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.
"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.
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.
That's all for now.
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