Post 282. SO MUCH FOR 2017.

NOT A GOOD YEAR
Home.
On 27 January 2017 (Post 258) I concluded with the words 'may this year be good to you.' Sadly it has been nothing like good for far too many people. Four of our best friends and a number of esteemed acquaintances died from one or another of the terminal cancers that can strike, with scant warning, at any time.
Loved ones have been left brokenhearted: friends helpless to placate them.
Elsewhere in Britain people have lost their nearest and dearest to the wanton acts of those who are a waste of space in any society: worthless nutcases who have driven vehicles at the innocent, shot them, bombed them or cut them down for no good purpose.
I would still hang every twisted little sociopath caught carrying out such an act.
But then, I would have hanged Brady and Hindley.
I'd happily throw arms dealers off a plane into an active minefield, too. We oldies can be impatient.
No. it has not been a good year.
SAME OLD STORY.

 Abroad.
A little fat ego in North Korea deliberately upset a big fat ego in America by recklessly ordering the launching of nuclear missiles into the Pacific Ocean, each of them increasingly close to America.
Not a wise move.
Now the US has stationed three aircraft carriers off the Korean Peninsula and there has been much rattling of nuclear sabres.
WW1 was proudly boasted to be the war to end all wars. What a reliable prophecy that turned out to be. There has been war all over the world ever since.
Watch us hasten to attach ourselves to any forthcoming US led conflict.
Will the buggers never learn?
SO TO END THE YEAR.

Honours.
So far as I can see, neither David Beckham (above) nor I has been knighted this year.
I am disappointed for Becks, but now that I've seen the list of those thus honoured I'm not sorry to still be a mister.
The cat Shadow has had his breakfast and is now comfortably settled on my Canon printer.
A kindly New Year's Greetings email has just arrived. Life's good.

 A Happy 2018 to you and yours, dear reader.



    

 

Post 281. GAWBLIMEY! IT'S CHRISTMAS!

AND ALL THAT HO HO HO STUFF.

Yeah, it's on us again.
I don't know why I bother to pack the decorations away. You no sooner lose the fairy off the tree than it's time to put the little varmint back up there again – if you can find her. Every year I swear I'll give up on it all and every year I finish up chasing my tail and wondering how many friendly noses we shall put out of joint this year because we have somehow overlooked sending them the customary greetings card. It's never deliberate but it gets worse by the year.
My Leader writes most of the cards now anyway. I plead arthritis. She also purchases, packs and sends all the presents. I maintain a studied indifference. She, bless her, cheerfully absorbs the spirit of Christmas right up until it arrives and then on to the end of the year. I sit back querulously reflecting that for a two day event we appear to have stockpiled enough food for a fortnight.
Happy Christmas, though, if you're one of the nice folk who bothers to read this.
Apologies in advance, too, if you're expecting a card from the Barndens but don't get one. 
TELEVISION.
Clearly Christmas is with us.
Most series are coming to an end or, like The Walking Dead, reaching half term and killing off at least one main character in the process.
Everything feels as though it has been given the compulsory light coating of tinsel or simply been raked up from the network's archive of hopefully forgotten dross.

We watched all five episodes of 32 Brinkburn Street (obviously straight from the Beeb's archives), an old fashioned drama set in Manchester and we struggled through the eight episodes of Witnesses: A Frozen Death (BBC Four) which was a load of bilge valiantly acted by French speaking actors. We gained little but didn't lose much from watching either series.
We also saw the final of Strictly Come Dancing and concluded that the whole of Scotland had to vote for Joe McFadden (a worthy but uninspiring finalist) if he was to beat Alexandra Burke or Debbie McGee to the glitterball trophy. Looks like the whole of Scotland (plus a mixed herd of racists and mysogynists?) actually did.
There's no accounting for folk.
And, as Larry Grayson used to say, he seems like a nice boy. 
TO CONCLUDE.
Pictured below is our plastic half tree bought many years ago.

It makes no mess and is easily packed away when it's all over.
We like it and can't be having with the snobs who don't.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, DEAR READER, TO YOU AND YOUR NEAREST AND DEAREST

 

Post 280. LATE FOR PUBLICATION.

AND THE SAD REASON WHY.

Last Tuesday, 28 November, 2017:
I was telephoned by one of my oldest friends, Bill Harrison, who lives in Pitlochry, Scotland, with the news that on the previous Tuesday, the 21st, his dear wife, Kath, had died of pancreatic cancer.
She went quickly, and (God bless the NHS) without pain, in the cottage hospital at Pitlochry. 
I think the last time Bill and Kath were mentioned in this blog was at 2(48) BACK AGAIN (Wednesday August 17, 2016) when, following one of their rare visits to the Island, I described them as 'high on my list of favourite people.'
Can't say much more than that.
It is one of those occasions when I am at a loss to find the right written words.
Kath's funeral was on Thursday last (RIP, lovely girl) and her departure leaves a huge gap in the lives of all those to whom she and Bill have given their unswerving friendship.
Our most sincere commiserations go to Bill, who has not been in the best of health himself of late.
Keep trundling on, old mate.

That's it for the time being.

Post 279. MOSTLY THE REST OF 278.

WHAT'S WITH THE BEARDS?
Have they something to hide?

Gone off razors? Or what? Many years ago the Daily Mirror columnist Cassandra (William Connor - above) castigated the increasing number of up-with-those-times males who were growing beards. What, he wondered, were they trying to hide? Weak chins?
Well they're back now, those beards: every foolish follower of fashion in fiefdom seems to have grown, or be growing, one.
Why?
If you're as ugly as sin clean-shaven a beard is unlikely to improve your looks, and if you are devastatingly handsome without a beard, growing one only makes you look like a sad, ageing dropout.
Perhaps the PC Brigade and the Fighting Feminists should take against face fungus: well, they've taken against just about everything else since the start of this century, so the weak-willed sheep who slavishly follow the herd would surely return to the razor rather than face their combined displeasure.
I'll just be glad when the fad is over. I think young men should stay looking young for as long as they can and older men should know better than to camouflage character (of whatever degree) with a scruffy stubble.
End of lesson.
READING.
Have just read:

The Book of Dust volume one La Belle Sauvage by Philip Pullman. 
Mr. Pullman is back in his parallel world where humans are accompanied by their own daemon.
If, twenty two years ago, you read and enjoyed the three His Dark Materials stories you will enjoy this, the first of another trilogy.
La Belle Sauvage tells baby Lyra's tale before the events in His Dark Materials took place: the hero is Malcolm Polstead, eleven years old, potboy and son of the innkeeper of the Trout inn.  Lyra's survival throughout the first year of her life eventually depends on his (and determined antiheroine Alice's) unswerving devotion.
The following two books will pick up the story after The Amber Spyglass (last of the first trilogy) ended.
Wonderful writing and well worth the wait.
As a follow up I am now reading Skeleton Key, the third of Anthony Horowitz's Alex Rider stories for teenagers.
This is another writer who knows his market very well indeed; according to the web, the Alex Rider yarns will soon be seen on our television screens, too. Apparently they will be made by a former producer of Foyle's War.
Sounds good to me.
TELEVISION.
A marvellous send-up.

Murder on the Blackpool Express. (GOLD) If you have not seen it, Johnny Vegas and Sian Gibson are top of the bill in this marvellous send-up of every star-studded whodunit ever filmed anywhere. I almost got caught out by the last minute red herring.
Loved it and hope writers Jason Cook and Mollie Freedman Berthoud will do many more along similar lines.
It's bound to be repeated around Christmastime, so if you did miss it...

Post 278. WRITER'S BLOCK?

NO, ENNUI.

I have been

less than assiduous in the writing department of late.The intention has been there but the execution has too often wavered.

It could be the onset of winter; it could be the thought of that bloody hour changing again; it could even be just an age thing (it would be daft not to admit, sometimes, that I'm getting on a bit).

Rule out that most pretentious excuse for idleness, writer's block, though. I prefer the word ennui.

And that's enough introspection for now:
let's move on...

PRICES - AND STUFF.

Everything seems to have become disturbingly more expensive of late. Here on the Isle of Wight, England (I name the country for the benefit of any nice American reader who may automatically assume I am sitting at a desk in Virginia) we are not short of large supermarkets. Since Mo and I moved over here in 1968 their presence has increased at a rate far beyond anyone's wildest speculation: much the same goes for their prices.

In view of the limited off-season population of the island (140,500 in 2010) whether they are all making a profit has to be open to question.

I can only assume there is so much money about (on an island packed with pensioners which for years has endured one of the highest unemployment rates in Britain?) and their profit margins are so high, that nothing can sink them.

If all else fails, brass neck will see them through.

Which reminds me of the many nonstop charity organisations already begging for Christmas donations. Let's move on...

ART.

Wrote in Post 277

that I would maybe include friend Anne's painting of feet and the rest at the end of the month.

Here it is and isn't it good?

TELEVISION.

My current viewing is decidedly haphazard.

So The Walking Dead is back (series 8) and in the very first episode Rick (Andrew Lincoln) had Negan (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) in his sights and could have shot him dead.

He should have.

That he didn't is what is wrong with every one of those television series that began life as an American comic book. None of them makes the slightest damned sense.

Oh, I'll still watch.

My Leader's love of quiz shows has me occasionally looking in on Eggheads for all its glaring faults.

The format still needs a change to even out the balance of the questions.

How much more does the opposition need to know about the weakest subject of every indivdual Egg? The director/producer (whoever) of the programme should desist from encouraging (instructing?) presenter Jeremy Vine to openly side with the opposition, too.

(Dermot Murnaghan clearly had the same brief.)

And it's about time dear old Chris Hughes retired from the scene. He now spends more time in the banished box (mostly thanks to sport - which he loves not) than he does on the panel.

He should have gone gracefully when Daphne Fowler did.

And for gawdsake don't ever lose Kevin Ashman.

He is the Eggheads

 

Happy bonfire night to you all. Mind those beards!

 

 

 

 

 

Post 277. IT'S BLACK OUT THERE.

COULD IT BE OPHELIA?
Or is that racist and sexist?

 And do I care? Well, you never know whose corns/bunions/suffering feet you are going to tread on nowadays do you?
My Leader continues to monitor her husband's occasional plunge into the pit of the politically incorrect, but unless she chooses to mention it he is mostly unaware of such transgressions.
No working class Englishman, brought up in the nineteen thirties, should be expected to have a doctorate in diplomacy anyway.
Diplomacy is for politicians and look what a backstabbing, lying, undesirable bunch they can be.
That having been said: I did learn tact in the NHS. Just decline being tactful to an angry dentist (former navy officers were particularly prone to tantrums), a pompous GP (would-be consultants could be the most fearful snobs), a self-pitying pharmacist ("Our profession is bedevilled by bureaucrats and doctors' handwriting!"), an irate optician ("We'll all be back to 'private' soon anyway."), or an always aggrieved member of the public ("Oi pays me stamp."); let alone upset that political pain in the arse member of your governing committee ("The people who voted me in won't like this..."): and see where it gets you.
Out in the street sans pension is where.
Oh yes, I learned to be tactful: albeit with difficulty and a tongue scarred from the biting of it.
But that was long ago.
I finished up with early retirement and my pension so it shouldn't still rankle. In any case, the protagonists from my time are all dead or retired now. Unlikely I will come across any of them again.
What?
Oh, it's not that small an island: and after I've kicked the bucket I doubt I shall encounter any of them playing a harp in some cloud-cuckoo-land in the sky, or stoking up a devilish furnace in the bowels of the earth.
But enough of the light-hearted stuff...
TAKE A SERIOUS LOOK.
At this lovely artistry.

Our friend Anne (see Post 276), the semi-retired GP whose former surgery is now our home, has, at our request, emailed us a selection of her recent art work.
She attends a part time course at an art school in Cornwall and is currently concentrating on the realistic reproduction of hands and feet. Hands here. Feet and the rest at the end of the month maybe.
And there's more.
Not only does she produce this remarkably promising artwork, she is also a highly qualified professional acupuncturist and a constantly active chorister who has sung in cathedrals all over the world. I know. I'm in awe, too.
But I shan't tell her.
She won't read this.
When it comes to the written word though...
READING.
Anthony Horowitz (pictured).

I have just read the first two books in Mr. Horowitz's Alex Rider series: Storm Breaker and Point Blanc.
Alex, a fourteen year old schoolboy, is destined to transform into a teenage James Bond; a role he has no innate desire to play.
The stories are delightful tosh, clearly aimed at the teenage market and I (at 87) have loved every glorious, unbelievable, mad moment of them.
Well, what would you expect from the man who wrote Foyle.s War?
Eight more to read.

Quiet please in the library.
      

Post 276. FIRST, AND DESERVEDLY FOREMOST.

A CHERISHED FRIEND.
Linda Pay.

 One of Mo's nice group of friends, lovely Linda Pay (pictured), died in the Earl Mountbatten Hospice, Isle of Wight, on September 23 at the age of 68.
Linda was a former Head of Occupational Therapy at St. Mary's Hospital, a staunch supporter of Monkey Haven on the island and a truly likeable, highly competent, lady.
She is survived by husband Colin and family.
The funeral will be held at Springwood Woodland Cemetery, Newchurch, IoW tomorrow, Thursday 5 October, and afterwards there will be a gathering at Monkey Haven to celebrate her life.
RIP Linda, a truly worthwhile person.
MY SORT OF VISITOR.
The weekender.
At the end of last week our friend Anne came.
It was good to see her.
Stayed with us over the weekend. Made her annual visit to various friends on the island.
Went back to Cornwall on Monday morning.
That's my sort of visitor.    
TELEVISION.
Two series and a loner.
Our daughter Roz sent me a text: 'Have you seen The Five? It's good. Lee Ingleby is in it.'
Well, ol' Lee has come a long way since the wizards' night bus (and imprisonment in Azkaban), so I hastened to record the complete Sky series.
Mo and I watched it in just a couple of days. It wasn't at all bad (never mind what the critic in The Guardian thought) and Slade, played by Lee Ingleby, was by far the best character in it.
Drunk with the power of multiple recording, I then recorded the Kudos film and television production Tin Star (BSkyB) and we watched that, in its entirety, over two days.
Tim Roth and the entire company acted their socks off.
Sadly it was just a mishmash of bonkers-in-the-head characters and gratuitous violence.
So to the loner: The Child in Time, based on Ian McEwan's novel, starred Benedict Cumberbatch and Kelly Macdonald as parents whose child is stolen. I believe the novel was an award winner.
I doubt this adaptation will be.
THE CONSTANT CAT.
A much sleeping Shadow.

This time we thought he really was a goner. The old guy's suspected dementia became more and more pronounced over the course of a fortnight and eventually, in a paroxysm of fur biting fury, he fell off the cupboard where he was sitting in front of the television to land damply on the wooden floor below.
I did a quick cleaning up job.
My Leader inspected him carefully and concluded: "This boy is infested."
Strangely, knowing him to be a fastidiously clean cat, we found that hard to believe; though it was about time for his 'spot-on' treatment.
We spoke to the vet and arranged to take him in the following morning.
He then had another 'funny turn' in the course of which he did minor but painful damage to one of Mo's hands and arm.
This was not like him at all.
He has always adored her.
When we set off for the vet the next day we were of the opinion that he was probably suffering from 'elderly cat's kidneys' and this might well be the last of such journeys we would ever make with him.
The vet thought otherwise: this year has been particularly bad with regard to flea infestations, we were told, and the 'fits' the poor old boy had suffered were almost certainly a direct result of them.
He was treated with an anti-inflammatory injection and a hefty splodge of Bravecto spot-on solution. A sample of his blood was sent for testing and, much relieved in more ways than one, we were sent home with him.
An hour later we were telephoned with the news that his tests were fine and he had a while yet to continue living the high life.
Currently he is spending much time asleep in the upturned lid of the 'clothes for ironing' basket which, along with our entire living quarters, has been given comprehensive 'bash all bugs' treatment.
It's zero tolerance in this house.
I've not told him how pleased we are that he is still with us.
He'd only get big headed.
LAST AND BY ALL MEANS LEAST.
That diplomatic disaster.
Boris Johnson has been bawling his Brexit bosh - and suchlike twaddle - yet again. What's the betting he will eventually be Prime Minister?

 Are we really that desperate?      

Post 275. AN ERRATIC OLD CAT.

WHO SLEEPS A LOT.
The cat Shadow

has become old, tired and erratic over the past few months. I try not to talk about it in front of him because he obviously doesn't want to hear it when he's awake. Nowadays he is only awake to go out for a leak, to beat the bounds, or to loudly demand a light snack.
So what do I know?
Well I think I know Shadow.
He came to us - of his own volition - in 2001 when he was, we were reliably informed, six or seven years old.
The nice people he came from lived along the terrace from us and he had been landed on them by their nephew or grandson or somesuch (who had gone back to the mainland for good).
They already had a resident cat of their own who objected to the newcomer in no uncertain fashion.
We had not long moved from Ventnor where the last of our clowder had died and was buried. We had no intention of becoming attached to another feline. Not on that main road in Newport, anyway.
I was unequivocal about it: "The only way we'll have a cat here will be if it it walks in and takes us over."
So that was what he did.
He sized us up from the roof of the garage, presumably heard what I said, cogitated, walked down the back pathway when he thought the time was right, crossed the courtyard, came into the kitchen and inveigled himself into our lives.
We found out who his guardians were (Christine and Len) and they came along the terrace to see him.
When they arrived he was dozing on the back of the settee (yeah, even then).
They shook their heads and smiled.
"He belongs here, doesn't he," Chris said. "I think his mind is made up."
They, bless them, were cat people. So are we.
His future with us and ours with him was settled there and then.
When, after some fourteen years, we decided on the move from Newport, I spoke to Chris about him.
"Will you take him with you?" she asked.
"We will if you don't mind," I said.
"I think he'd be unhappy without you," she said. "You're his family."
So here he is. Suffering slightly from dementia, I fear, but otherwise contented.
That nice lady was right.
We are his family, come what may.
READING.
I finished Career of Evil, which turned out to be a unique whodunit packed with the sort of tracking down and questioning of concerned parties that many of my retired police acquaintances would ruefully recognise.
The degree of violence towards women was disturbing - though no doubt realistic - and the 'villain' was an obvious candidate for Broadmoor (or the 'intelligence service' of any leading nation).
As for Strike and Robin's iffy business relationship, I defy those who read it not to enjoy the last few lines of this story.   
TELEVISION.
I am inclined to delete series we have seen and am often prompted to do so by my 'you can get rid of that now' Leader.
Which is all well and fine until it comes to the above heading when my addled old brain says: Hang on...what was that series I taped, we saw, and I've scrapped? And: what was that programme I recorded (thought was rather good, actually) and got rid of as soon as I was reminded we'd seen it? 
I should learn, but I'm afraid I never will.
Suffice to say we saw the last episode of Robert (J.K.) Galbraith's Strike: The Cuckoo's Calling.

Tom Burke (pictured) is good as Strike and the first three part series was well cast and interesting. It didn't stray far from the book, either.
I have seen part 1 of the second series, The Silkworm, and that, too, mirrors the book rather well.
Apparently J.K. Rowling keeps a personal eye on the process.
Good for her.
Despite my negative response to the initial transfer of The Great British Bake Off from the BBC to Channel 4, Mo and I have been captivated by the new series.
Sandi Toksvig and Noel Fielding have proven to be amiable replacements for 'irreplaceable' Mel and Sue, as has Prue Leith in replacing 'the one and only' Mary Berry.
Ah. We'll see.
What we haven't seen yet is the new Strictly.
We can wait.
All that running delightedly to meet the partner who has allegedly been picked out of a hat for you can be extremely tedious for the viewer. That has always been my partner's view and I tend to agree with her.
She never ever came running to meet me.
She'd just get into the car and we'd go for a drink.
What? Oh, neither of us can dance.
Neither of us can run now, either.
And (laboured intro into next subject) neither of us has ever set foot on a canal barge.
Have you seen any of journalist John Sergeant's Barging Round Britain canal adventures?
If you have seen and liked Tim and Pru West barging about on canals you will probably like this.
He hasn't run into them yet - not as far as I know - but with his steering skills and lovely Pru's memory, who knows?
Anyway he comes across, as always, like the nice old guy you'd enjoy meeting by chance for a quiet chat.

Say no more.
   

Post 274. I CAN'T SAY I'M J.K. ROWLING.

WRONG AGE. WRONG SEX. WRONG SHAPE.

And you would know it's not true.
I have been producing this blog for over eleven years and doubt it will attract much more than the regular five or six hundred hits (is that the word?) a month.
I don't expect it to.
It's not as if I'm a convicted felon who has miraculously found God and (surprise surprise) written a book about it, or that I am one of that tiresome tribe of here-today-gone-tonight nonentities hailed as 'a refreshing new voice' by 'experts' in the media, or that I am an unrecognisable reality show person described as 'a celebrity' on television chat/game shows.
It's not as if I can accidentally unveil that I am J.K, Rowling, either.
I'm the wrong age, wrong sex, wrong shape and you would know it's not true.
So, without the support of an agent, or a national newspaper, or regular appearances on television, or a publisher (other than the faceless Silent Bobs on Google) and with only my own name to rely on, I shall probably amble along the same old track ad infinitum, happy in the knowledge that a handful of discerning folk still look in, (internet stalkers - whatever they may be - are fortunately not among them) and that my Leader, together with the faithful few, is constantly supportive.
Good luck with writing two books at once, though, J. K. and respect from someone struggling with the very idea of it.
HOME.
Forwarded emails.
A smile - is a sign of joy.
A hug - is a sign of love.
A laugh - is a sign of happiness
And a friend like me?
Hell...that's just a sign of good taste.
How can anyone resist the sort of message that ends like that?
Glad to report a resurgence in the practice of forwarding allegedly funny emails: they remain few and far between, but are very welcome here.
There has even been the occasional new - or beyond memory - offering.
As a result, old pals like Anonymous John (word reached me that you were a bit off-colour recently, John: know the feeling and hope you are fighting fit again), David, Eamonn, Ian, and brother-in-law Mike, have taken up the torch.
It has mirrored former times and I have enjoyed it. Thanks, buddies.
As for the rest of the social network, I still find Facebook slightly hard going and Twitter wholly avoidable.
My loss, perhaps, but I lose no sleep over it.
The Phoenix Choir (amendment to Post 273).
It has been brought to my attention that mention of the Phoenix Choir making around £29,000 for deserving causes was well short of their collection total to date which, I understand, is now in excess of £38,000.
(Bit of a blip on their website-updating front apparently.)
Ne'er mind:
I was absolutely right with the word Bravo!
TELEVISION.

Maureen usually watches: (and I'll be told off for printing this picture again) about the last two thirds of any series of Strictly Come Dancing. She has always found the early stuff tedious.
She likes Claudia Winkleman and Tess Daly, was bored with Bruce Forsyth long before he left the show and thinks it is about time Anton du Beke got into and won a final.
I don't think Anton's too bothered; surely him not winning is just some twat's idea of 'good tele' again (like Alan Davies always coming last on QI).
As for ol' Bruce, I always thought he made a moderate talent go a very long way.
RIP anyway.
We'll still look in on the next series.

Mo also follows Only Connect with Victoria Coren Mitchell (pictured) and any of the (many since she won Great British Bake Off) programmes featuring Nadiya Hussain. 
She enjoys many reality shows that I don't: I couldn't care less whether or not some spoilt young woman in America says 'yes' to a dress. 
Together we watched Game of Thrones series 7 to its exciting conclusion and it will need no spoiler warning (read any newspaper) if I mention that Littlefinger, superbly played by Aidan Gillen, finally got his comeuppance at the hands of the Stark girls - a lovely twist in the tale! I gather that series 8 (next year or the year after) will be the last ever.
We have seen the first two Strike: The Cuckoo's Calling episodes on BBC1. The last of the three part series will be shown next Sunday at 9pm.
It is cheerfully well cast, gloomily ill-lit and I like it. I don't know whether Mo really does. Married to me she gets more than enough tele detective stuff.
You can't always like the same things.
It wouldn't be human.
But the pair of us do jointly avoid (Celebrity?)Big Brother, (Celebrity?) MasterChef, and The Jeremy Kyle Show.
Well, you have to retain some self-respect don't you.
Don't you?
Ah well.
READING.

I am still only half way through
Career of Evil, the third of Robert Galbraith's Strike detective stories.
That I am taking so long to read it is more down to age (mine) than any failure on the author's part to engage me. 
If I have a fault to find it is with those critics who delight in describing these very British tales as Chandleresque.
Have the buggers actually read any of Raymond Chandler's half a dozen or so Philip Marlowe stories? Or any of Dashiell Hammett's hard-boiled (Sam Spade etc.) detective yarns or even, recently, Robert B. Parker's Jessie Stone stuff?
We don't do them in this country.
Peter Cheyney tried hard with his Lemmy Caution and Slim Callaghan offerings, but I don't think he ever quite made it. 
Keep reading, though, whatever your taste.  

Post 273. DON'T LOOK FOR 272.

IT WAS 271 (b).
Computer simplification. 

Last month I turned out a blog post that was too long to suit Google's length of publications policy, if such a thing exists. Whatever.
Every time I set the post up for publication I was frustrated by the squeezed-up-words syndrome (which I am sure I have bemoaned before so won't bore you with again): upshot was the division of post 271 into two posts a) and b) which finally wangled me through the publishing process.
Google then rightly surmised that 272 blog posts had been published and will persist in reminding me so whenever I visit my Blogger posts list.
It's computer simplification, buddies.
Figures are figures and letters are letters and never the twain shall meet.
So that's why this is Post 273.
No, don't lose your temper; count to ten (a?)  HOME.
Here's a little buddy.

Daughter Roz has this little Buddy and a couple of perky kittens, Spike and Angel, in her world now.
The animals are mischievous and charming and she, along with Jess and Ellis, is delighted with them.
I asked the cat Shadow whether he would like me to find him two or three junior companions. "What?" he said. "More food? Bigger vets bills? Don't be daft. You can't afford me."
Tact has no place in his CV.
Inspired by Wight Art Exhibition.

Our daughter-in-law, Pauline Barnden (click on picture for gallery view), will be one of the artists with work on display at Ventnor Botanic Gardens, August 20 - 28.
Daphne Ellman, Anne Toase, Margaret Plant, Susana Watts and Carolyne Viney are fellow artists with work on show at this popular annual event.
A good afternoon out.
Parking is free and there is no entrance fee.
There's a decent cafe, too.
The Phoenix Choir, Isle of Wight. 

Maureen has been a follower of this highly successful Island choir (formed in April 2009 at Wootton Bridge) for a couple of years or so and, to my loss, up until this month I had declined all invitations to go with her to their concerts.
She went with her pal, Mo.
However, last Saturday evening (12th August) the choir was booked to appear at East Cowes Town Hall, just down the road from us, and (after all the positive publicity from my Leader, including the gift of their sell-out CD) I was persuaded to abandon my reclusive tendency and go with her to see them.
What followed was a typical Isle of Wight night out: you meet nice folk you have not seen for years, are reminded again how small the island is, and reflect how wretchedly short-sighted you are not to get out more often.
The choir, directed by its founder Robin Burnett, did not disappoint.
Their programme, varying from Cohen's Hallelujah to the traditional Men of Harlech, was performed with a confidence that would have brought joy to the heart of Gareth Malone and certainly brightened mine. Sadly their final two numbers had to be cancelled when one of the singers was taken ill and an ambulance was summoned. It looked as though the singer (a lady) would be taken to hospital: the ambulance was still standing by when, with apologies, the audience was asked to leave.
I have since learned that the lady concerned was taken to hospital where, fortunately, nothing untoward was found. When musical director Robin Burnett spoke to her the following day she was much improved. Just heat exhaustion perhaps, but very worrying for her and all around her.
Our good wishes go to the lady, and our thanks for an (only slightly shortened) evening of uplifting music go to the entire choir.
Performing under their banner "From Pavarotti to Presley" these splendid amateur singers have already raised close on £29,000 for deserving causes.
What more can one say?
Bravo!

 

Post 271(a). IF YOU WRITE.

YOU HAVE TO LIKE YOUR OWN COMPANY.

Or at least tolerate it.

It's a lonely game, writing. Not so much, I guess, for those 'celebrities' (most of whom couldn't write their own name without the aid of a - probably lonely - ghost writer) who produce egocentric 'autobiographies' to use as props on television chat shows, nor for the rightly famous and approachable professional writer.

J.K. Rowling, for example, probably has a Dursleybox full of mail every day and needs people around her to deal with it while she writes another couple of books. I imagine she will have company most of the time, even if they're only bringing in the coffee.

Her diary must be packed with appointments, too.

Every Harry Potter reader and film follower in the world would surely like to meet her; this one would, if only to say thank you for hours of happy reading and to ask if she would kindly sign the eight - four Potters, three Strikes and one 'village people' - hardbacks of her work in our library. I would not ask her to sign the four Potter paperbacks (those hardbacks went to someone very special), but I don't think she'd be offended if I did.

She will also, I'm sure, be constantly sought to guest at one or another of the book festivals now appearing annually around the country. (Time was, says the grumpy old man in me, when Hay-On-Wye was quite enough.) All said and done, though, she - and any compatriot who matches her in media popularity - is alone with a keyboard when the work starts.

No matter what your status, if you write you have to like, or at least tolerate, your own company for long periods of time.

Right now I'm off to make my Leader a cup of tea.

What?

Oh sod my own company.   

READING.

The Thief of Time: Terry Pratchett.
I finished this intriguing yarn buoyed and humbled by the sheer artistry of the writer. As you may have gathered, if you regularly look in, I have enjoyed each and every one of the late Sir Terence's Disc World books to come my way.
If you are interested, I recommend the in-depth analysis to be found in Pratchett Job, a blog produced by a truly knowledgeable follower of the master.
Sadly there will be no more Disc World books on loan to me, and it would take far too long to peruse the shelves in a bookshop hoping to find some I may not have read.
Anyway, there's at least one real life Black Books misery in the trade now who would rather shut up shop than let the customer browse.
Isn't that charming?
So I fear Disc World may be over for me.
I shall miss it.
Have just embarked on a Career of Evil by (I almost wrote with) Robert Galbraith. This is the third Cormoran Strike detective yarn under J.K. Rowling's pen name and it opens promisingly.

More to come.