delaney is back as Megan Hunt in another helping of Body of Proof. Who says nobody writes good dramatic parts for women now? 

AND THE REST. 

Property on tele. 

Grand Designs: Kevin McCloud is still finding incredible people who have incredible designs for living (often at incredible prices). How on earth most of them obtain planning permission from the army of bureaucratic blobs around the country is a mystery that I doubt any of the super lady sleuths named above could solve. I suspect backhanders, but I am a man of suspicious disposition. I have no such suspicions about Location, Location, Location, however. Kirsty Allsopp and Phil Spencer obviously know - and are on knowing terms with - every estate agent in the country. It does help, of course, that they (in keeping with Escape to the Country advisers Alistair Appleton, Jules Hudson, Aled Jones, Denise Nurse et al) are generally on the lookout for properties priced at around three quarters of a million quid; this for people who have just sold their one bedroom flat in London. Writing as a guy who has a dear old three storey terraced house for sale in Newport, Isle of Wight, which has thus far attracted scant interest, I cannot help but wonder whether the average television property punter has the faintest idea what the real world is all about. 

READING. 

A couple of oldies. 

Eric by Terry Pratchett, first published in 1990. A Discworld novel...well...more a novelette really...this little book contains some prize Pratchettisms (e.g. “Midnight dropped off the clock.”) and includes three of my favourite characters: Rincewind, The Librarian and The Luggage; so Sir Tel can be forgiven if it sometimes seemed a trifle wide of the mark. The great man is only human after all. He had to pay the rent, too. 
The Case of the Gilded Fly by Edmund Crispin. A Gervase Fen mystery first published in 1944. Very Oxford donnish. Very much one for the fellows. Very old hat now. 

Blogger gods willing, more next month. 

2 (12) Scotland: we'll soon know.

WATCHING.

Scottish Independence. 

We'll soon know. 

Less than a fortnight to the vote and Alex Salmond's breakaway band, boosted by their leader's crafty ability to convince on television (competitive political bullshitting on the box is another deplorable American import that should have stayed in America), is clearly closer to an historic victory than had ever been envisaged by the smug twits in our fine British Parliament. They, suddenly desperate to save their arses, have now sunk to offering bribes. It's pathetic. I still hope the Scots won't go. Britain needs them and vice versa, but the need is inherently less strong in their case. What they don't need, though, is a government that expects respect. So I hope the moderate majority among them will have no truck with blinkered Scottish nationalism and will opt to put up with the same crap bunch we all have to put up with, at least until the next election. 
For a more reasoned view read Yasmin Alibhai Brown in The Independent.

The joy of house selling. 

Here we go. 

(1) Our house is the only one on this terrace that has a garage and parking, two valuable amenities that are accessed by a road adjoining the terrace. Situated, as we are, close to the town centre, the garage is rara avis, or, as daughter Roz puts it: "As rare as rocking horse shit." After the estate agents had put their board outside, we rang them and suggested they add the words with garage and hardstanding to it. The garage, we said, would sell the house. They said good idea and it would be done next Wednesday; that was the day their boards man puts up the boards. Their man duly came on Thursday and slapped a red worded message on the board. It said: Garage with parking. So that should get them plenty of calls from people looking to buy a garage with parking in the middle of Newport. I only hope they remember to mention the house that goes with it. 

(2) One of the nice young women at the estate agents rang on a Saturday morning to ask if a prospective purchaser could look at the place that afternoon. She (the agent) was alone in the office (she said) so would not be available to show the person around; would we do it? The answer was firmly in the negative. We do not employ agents and then do their job for them. Her response was equable; she would conduct the viewing at a later date. The following Monday she rang again. Could she bring the p.p. around at five o'clock today. We said yes; we would be absent. We shopped from half four until six. The next morning she rang to say that she had waited for the p.p. who had not turned up. It was later established that the lady concerned had forgotten the appointment; perhaps they could do it next week? A friend did warn me there would be times... 

Ashya King and family. 

Books and covers spring to mind. 

Never judge a bookie by his runner, never judge a runner by his religion and never judge anybody or anything on initial media coverage. Last month I was guilty (like many another I'm sure) of believing that Brett and Naghmeh King had probably removed their five year old son from a Southampton hospital because their religious beliefs were opposed to him receiving treatment there. That, apparently, was not the case and I, along with many another, owe them an apology. The couple, as the world now knows, had taken the little lad, who has a brain tumour, to seek proton beam treatment, available abroad, that they thought would be better for him than the standard radiotherapy obtainable under NHS arrangements here. Doctors at the Southampton hospital had disagreed and thought moving the child at that time would endanger his life. What followed seems to have been a textbook example of mutual bloody-mindedness. One can only hope poor little Ashya will obtain maximum benefit from whatever treatment he is finally given and that the vultures of the legal business have not flocked to persuade the Kings that they should enter into costly litigation. Everybody thought they were doing their best by the boy. That will surely remain their prime concern.

THE DETECTIVES. 

Two new arrivals. 

Crimes of Passion (BBC4). 

This is a short Swedish series (try saying that without your teeth in) which has been based on stories written in the late 1940s early 1950s by Maria Lang. There are three main characters: Puck (a smart girl), Eje (her boyfriend, later husband) and Christer (a randy police superintendent). Puck is the leading light, the stories are dated; the net result is easy viewing. Such is not always the case with 
The Suspicions of Mr Whicher (ITV): there was a pilot episode last year: the station is now screening two more. 

Paddy Considine plays Whicher and struggles more patiently than I ever would with English class distinction and lousy lighting. Worth the exasperated sighs and squint-eyed viewing though. 

The Fates willing, back after the referendum.