Post 318. THE REST OF THE WORLD.

MUCH OF IT DESPERATE.
Refugees.

Don't tell me this country of ours really cares who drowns in The Channel. I don't think your average little Englander gives a toss how many desperate beings sink trying to get here, providing they sink without trace and don't wash up on our beaches.
Truth is, we live in an increasingly ruthless and uncaring world where devil take the hindmost has become the sad norm. It has given rise to an international upsurge in blinkered nationalism and, to those of us born before world war 2, ominously presages what could be the first world war of the twenty first century.
For the sake of humanity, all of you, wake up and bear in mind: it only takes one bonkers-in-the-head politician to press a button or elevated nutcase to say the wrong word!
HOME.
Our Roz. Last chemo undergone with all the unpleasant after effects that follow. She's a gradely fighter. So far as future living arrangements are concerned, her en suite here is now underway thanks to...
Stuart the builder partner of our lovely hairdresser friend Maxine Boyd-kerr (we've been pals for over twenty years) who, although he knew Mo and I only through our lengthy friendship with Maxie, kindly stepped in to allay our fears that we would never be suitably adapted to accommodate Roz and Ellis when their removal time arrives.
We will now. He's doing a great job.
Blessyer, mate.
TELEVISION.
The Walking Dead

(SPOILER) This series reached the halfway mark and took another step in the direction of let's kill off all the limeys with the weird murder of British actor Tom Payne (above) who played Paul 'Jesus' Rovia.
He was, I fear, too good looking to last.
Long-time cast member Andrew Lincoln, another Brit, was spirited away a couple of weeks ago along with Pollyanna McIntosh, a Scottish actress who played the unpredictable 'trash queen,' but room has been left for the return of either or both of them.
The departure of these Brits can be no surprise to any viewer of The Talking Dead fronted by lively Chris Hardwick.
On a couple of occasions over the years he has griped (albeit in mock fun) “Why do we employ all these Brits? Our actors can't go over there and get jobs on Downton Abbey.”
Had I been close enough to give him a reply I would have said: “No, your actors just take over our West End theatres and finish up buying the bloody Downton Abbeys.”
C'est la vie.

Mind how you go.