Post 380. SECOND APPOINTMENT CANCELLED.

SO NO SECOND JAB YET, 

DON'T CALL US, WE'LL CALL YOU. I had the letter two days before I was due to attend for the second of my Covid-19 vaccinations. Don't bother coming on the date originally set, it advised me, and concluded in the way I understand most unsuccessful stage auditions have since time began: Don't call us, we'll call you when it's convenient for you to be given your second appointment. Unlike Dame Joan Bakewell,  I shall not be threatening the Health Secretary with legal action. I can't afford lawyers. Anyway, both our daughters are in the teaching profession and our granddaughter is a pharmacist at the only hospital left here since successive governments and their civil service minions set about buggering up the NHS. From the outset all three of them should have preceded me in the queue for a jab. Their lives are still ahead of them. I will be far happier when I know they have been protected than I would be in knowing that Pfizer's recommended twenty one days between doses had been strictly adhered to in my case. All in all it's the usual government cockup. C'est la vie. 

MUSIC.

 I have never taken much to awards. That could be down to the fact that I have never been caught winning one: I am not a willing - or even slightly interested - competitor. It is also something of a certainty that I will never choose the person who is going on to win any competition I am watching, or to which I am listening - ever. I blame the judges. I hear now that a rapper has, not for the first time, been given a music award and, even in a world where nobody over seventy dare venture an opinion in any but a PC way without incurring the wrath of Fractious on Facebook or Tantalised on Twitter, I have to admit that, (like most modern classical music which to me is discord for the tone deaf), rapping comes over as an indecipherable monotone delivered on one unmusical note. These youngsters don't know what lyrics are. We had the real thing in my day. Lyrics like Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey: A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you? and  When you come to the end of a lollipop: Plop goes your heart! It was the stuff of romance. They don't write gems like it anymore. I wonder why? 

As Dave Allen used to say: "May your God go with you."