Post 254. BEWARE A CONTEMPLATIVE CAT.

FURTHER RECONSIDERATION.
The cat Shadow yawned.

"I've been thinking about it and it lacks subtlety," he said.
"What does?" I enquired with all the naivety of one who really should know better.
"Your new faeces thingy title," he said. "It ain't subtle, it ain't particularly clever and it ain't appropriate to most of what you write."
"And you, of course, have thought up something better," I sniffed.
"As a matter of fact I have," he replied. "Something much better."
I was nettled: "All right, clever dick, spit it out."
"You should call it Watching From The Cat's Eyes," he said, and eyed me expectantly.
"Oh, come on," I grumbled. "You want me to put your eyes in the title now?"
He grinned: "No, not mine y'daftie, the ones in the road; the cat's eyes old Percy Shaw patented."
I blinked; wondered how he came to know the name of an eccentric Yorkshireman whose brilliant invention must have saved millions of lives; concluded I need not ask; said: "O.K. I'm interested. What's your reasoning?"
"Well cat's eyes sees all the passing traffic, don't they?" he said and, before I could reply, hurried on: "But they sees it in a special way: they don't just take in the facade, they sees the muck underneath. I reckon you mostly sees things that way, too."
What a cunning old cat. If you want to convince a man, flatter him.
"Hmm. You could be right," I found myself saying, "but the title really has only just been changed, hasn't it..."
"Never mind that," he interrupted impatiently. "If you're not happy with it, change it again."
"I think this is more a case of you not being happy with it," I said. "I'm only concerned that the nice people who usually look in might get fed up with all this mucking about and give up altogether, or just not be able to find it."
"The word Watching will find it," he said airily. "And don't underestimate the nice people: they might wonder what the hell you're up to, but they'll not be too bothered by the trivia of changing titles. They've had to put up with that bloody pair in the American Presidential campaign for weeks. Anything's an improvement on that."
"You've convinced me," I said. "In November I'll change the title to Watching From The Cat's Eyes."
"Good for you," he said.
On his head be it.
TELEVISION.
I watched:
The last ever Great British Bake Off on the BBC. Doubt I'll ever watch Bake Off again. 
The Walking Dead: season seven, first episode, was almost as vicious as the American Presidential campaign. I may never watch Walkers again, either.
What?
Oh, none of us will be able to avoid watching that bloody pair in America.
What are they thinking about over there?
In the meantime, over here next month I'll be

       WATCHING FROM THE CAT'S EYES

 
 

Post 253. WHEN THE WHAT HITS THE FAN?

SO MUCH FOR CHANGE.

The cat Shadow gave me a disparaging look. (How does he do that?)
"When the faeces hits the fan?" he snorted. "Don't you mean when the shit hits the fan?"
"Well, that may be the common quotation," I said starchily, "but in order to avoid upsetting your delicate cat sensibilities I thought a little light alliteration appropriate."
"Bollocks," he said.
So much for delicate.
So much for change.
TELEVISION.
Sleuths, Spies and Sorcerers: Andrew Marr's Paperback Heroes. (BBC Four)
Based on the first of the series, Mr. Marr's lectures about how detective fiction works are going to be cheerfully predictable. If you are someone of my age and background you may be disappointed that the likes of Margery Allingham (who wrote about the enigmatic Albert Campion) and Ngaio Marsh (with her highly unlikely Inspector Roderick Alleyn and his patronizing artist wife, Agatha Troy) were not considered.
All four of the Queens of Crime (the above pair together with Dame Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers) were purveyors of genteel British snobbery neatly wrapped up as classic whodunit.
My dad and I always preferred detective yarns with a bit more action: writers like John G. Brandon, John Creasey, Leslie Charteris, Raymond Chandler, David Hume and even dear old Berkely Gray aka Victor Gunn (usually chosen by me from the tuppence-a-book lending library), comprised most of our reading list throughout the early nineteen forties.
We were English working class males. The genteel really was not us.    
READING.

Have read two more of M.C. Beaton's Agatha Raisin stories: The Wizard of Evesham and The Witch of Wyckhadden and am halfway through The Fairies of Fryfam. Easy reading while the Windows 8 underwent further modification following the sudden departure of my entire email records including Saved.
Aren't computers a bloody nuisance sometimes?
Ne'er mind, I would probably have overlooked these pleasant little Beaton murder mysteries if Steve, the local computer guru, hadn't taken off for a week with the offending machine. C'est la vie.
HOME.
A birthday treat.
For my 86th birthday last month the family treated me to a neat little 5-in-1 Steepletone music centre. It replaced the piece of equipment I most missed after we moved here last year, my old Aiwa, which was a sad victim of the removal.

 Thank you, my dears, this new little gem works wonderfully and is much appreciated.
That's all for now.