NOT IN THE CORNER.
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Yep. A sad fact of life: television still reigns supreme in this house. The screen (it long ago ceased to be 'the box' didn't it?) stands slap bang in front of Mo and I and is watched, or at least switched on, for most of every day. God knows why. Much of it is garbage. But some of the repeated stuff can still be worth another look: so we watch it, further praise the good, and re-lambast the bad.
Good or bad does of course depend on your perspective, and my likes or dislikes may not be yours or those of a more kindly majority. When I look back, many of the television programmes I castigated from their very conception have since appeared in series after series, each attracting an adoring audience, and are still going strong. Ah well. To each his own.
Mo and I are currently attempting to intersperse the reality dross with Netflix. Mostly it works.
Mo and I are currently attempting to intersperse the reality dross with Netflix. Mostly it works.
We saw Clint Easrwood's film Cry Macho and it was slow but charming. The actor/director is four months older than me and looks it: but he can still ride a horse and deliver a quick punch. I pass.
We saw Ewan McGregor in The Ghost Writer and both enjoyed it even if, halfway through, I did realize it was second time around for me. Yes...age again... you remember when it's too late.
For our sins we also watched James Weber Brown in Mark Greenstreet's Silent Hours. The film is set in Portsmouth, so we felt a compulsion to stay the course: we are, after all, Portmuthians who met and were married there. Mo eventually gave the film a kindly word on account of twists in the plot. I concluded, in a less kindly vein, that it took two and a half hours off my life and that was two and a half hours too long. Anyway, Pompey is not much of a lure to me. Never was.
To conclude, everybody seems to be complaining that it is too hot, so it was with some relief that I found my annual diabetes check-up being managed by a nurse of thirty years standing who said: "They're all moaning about the heat now. In a week or two's time, when it changes, they'll all be moaning about the rain. I tell 'em to enjoy this like it is. It won't last that long. And the grass will grow again: it always does."
For our sins we also watched James Weber Brown in Mark Greenstreet's Silent Hours. The film is set in Portsmouth, so we felt a compulsion to stay the course: we are, after all, Portmuthians who met and were married there. Mo eventually gave the film a kindly word on account of twists in the plot. I concluded, in a less kindly vein, that it took two and a half hours off my life and that was two and a half hours too long. Anyway, Pompey is not much of a lure to me. Never was.
To conclude, everybody seems to be complaining that it is too hot, so it was with some relief that I found my annual diabetes check-up being managed by a nurse of thirty years standing who said: "They're all moaning about the heat now. In a week or two's time, when it changes, they'll all be moaning about the rain. I tell 'em to enjoy this like it is. It won't last that long. And the grass will grow again: it always does."
God bless common sense. And I'm not in bad nick for an oldie.
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