Post 323. REGRET THE DELAY.

HOME. 

Been busy.

It has been change, change, and change again. 

Roz and Ellis, with dog Buddy, cat Angel and cat Spike (pictured), moved in and seem to be settling down. 

Roz began a three week course of radiotherapy treatment last week. She goes daily to Southampton General Hospital. Up at 5.30 a.m. to walk the dog, then on to the Red-Jet Ferry in time to catch the mini bus to the hospital. It can be a long and tiring day for her. 

My Leader has been taking Ellis to school, a couple of miles along the road to Newport from here: it's a three quarters of an hour or more drive if you catch the peak time traffic into town, a little less than half that if you travel off-peak, and (come what may) a ten minutes cruise back home. 

Thank the gods I no longer drive. 

My language, even as a passenger, can be choice. 

With the extended family in mind came the first of three changes in as many days to the furniture layout of our living rooms. Weariness apart, we finished up with almost the same format as we had before it started, but Roz does have her own downstairs living room now. 

Eh? Oh, we have a bit more clutter. What's new? 

We also have an interesting animal hierarchy. 

The cat Shadow (approximate age 23/4) is too old to give a cuss about aliens in his home and, other than occasionally bullying the dog, ignores both cats if he can. Present state of play: 
Buddy is a buddy to his two family cats and avoids Shadow where possible, the male cat Angel (I'll explain sometime) spends his daylight hours in Ellis's bedroom, and the pretty little female, Spike, flirts shamelessly with any human and swears fearfully at Shadow. I, of course, adore her. He gives her his 'do stop it, kid, I ran an entire terrace for twelve years' look, but she gets bolder and he gets older by the day. 

Time will tell. 

TELEVISION. 

Endings, repeats and flounderers. 

First: the endings. 

The latest series of Shetland, starring Douglas Henshall, concluded here last week and The Missing spin-off, Baptiste, starring Tchéky Karyo (above), ended last night. 

Both had plots relating to people trafficking (currently much in vogue with tv playwrights), both were splendidly acted, and both warned that not all policemen can be trusted. 

Well, there's good and bad in every walk of life. 

It was easy viewing. 

Second: the repeats. 

Look anywhere. The BBC is awash with reruns of every conceivable type of time filler, ITV struggles to fill its plethora of outlets with a small percentage of new material and Sky is overcast with easily forgotten stuff we saw forty years ago and are now sought payment to view. 

Are we mad? 

Finally: the flounderers. 

NCIS is running out of half-believable story lines - they only ever were half-believable - and is currently wallowing in sentiment (America's sickly alternative to violence). The Walking Dead and comic strip counterparts are equally prone to 'he might be psychopathic but he loves his mum' moments. 

I still wouldn't miss Mark Harmon and Co, though. Love 'em.

Meanwhile, Channels Four and Five compete to present celebrity faces that have you asking 'who?' and most chat shows are inhabited by guests who have a book to sell or a show to plug.

Come to think of it, when weren't they? 

THAT'S ME FOR NOW. 

The Badgers of Deep Wood. 

My book for children aged nine to ninety nine is finished at last. 

Rewritten and extended by another twelve chapters.

All I need now is to print it off (not simple with my oldish Canon printer) and persuade our artist son to undertake additions to the excellent pictures he did way back when. 

Then I'll try to find a reputable agent. 

I'm too bloody old to spend a million years on slush piles. 

Wish me luck, pals.