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?