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.