Post 457. SOME YEAR, EH?

ANYTHING BUT PREDICTABLE.

IN A NO BRIGHTER BRITAIN.
On Thursday 22nd December an expected guest messaged to say she had Covid and was housebound: her entire Christmas wiped out and, when she recovered, a host of business appointments to be rearranged. It was the second time she had caught the damned thing. Her husband had also gone down with it. At around the same time another of Mo's pals rang to say her husband had contracted it and, though not startlingly ill, seemed unable to shake it off. They are all nice, sensible, people. There's no justice.
Now the talk is that one in every forty five of us could have Covid. The economy is in a heap. Most of the public services are - understandably - going on strike. It's not a brighter Britain. I blame Russia, China, and our government - in that order. Well, why not?
TELEVISION.
Late in his life I saw dear old Compton Mackenzie give a TV interview in which he said age was reducing his literary output; along with that - and he pointed to the television.
I meant to be back at the computer right after Boxing Day but finished up watching that which, sabre rattling films and royal claptrap apart, insidiously urged me not to abandon my armchair. Even the dross lulled me into a comfortable sleep.
Ironically, among the films on offer was the 2016 remake of Whisky Galore (which was to Compton Mackenzie what Cider With Rosie was to Laurie Lee). Well cast film. We enjoyed it.
And that's about it for this year. I'll be off back to my armchair for the New Year fireworks.
ALL THE BEST, DEAR READER, IN

I HOPE IT IS BETTER THAN THIS YEAR FOR YOU