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.