Post 517. MADE IT!

 TO 94

NOT SURE HOW.

It was a good day, Many nice people participated and I thank them for it. There were congratulation and cards, and gifts. Libby Lawless, undoubtedly the best cake and pastry maker here or a very long way from here, gifted me a lovely mixed fruit birthday cake (my choice).Needed only one thing to make it a truly memorable 94th birthday: it was upstaged by
MAGGIE SMITH

Who had died early that day 

AND WHO BETTER TO UPSTAGE YOU?

AND THAT'S IT.

 

Post 516. BEEN AND GONE.

 THE PROMS.

LAST NIGHT.
We watched the last night of the Proms part one (BBC2) and two (BBC1) slightly perplexed that eight weeks had gone by and we seemed to have missed most pf it. Oh well. The run back programmes didn't convince me we'd missed much. I'm too old for musical re-education.
But the last night was good. American mezzo-soprano Angel Blue proved to be the right choice in every respect, and her appearances with English concert pianist Sir Stephen Hough were high spots in an eclectic programme. The Promenaders expect a show-stopping encore nowadays and, in Stephen Hough's own arrangement of the Sherman Brothers Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, they got exactly what they had been waiting for. Wonderful. 
There was the usual cheerful, harmless, rendition of inane lyrics to superb Elgar tunes, a nice little speech from BBC Symphony Orchestra  conductor Sakari Oramo and it was time for Katie Derham to close it all down for another year. Been and gone.
HEALTH.
I'm still getting very tired. It's to be expected. Had one (thankfully brief) moment of haematuria (Consutant Mr. Akhtar warned me I would) but currently as close to normal as I can hope to be.  Mo still struggles daily and seldom complains. That's age, my dears, that's age. 

FILM.
We watched a rather good modernish western. Two old guys of the sheriff ilk. Can't remember the title. They both got through it anyway.  It was never a big name production but we enjoyed it.

MO's AT THE IRONING AS USUAL. 

I'M FINISHED HERE FOR NOW.
CHEERS ALL

Post 515. AN UNUSUAL WEEK

FOR US 

SOME NEW FRIENDS. 
Becky, an experienced nurse, and Connor, a soon-to-be GP, visited us last week, They came from Mountbatten Hospice. Newport, to acquaint us with the myriad activities and treatments currently underway at the hospice, and to induct me into the Mountbatten Coordination Centre to which I had been referred (by whom I am still not sure). They were friendly and lively and a breath of fresh air, and such time as I have left in this world already feels the better for their visit.
I seldom leave the house now, so to what extent Mo and I will be able to take up their invitation to visit the obviously highly active  on-site John Cheverton Centre, let alone the cafe, is unsure.

But we'll see. 
TELEVISION.
We watched films this weekend. Best of the bunch was Big Game (2014) starring Samuel L. Jackson as the President of the USA and Onni Tommila as a Finnish boy who saves him from those who should be protecting him. The film was made in Finland and the director was Jalmari Helander  Very watchable.

HOME.
Our grandson has been away, so the house felt empty. 

He got back whilst I was writing this
All is well.

I'm off for a doze.
Cheerio.

Post 514. OOPS AGAIN!

ERRATIC POSTAL DELIVERY

APPOINTMENT MISSED.
There was nothing in our post box for about a week. Then there was a bundle of four letters. One of them inviting me to a diabetic eye screening examination on the day before my four letters arrived. I phoned. They understood. I have a new appointment. What a palaver. Everything is on line or by letter now. The NHS is fast becoming the THS (Telephonic Health Service). Each branch of it increasingly relies on confirming appointments by letter. And the British Post Office is fast becoming reliable only for its unreliability. When we moved to this village in 1968 our house had a name. No number. Didn't need one, Postman had been doing the job since before the war. Yesterday our grandson, tracking a parcel being delivered by Royal Mail, finished up with a picture on his phone showing him the parcel had been delivered to some place he has never set eyes on in his life. Clearly technology cannot compete with experience, And we long ago lost our village post office. Sad innit? All small stuff in an increasingly insane world.
THE NATIONALISTIC NUTCASES..
Here they come, out of the woodwork, the nationalistic nutcases. Give 'em an excuse, any excuse, and they will bring their ignorant violence into play. Their latest excuse is the murderous attack on an innocent group of dancing children. The attack had nothing whatsoever to do with illegal immigration, but try telling the nationalistic nutcases that. It was rock throwing at policemen time, and looting, car burning, destroying property, time. It was anarchy. Now the law is hitting them. Quick trials: long prison sentences. Serves the buggers right. We don't need them.
TELEVISION.
Apart from the mostly bad news, the always ignorable adverts, and the constantly repeated repeats, there have been a couple of decent watches of late.
Wicked Ltttle Letters, a 2023 film directed by Thea Sharrock, written by Jonny Sweet. starring Jessie Buckley, Olivia Coleman, and Timothy Spall. Splendid cast. Appalling language..Mesmerising film.A Kanneh-Mason Playlist at the Proms. Sheku (cello), Braimah (violin), and guitarist Plinio Fernandes, with the superb Fantasia orchestra conducted by Tom Fetherstonhaugh. Exquisite. Totally musical. Not a wrong note anywhere. I loved every second of it. And they even played Dvorak's Song To The Moon: (came close to equalling Renee Fleming's definitive recording, too), So far as the rest of the Proms are concerned, they have a tough act to follow.

That's me for now.
Be safe.

Post 513, A SCENE OR A TUNE

 STAYS WITH YOU.

OFTEN LITTLE ELSE
The actor James Stewart once said no film is ever remembered in its entirety, it is remembered for one particular scene, and without that scene it would never be remembered at all.
He was a smart fella. I have always remembered My Darling Clementine (1946) for the scene where Henry Fonda dragged an unconscious  troublemaker out of a saloon by his heels, and I have never forgotten Richard Widmark, complete with maniacal laughter, hurtling an old lady in a wheelchair down a flight of  stairs in the 1947 film Kiss of Death. For that matter, James Stewart's little horse walking down a dark street on its own in The Far Country is a classic.
I believe the rule applies to music, too.
If my memory serves me aright, years ago there was a musical boffin in America who was called into court to settle highly expensive lawsuits brought by musical tunesmiths of the day agin each other for plagiarism. The boffin would quickly prove that the tune in dispute could not have been plagiarised, it was not modern: it came from the likes of Bach, Purcell, Liszt, Mozart etc.
Over the years entire scores have been produced in such a way
Saint Saens Symphony No.3 - the Organ Symphony - contained the tune that became the theme for that delightful film Babe. The highly mannered film Brief Encounter may have quietly disappeared had it not been for Serge Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto, and television's Onedin Line would surely have been forgotten were it not for The Adagio from Spartacus.
Technically i am devoid of musical nous. Can't read a note. Fortunately there was always music in our house when I was a boy. Both my parents played an instrument - father piano, mother violin - and both were members of respected choirs in the city. So I have a good musical ear. Easily sift the tuneful from the discordant. Heartily dislike the discordant. Am too old to change my mind.

So far as the scene or tune that stays with you applies, I would have cheerfully dismissed both the Brahms and the Shostakovich second piano concertos had the Brahms not been blessed with the magical cello/piano duet and the Shostakovich with that glorious Andante. Peter Donohoe performs the latter beautifully, and would be invited to play it at my personal Last Night of the Proms this year. What? No, of course it won't happen. I'm not an expert: It would be good, though, wouldn't it? Tatyana Nikolaeva was an enormous success playing it on the 1992 Last Night. About time it was aired in that way again. Let's hear it for Peter Donahoe

That's all for now..

        

 .

Post 512. SUMMER IS HERE.

IT ARRIVED YESTERDAY.

WE WENT TO THE DENTIST.
Mo drove us to Ventnor for the yearly dental check-up. I was OK I think Mo has a bit of tinkering to take care of  and will be visiting again at the end of the month. It was a pleasure to meet up with Tim Fradgley. and his lovely crew again. As experiences go it far outweighed sitting on a beach in the sunshine: I was sunburned in Cyprus over seventy years ago. Now I admire summer from a sensible distance.

TELEVISION.
The High Country. We binge-watched this Australian series. Yeah. OK. Interesting.
FOOTBALL.
England lost to Spain, so the bookies were right. When aren't they?

TENNIS.
Mo watched the Wimbledon finals and said they were good.. I had a sleep.
THE PROMS.

They're back! The 2024 BBC Proms started on Friday, 19th July, with a largely female slant, Clive Imrie, Sandi Toksvig, and Nicola Benedetti were the presenters. The BBC Symphony Orchestra was conducted by Elim Chan. The programme ended with Beethoven's 5th Symphony,. Worth staying with, if only for that. I usually avoid gimmick nights, and modern so-called music is anathema to me: but the orchestra  was in fine form and Ms Chan is a splendid conductor. A promising start.

Come Last Night let's have no nonsense over Land of Hope and Glory.
The lyrics are rubbish, but it doesn't kill anyone.  
.

 

Post 511. POWER TENDS TO CORRUPT.

 ABSOLUTE POWER CORRUPTS ABSOLUTELY.

LORD ACTON, 1887.
Yes, it was on April 5th, 1887 that those wise words were written to  Archbishop of the Church of England, Bishop Creighton, by John Dalberg-Acton, Lord Acton was a historian, politician, writer, and thoroughly worthwhile human being. He was also an English Catholic, which did not always make life easy for him. His words are particularly apposite now.
THE TORIES ARE OUT.
As predicted, it was a Labour landslide and the Tories were swept away. If you are a devout socialist, don't crow. No matter how high its majority, the new government has been left with an impossible repair job. Take a logical look at it. Health, schools, social services, local government, water, gas, electricity, transport: a shambles, the lot of it. No government could put it right in five years. For that matter, I doubt any government will ever put it right.
Perhaps Sir Keir Starmer and his crew have a chance to introduce a smidgin of parliamentary change beyond the customary playground squabbling. But I doubt that, too.

Test 'em: don't trust 'em. 
FOOTBALL
So England is through to the final of the UEFA European Football Championships, Euro 2024. 

Hurray for them. Spain is the other finalist and the bookies favourite to win. Hmm. .

TENNIS.
Great coverage on television if you are a tennis fan: a load of balls if you're not. 

New balls, please.
TELEVISION.
We watched 1883 on Prime Video. It was an ominous western miniseries starring Sam Elliott, Isabel May, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill with a superb team of fellow actors. Wonderful viewing.

HEALTH.

There was talk of another 5 radiotherapy sessions for me at Queen Alexandra Hospital, Portsmouth. A nice volunteer driver called Paul took me, and a fellow patient, Robert, to the hospital yesterday. I was born and bred in Pompey. Don't know the place now. Talked seriously to the hospital team's spokesperson about my current situation. Heard the possible side-effects of  more radiotherapy. Not for me. I have two life threatening illnesses and, if I last that long, will be 94 in September. The majority of my contemporaries have long departed this world. I'll push on. 
Thanks for the offer, though, Q.A.

Good luck to you and all who sail with you. 

Poat 510. I.W.. FESTIVAL 2024.

ATTRACTED 50/60,000 FANS.

GREEN DAY TOPPED THE BILL.
A long weekend of cheerful bedlam (don't talk to the people who live nearby and weren't making money out of it), and then it was over for another year.  Experienced and talented rock band Green Day, formed in 1987 by lead singer Billy Joe Armstrong and bassist/singer Mike Dirnt, brought the proceedings to a highly successful conclusion.
Our grandson, Ellis (bass guitar), had a short spell in the Platform One tent. Mo and I have a video of it sent to us by his father, Mark. So far as the main show went, we sat in our armchairs and watched selections on Sky Arts. We're too bloody old for huge crowds. I always have been.
Rumour has it the organizers have renewed their booking of the site for the next ten years.
Well, the festival doesn't last long, and the fans (despite the shit they leave behind) are a breath of fresh air. Pity so many businesses are no longer around to benefit from their visit.
FOOTBALL.
Aided by her husband's unceasing invective, Mo has become an expert on how not to score goals. Goals are not scored by immaculately passing the ball from one side of the middle line to the other side of the middle line and back again. Goals are not scored by playing 'from me to you' for endless minutes in your own half of the field. And in England's case currently: goals are not scored. Nothing is helped by those silly camera decisions either. It's all a load of rubbish, ain't it. Very expensive rubbish. I watched about twenty minutes of one England game then looked for:
A FILM.

I found a great old western, The Far Country (1954), starring James Stewart, Ruth Roman, Walter Brennan, Corinne Calvet, and John McIntire. It was directed by Anthony Mann and is best remembered for the scene where James Stewart's horse ("That little horse liked me. He nearly killed Glen Ford: ran right into a tree") with a bell on its saddle pommel, walked alone down a long dark street to fool the villains into showing their fire power. Great scene. Great old western.
We got back in time for the end of the football. Nil - Nil. So to:
READING.

I held out when I should have known better. I avoided Richard Osman on the grounds that he is a media man, and I seldom like media men. If you can walk into a television studio the day your book is published and sell several thousand copies of it before you depart, you're on to a pretty good thing are you not? So I let prejudice rule my head and, despite disappointment with two Times best selling suggestions from Amazon, ignored granddaughter Jess's sound words on The Thursday Murder Club: "It's a good book."

It is a good book. Very good. 

So good that we have now invested in the other three of Mr Osman's Thursday Murder Club quartet: The Man Who Died Twice, The Bullet That Missed, and The Last Devil To Die.

Ah-h-h. They'll be so much better than football on television.

Enjoy what you like.

Post 509. STILL WRITING.

WHY? (Stock shot of old bloke at keyboard)

BECAUSE I CAN...
Those select souls who look in are worth every moment of the increasingly concentrated effort required by me to complete a seemingly simple scribbling. I tire quickly now, and would not be surprised if they did too. But, bless 'em, they stick with it. I strictly edit it, because this is the twenty first century and some critical clown will be determined to diss me at the hint of an un pc word. Fortunately the people who discreetly run it all do believe in discretion. Good ol' Google.
Mo is meeting friends Sue and Heather at Sue's house this afternoon. Gives me writing time. 

AND IT SAVES ME FROM TV.

Which, to my surprise, has of late given us some weirdly wonderful viewing combinations. A few nights ago we saw  a repeat of the film Darkest Hour, directed by Joe Wright, with award winning actor Gary Oldman as Winston Churchill. (a watchable evocation of fictionalized facts), and on the same evening saw the finale of The Piano wherein all the finalists bettered their railway station performances, tears bucketed, Claudia, Lang Lang and Mika looked possessively emotional, and I wondered .(as I do when television people are involved) whether the finalists were really there for their pianistic skills, or for their "great tele innit?" appeal. I fear the latter in all but the youngest performer (Lang Lang insisted on his inclusion) 10 year old Sum: a future star if ever there was one.

But they were all great entertainment and I wish each of them well.
CURRENT EMAIL ADDRESS.

My current email address,  in case I haven't already told you, is dennis.barnden@gmail.com.
 Always pleased to hear from friendly folk. 

The unfriendly will be ignored, told to hop it or, if they are of musical bent, to Carl Orff.  

Cheers, one and all.

 

Post 508. SORRY, DYLAN.

 I'M HOPING TO GO GENTLE

INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
I'm sick to death of raging
At this world's sorry plight.
Mr. Thomas was a wordsmith who drank a lot. Had we ever met I doubt we would have liked each other. But he was a one-off, and I admired that. He would probably only have conversed with me if he thought I was good for a drink. I admired John Betjeman's gently humorous verse, too, though always thought there had to be something awry with the lifelong lover of a teddy bear: he would never have glanced in my direction anyway: he liked men with titles and girls with double-barrelled names. It's a funny old world. Have I said that before? (Imagine the shrug.)
I have just been through a series of tests at our sole remaining hospital, hence the thoughts on kicking the bucket. Dr' Osman, my oncologist, rang last Friday to say the cancer still looks to be in one place - not spread - and he will speak to me again in a fortnight when he has discussed my future treatment with his colleagues. I wish him well with that.
Death comes to us all. Physically losing touch with Mo, the family, and our few remaining friends will be my only regret at going; the big sleep doesn't bother me. I have no belief in an afterlife. Look how crowded it would be. Billions of spirits jostling for the ether. Ugh!
I have no fear of ending up in some overcrowded land of perfection or perdition, either. Gods and devils are fictional characters. I might get a surprise, but I doubt it. 

And nothing could ever surprise me more than the gullibility of the human race.
UK NATIONAL ELECTION/
Gets more like America every day.

Whichever of this pair gets in

Don't expect miracles. Don't expect the truth.

Did you ever?

 

 

Post 507. WHERE WENT SPRING?

 THE FLOWERS ARE HERE

BUT NOT THE CLIMATE.
It has been a cold month, and I am still dressed for Autumn. I'm of shivery disposition, though, so I asked around. Everybody agreed. It has been a cold month. Now there is an election in the offing, and scarcely a worthwhile candidate in sight. Never rains but it pours, does it? Well I said it a few posts back; I'll not vote. So I'll deserve what I get? A clothes post with a blue ribbon?

Excuse me if I look unimpressed.
TELEVISION.

Rob and Rylan's Grand Tour. (BBC) This priceless pair did, in a three part series, the grand tour that was once the province of the poet Byron and assorted upper crust dilettantes.

I was prepared to dismiss it as yet another expensive holiday gifted to media names. Wrong!
It turned out to be great fun, and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

Motorhoming with Merton and Webster. (Channel 5)
Paul Merton and his wife, Suki Webster, took in the motorhoming scene in a six part series.
They came across as a happy couple, Good scenery, gentle conversation; lack of concern for white van drivers and miles of following traffic: honestly, there was nothing to dislike in any of it.

Come back soon

You too.    

Post 506. ONE OF THOSE BOOKS

YOU CANNOT PUT DOWN.

BY DELIA OWENS.
Ms Owens first novel, and very much on a par with To Kill A Mocking Bird.
Where The Crawdads Sing was recommended to us by our granddaughter, Jessica, who also thinks it to be of Mocking Bird standard. We loved it, and I'd wager it will do for Delia Owens precisely what Harper Lee's book has for her. If she never wrote again she will always be remembered as the author of a beautifully crafted first timer. Crawdads is one of those books.
TELEVISION.
We binge watched the first six part series of Ian Rankin's Rebus (BBC1). Richard Rankin is Rebus, Lucie Shorthouse is Siobhan Clarke, and Stuart Bowman.is arch-villain Ger Cafferty. To my mind nobody can ever replace Ken Stott, Claire Price, and James Cosmo, but this new bunch is very good. Worth the watch.

FILM.
Recently we saw a Jason Statham film for the second time around. Can't remember what it was called: but the action was crazy the dialogue laconic, and it kept up Jas's mortgage payments. 

Great stuff for those who like an occasional madhouse.. We do.

We also saw the film version of Where The Crawdads Sing, directed by Olivia Newman from a screenplay by Lucy Alibar. Lovely acting from Daisy Edgar-Jones as Kya and her fellow actors, but it still puzzles me that film people always modify, even abandon, crucial parts of an author's story in the  belief, presumably, that theirs is a better version. It isn't. Good film, Almost the book.

NEWS.

Well it's politicians insincerely apologising for ghastly balls-ups perpetrated donkey's years ago.
Thank the Gods for the RHS Chelsea Flower Show.

And that's it for now.

Post 505. A DISTURBING START TO MAY

LANDED ME

IN HOSPITAL AGAIN.
Last Wednesday night, suddenly cursed by haematuria, I was admitted to hospital. I was lucky. The entire procedure ran smoothly. Some ten minutes after Maureen's 999 call an ambulance arrived at our door and two reassuringly amiable and competent paramedics, Dani and Jez, took over. They did their stuff: bleeding persisted. A&E in the ambulance accompanied by Mo.  Medical preparation and admission arrangements undertaken. Then lucky again. St. Helen's Ward, Single room. Consultant Mr. W. Akhter and a friendly,  efficient, staff who could not have been more kind and concerned. A couple of days treatment and our son was able to collect me and bring me home. Nobody wants to land in hospital like that, but those lovely hospital people came as close as possible to making it a pleasurable experience, I thank them all. 
Now I'm back, safe and reasonably sound, with Mo keeping her eye on me.
That, my friends, is good luck.
All the best to you.

Take nothing for granted.

Post 504. HMM. NOT THAT CHEERFUL

SO JUST A FEW WORDS

TO SEE OUT APRIL
I am sorry I cannot strike a lighthearted note. It has been a lousy month here, Cold, and packed with one item of sad or bad news after another. 
Brother-in-law Mike (the 'now in his late nineties' one) drove to Guildford from Alverstoke to visit an old acquaintance, had a fall, broke a hip, and finished up in hospital fifty or so miles from home. The hospital in Guldford was wonderful, and he is making a steady recovery. He has now been transferred back to Gosport War Memorial Hospital where he will stay until he is fit to return home. Don't decry the NHS, its (largely immigrant) ground staff is second to none. If only political meddlers at the top would leave it alone.
There is much more I cold record, sadly none of it cheerful, so I shall wish you all the best for May onwards and move on.
Despite the state this world is in,

Be lucky.

Post 503. MEANDERING ON.

WHILE IT ALL HAPPENS

AROUND US.
The Middle East is in chaos. Religious zealots are now openly warring with each other. The Americans whose meddling - slavishly supported by our lapdog lot - is largely responsible for it all, is finally making futile noises. Meanwhile, that puerile prick Putin still attacks formerly neutral neighbour Ukraine, that duplicitous dickhead Trump is quite likely to become the US President again, and we have an unelected Foreign Secretary who disappears at the drop of a bollock..
It beggars belief. 
Mo and I meander on. Mo is spending more walking time with a three wheeled frame (her right knee gives her hell) and I am constantly dealing with excreta leakage: not a nice subject, the latter, but colon cancer is not a nice topic. Yesterday, for the first time since I was told I had it, I looked on line for information about the cancer. Seems that, statistically, I may have a year or so left. I have a MRI scan next Thursday to which I am not looking forward. And that's that..
Most of the time I count myself lucky. I have a loving wife and family, a few good friends, some happy and some sad memories, and the firm belief that I  have seen the best of this country.
If I'm still here I'll not vote at another election, and I fear for our descendants, stuck with the rubbish currently on display. But I guess they'll manage even if, sadly, Powell was right.
Regret the downbeat tone of this post, my dears.

Put it down to my condition.
Be back in more cheerful mode next time..

Post 502. RANDOM THOUGHTS.

 IT'S BOAT RACE DAY

ON THE RIVER SLIME
First random thought: It is Cambridge/Oxford Boat Race day, and both crews deserve better than a shit filled river Thames upon which to fulfil their rowing dream. As I write, the Cambridge women have thrashed the Oxford women for the seventh time, so no change there. But nobody will be ceremoniously dumped into the river today: there are doctors among them who know better than to trust colleagues to the slime of the Thames. Oh, the Cambridge men won. too.
We glance at the race every year, but have never been to Cambridge and, other than visiting our daughter who taught at an Oxford school, the City of Dreaming Spires is little more more then backdrop to the Morse, Lewis, and Endeavour TV series to us. 
Second random thought: The clocks go forward an hour tonight. Well, that's April buggered up. 
Third random thought: We enjoyed The Mule, a film produced, directed, and starring Clint Eastwood. Whoever he plays, old Clint is watchable. When I first saw him he was Rowdy Yates In Rawhide. He was good. Then came The Man with No Name in the spaghetti westerns and the Dirty Harry films; all good. In 1971, with Play Misty For Me, he became a film director. He has gone on to become a better and better film director. And I like him even if he is an American.
Which is about it for this month. Mo and I are watching

a thriller set in New Zealand.

The box calls. 

Cheerio for now

Post 501. OUR LOCAL GENERAL PRACTICE.

 IS MOVING BACK TO TOWN.

LEAVING NO LOCAL DOCTOR HERE.
I have just received a letter from the GP Partners at the sole practice in Wootton Bridge telling me their rented (I thought it was owned by the NHS) surgery in the village is now in such a state of structural decline that it will probably have to be demolished and rebuilt. The Practice has been offered options for temporary accommodation to facilitate the undertaking of rectification works, but has concluded that the extensive work required would be too disruptive and a permanent relocation is the better option. The troublesome surgery (above) was erected only ten years or so ago, and I cannot help but ponder which bright planner of the time declared the site suitable for purpose? Whoever it was will not be unearthed. The buck never stops anywhere nowadays.
Oh, the customary local bigwigs have started to mutter dissent and will customarily be ignored.

The Island's Conservative MP, has become an openly testy interviewee on TV programmes debating the next general election. He understandably cares only about retaining a safe seat. 
TELEVISION.
We have been watching repeats from three series of ancient Inspector Lynley Mysteries on Drama. Nathaniel Parker and Sharon Small were great as the thick aristocratic boss with the sharp working class assistant, and we enjoyed it. We have also been watching old episodes of Agatha Christie's Marple, starring Geraldine McEwan, and Vera, starring Brenda Blethyn. I thought I had given up on repeat repeats, but you can't stop watching truly watchable actors. We have also been directed to Whitstable Pearl and some episodes of The Brokenwood Mysteries (both on Drama) not previously seen by us, and all of it very watchable. We also watched Coma on Channel 5. Jason Watkins, Jonas Armstrong, and Claire Skinner were strong leads and David Bradley easily retained his position as the finest supporting actor in film or television anywhere. I dislike 'true crime' stories, so I found this mini series far too close to the truth. 

Everything else on television seems like one big PR exercise to convince me what a diverse (the 'in' word) country we now live in. I think divisive the more accurate word, but I'm an old grouch.

ON A MORE CHEERFUL NOTE:

THE LOVELY DOG, BUDDY.

Our late daughter Roz's much loved dog, Buddy, gives the lie to the theory that an animal who looks like him has to be a dangerous brute. Roz would have been fifty four on the twelth of this month: she died three years ago on the twelth of next month. She is never far from our thoughts. I republish the above picture as thanks to Sue and her family who, way back, sent it to show how he was settling in with them. I think he still has the same best pal and menagerie of interests.
Good for him. And you if you have kindly kept up with all this over the years.

That's it for now. Cheers.
      

Post 500. INCREASINGLY MONITORING

MY TELEVISION VIEWING.

TO SIDESTEP REALITY.
Sidestepping reality TV is a hard thing to do. The 'everybody will get fifteen minutes of fame' era is upon us, so it's cheap viewing for the easily pleased.
In my quest to avoid the intolerant views of  former gutter press journalists and Brexiteers under whatever current guise, I have all but abandoned the Jeremy Vine programme on Channel 5: might look in if there seems to be somebody of interest to me, but most of the token celebrities and failed old hacks who regularly appear are, to my mind, ignorable seat fillers.
By much the same token, I am too old and set in my ways to welcome programmes full of happy young souls setting Surrey, Kent, or Camberwell alight. Good luck to 'em, but I don't need watch. Nor do I bother with football now: the soccer world is a money pit packed with falling down foreigners and managers bravely wrestling with the English language. How the hell does Gareth Southgate pick an England team? There are scarcely any English players left in the Premiership.
All of which is an elderly mither that will probably be registered as racist, sexist, ageist (or a 'phobia')  by many of those who climb aboard every twenty first century bandwagon going by.
WELL, IT IS LEAP DAY, SO

AND A HAPPY BIRTHDAY 

to any 100 year old celebrating their twenty fifth birthday today. 

Enjoy it.

Post 499. IF YOU'RE NOT A GAMER

OR A MOBILE PHONE HUGGER

YOU'RE IN MY WORLD.
On the unworldly assumption that no change, for whatever reason, is ever for the better, I have survived thus far into 2024 without switching on my mobile phone each day or even looking for my (doubtless battery flat) ipad. I cannot bother to sit at my computer killing off fictional aliens, and I have been 'silent walking' for donkey's years. If that makes me 'Dennis no mates,' so be it.
If you are lost on a mountain and in danger of death (why do they do it?) then a phone call to a rescue team is a godsend. If you are a beleaguered mind seeking solace a phone conversation with some fixated crank can be a sadly fatal way out. A voice in your ear cannot match face to face contact. NHS patients in their droves are currently discovering that and will, I fear, continue to do so until whatever government of the day finally puts paid to the service altogether.

Never think NHS survival is a certainty. Insurance companies and Americans hover greedily.
Reality in all its forms encompasses us at an alarming rate. Politicians and the media regard us as gullible children. Professionalism, in anything but lying and deception (politics), is increasingly being replaced by puerile amateurism (just look at your tele). The world has gone bloody mad.

But cheer up. If you were born in a leap year you can have a birthday party soon.

That's enough until then.

Be lucky.

    

Post 498. THERE WERE EIGHT GIRLS

 LEFT TO RIGHT:
                                                     DORIS, MAUREEN, JEAN, LORNA.

                                                               PAT, RUTH, PAM, MARG.
A VERY ENGLISH FAMILY.
When, early in our relationship, Maureen told me she had seven sisters I was – as an only child with two (unofficial and part-time) foster brothers– intrigued and a trifle apprehensive. What would they make of their 17-year-old baby sister taking up with a thirty-year-old former soldier now a lowly NHS employee? They were a very English family. Mostly tolerant. Sisterly close. Quick of temper. Shrewd in judgement. I was a trifle apprehensive?
Mo introduced me to them gradually, mainly in their own homes, and answered the most often (thankfully kindly) asked question: “Where did you get him?” with: “I got him on the NHS.”

Over the years I came to know them individually, though all but one of them (oldest sister Lorna, an Isle of Wight  resident) lived in or fairly close to Portsmouth. they holidayed together at an island chalet complex every year, and were jokily known by its manager as 'The Sisters Grimm.'
I liked each of them as individuals. Being human, I had my favourites. Marg. was one of my favourites. She was the one who did not want to live beyond her seventies, who married Mike on the same day that our youngest child, Roz, was born (12 March 1970), who did the cryptic crossword in a broadsheet every day (a couple of times she attempted to teach me the knack, but I was hopeless), who swam thirty lengths at a local swimming baths three times a week, and whose television viewing in summer began and ended with  tennis at Wimbledon.
As the years passed on so, one by one, did the sisters until, with the death of Pam in 2020 (Post 348 refers), only the fourth born, Marg. and the last, Mo, were left. Now lovely Marg. has gone.
Throughout the last year or so her health, both physical and mental, went into decline and, despite every possible assistance that Mike (now in his late nineties) tried to give her, she was eventually admitted to the Queen Alexandra Hospital, Portsmouth, and thence to a NHS nursing home where, barely a week later, and two days short of her ninety fourth birthday, she died. 

There is little I can add except my commiserations to Mike who will be finding it all hard to take in, and my sympathy with dear Mo who now has none of her seven sisters. 
REMAINS ONLY TO SAY

MARG URRY nee HAMMOND.
A KIND, NICE PERSON AND
THE LAST OF THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN.

    

Post 497. THE BADGERS OF DEEP WOOD.

BY GUESS WHO

IS HERE IN PAPERBACK.
I had some rather nice Christmas presents last year, so forgive the old scribbler if he makes particular mention of one of them. Our son, Neil, gifted me the paperback of my book for children aged 6 to 18 (though I've always said 9 to 99), The Badgers of Deep Wood. It was a complete, and a wonderful, surprise to me, is printed by Amazon, and costs £12.69 to buy. Worth every penny/cent, says he. It is my one and only - probably ever  - published work of fiction, so I am delighted to have it sitting now between hardback sets of Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling on a bookshelf that also contains a copy of  Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows.
The cheerful Badger cover was designed by Neil. What it is to have a graphic artist in the family.

So, like a television chat show guest, I have plugged the book and have not much else to say..

Please consider buying it if you have youngsters who might enjoy it. And read it to them. 

THAT'S IT

.BACK NEXT MONTH 

 

.

POST 496. HERE WE GO AGAIN.

THE DISTRACTIONS

DULY  DISMISSED.
It is amazing how many distractions you can find when you're of a mind to begin a blog post. Storm Isha has blown down the trellis archway in the garden and chucked the empty garden refuse bin across the driveway a couple of times but, in comparison to the Midlands, North, and Scotland, we on the IoW have been lucky. In our house, with blinds closed and curtains drawn, we almost eliminated the sound of Isha, and this area still has electric power. Now storm Jocelyn has joined us. Ah well. At the moment my little chores are done, Mo has been ironing for England (for our part of it anyway) and I have made her the customary second cup of tea. I can find no further distraction to deflect me from the keyboard. So here we go. 
TELEVISION.

Opportunity to mention an actress who was born on the IoW. Dame Sheila Hancock's performance in the 2017 film Edie (written by Elizabeth O'Halloran and directed by Simon Hunter) was worthy of any acting award you care to name. Sheila was 83 when she tackled Suilven, a mountain in Scotland. She later joked that the role of stubborn Edie would have previously been offered to and rejected by Judie, Maggie and the rest. Well, thanks be she took it. Wonderful.

We also watched the 2012 film Quartet, directed by Dustin Hoffman and starring Maggie Smith, Tom Courtenay, Michael Gambon, Pauline Collins and Billy Connolly. It was the second time around for us, but a cast of talented oldies is a magnet to a couple of oldies like us, and this film was packed with elderly talent, bolstered by the charming young Sheridan Smith. Loved it.

Watched the first of the series Dave and Jay, too. Oh dear.

And finally in this post:

NO! NO! NO! TO NATIONALSERVICE.

I wondered how long it would be before a call for the reintroduction of National Service came from some high ranking professional serviceman or warmongering idiot MP. It would be a disaster.

I was a regular soldier during the second (1939 - 1960) period of conscription. Decent young people made the best they could of it: the troublemakers remained troublesome, no matter what the outcome. There was a constantly negative atmosphere, particularly among those called up when WW2 was over. They didn't want the army, and the army didn't want them.

Speaking as one who actually lived through the second world war, and experienced the blitzing of Portsmouth, I would gently bid sabre rattlers: Stop. Look, Think. Two world wars with the promise of a better future, and - millions of lost and shattered lives later - we're still no closer to it. 

WW3 will probably make the entire planet uninhabitable. National Service wouldn't help that.    

Enough. I hope to be back on a jollier note at the end of the month.

Careful how you go.

 

    

Post 495. ELECTION YEAR IS HERE.

 

SO NOW THEY FEIGN CONCERN

AFTER YEARS OF INDIFFERENCE.
Funny how concerned for fairness Westminster becomes when there is an election in the offing. The splendid ITV television telling of Mr. Bates vs. The Post Office (Toby Jones as Alan Bates, and a fine fellow cast) has suddenly awakened MPs to the injustice suffered by over 700 sub-postmasters and postmistresses when a faulty IT system, abetted by outright liars on the so-called 'help' line, had them wrongly accused of theft.
Reputations, minds, lives were lost, and for years only a handful of politicians showed an iota of belief in their innocence or empathy for their plight. Now there are calls in parliament for 'suitable' compensation. It will never be enough but, if and when it comes, it should be big: very, very big!
NATIONAL INSURANCE.
From 6 January the main NI rate for employees has been reduced from 12% to 10%. Did I say there is an election in the offing?
You really must avoid cynicism, Dennis, it is so unbecoming.
TELEVISION.
Why was A Boy Called Christmas my 'best Christmas film' choice? Saw Maggie Smith was in it, so knew it would have to be good. It was.
Also enjoyed a re-run of Roald Dahl's BFG, directed by Stephen Spielberg, Mark Rylance was the BFG. Of course it was good.
And, back in the day, I recorded The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy. We watchcd it again and were enchanted again. Not an indifferent human in sight.

Lovely.
WORLWIDE
FORGET THE HAPPY NEW YEAR STUFF
TOO MANY LIVES HAVE BEEN DEVASTATED.
DO LET US HAVE SOME SANITY IN 2024