Post 276. FIRST, AND DESERVEDLY FOREMOST.

A CHERISHED FRIEND.
Linda Pay.

 One of Mo's nice group of friends, lovely Linda Pay (pictured), died in the Earl Mountbatten Hospice, Isle of Wight, on September 23 at the age of 68.
Linda was a former Head of Occupational Therapy at St. Mary's Hospital, a staunch supporter of Monkey Haven on the island and a truly likeable, highly competent, lady.
She is survived by husband Colin and family.
The funeral will be held at Springwood Woodland Cemetery, Newchurch, IoW tomorrow, Thursday 5 October, and afterwards there will be a gathering at Monkey Haven to celebrate her life.
RIP Linda, a truly worthwhile person.
MY SORT OF VISITOR.
The weekender.
At the end of last week our friend Anne came.
It was good to see her.
Stayed with us over the weekend. Made her annual visit to various friends on the island.
Went back to Cornwall on Monday morning.
That's my sort of visitor.    
TELEVISION.
Two series and a loner.
Our daughter Roz sent me a text: 'Have you seen The Five? It's good. Lee Ingleby is in it.'
Well, ol' Lee has come a long way since the wizards' night bus (and imprisonment in Azkaban), so I hastened to record the complete Sky series.
Mo and I watched it in just a couple of days. It wasn't at all bad (never mind what the critic in The Guardian thought) and Slade, played by Lee Ingleby, was by far the best character in it.
Drunk with the power of multiple recording, I then recorded the Kudos film and television production Tin Star (BSkyB) and we watched that, in its entirety, over two days.
Tim Roth and the entire company acted their socks off.
Sadly it was just a mishmash of bonkers-in-the-head characters and gratuitous violence.
So to the loner: The Child in Time, based on Ian McEwan's novel, starred Benedict Cumberbatch and Kelly Macdonald as parents whose child is stolen. I believe the novel was an award winner.
I doubt this adaptation will be.
THE CONSTANT CAT.
A much sleeping Shadow.

This time we thought he really was a goner. The old guy's suspected dementia became more and more pronounced over the course of a fortnight and eventually, in a paroxysm of fur biting fury, he fell off the cupboard where he was sitting in front of the television to land damply on the wooden floor below.
I did a quick cleaning up job.
My Leader inspected him carefully and concluded: "This boy is infested."
Strangely, knowing him to be a fastidiously clean cat, we found that hard to believe; though it was about time for his 'spot-on' treatment.
We spoke to the vet and arranged to take him in the following morning.
He then had another 'funny turn' in the course of which he did minor but painful damage to one of Mo's hands and arm.
This was not like him at all.
He has always adored her.
When we set off for the vet the next day we were of the opinion that he was probably suffering from 'elderly cat's kidneys' and this might well be the last of such journeys we would ever make with him.
The vet thought otherwise: this year has been particularly bad with regard to flea infestations, we were told, and the 'fits' the poor old boy had suffered were almost certainly a direct result of them.
He was treated with an anti-inflammatory injection and a hefty splodge of Bravecto spot-on solution. A sample of his blood was sent for testing and, much relieved in more ways than one, we were sent home with him.
An hour later we were telephoned with the news that his tests were fine and he had a while yet to continue living the high life.
Currently he is spending much time asleep in the upturned lid of the 'clothes for ironing' basket which, along with our entire living quarters, has been given comprehensive 'bash all bugs' treatment.
It's zero tolerance in this house.
I've not told him how pleased we are that he is still with us.
He'd only get big headed.
LAST AND BY ALL MEANS LEAST.
That diplomatic disaster.
Boris Johnson has been bawling his Brexit bosh - and suchlike twaddle - yet again. What's the betting he will eventually be Prime Minister?

 Are we really that desperate?      

Post 275. AN ERRATIC OLD CAT.

WHO SLEEPS A LOT.
The cat Shadow

has become old, tired and erratic over the past few months. I try not to talk about it in front of him because he obviously doesn't want to hear it when he's awake. Nowadays he is only awake to go out for a leak, to beat the bounds, or to loudly demand a light snack.
So what do I know?
Well I think I know Shadow.
He came to us - of his own volition - in 2001 when he was, we were reliably informed, six or seven years old.
The nice people he came from lived along the terrace from us and he had been landed on them by their nephew or grandson or somesuch (who had gone back to the mainland for good).
They already had a resident cat of their own who objected to the newcomer in no uncertain fashion.
We had not long moved from Ventnor where the last of our clowder had died and was buried. We had no intention of becoming attached to another feline. Not on that main road in Newport, anyway.
I was unequivocal about it: "The only way we'll have a cat here will be if it it walks in and takes us over."
So that was what he did.
He sized us up from the roof of the garage, presumably heard what I said, cogitated, walked down the back pathway when he thought the time was right, crossed the courtyard, came into the kitchen and inveigled himself into our lives.
We found out who his guardians were (Christine and Len) and they came along the terrace to see him.
When they arrived he was dozing on the back of the settee (yeah, even then).
They shook their heads and smiled.
"He belongs here, doesn't he," Chris said. "I think his mind is made up."
They, bless them, were cat people. So are we.
His future with us and ours with him was settled there and then.
When, after some fourteen years, we decided on the move from Newport, I spoke to Chris about him.
"Will you take him with you?" she asked.
"We will if you don't mind," I said.
"I think he'd be unhappy without you," she said. "You're his family."
So here he is. Suffering slightly from dementia, I fear, but otherwise contented.
That nice lady was right.
We are his family, come what may.
READING.
I finished Career of Evil, which turned out to be a unique whodunit packed with the sort of tracking down and questioning of concerned parties that many of my retired police acquaintances would ruefully recognise.
The degree of violence towards women was disturbing - though no doubt realistic - and the 'villain' was an obvious candidate for Broadmoor (or the 'intelligence service' of any leading nation).
As for Strike and Robin's iffy business relationship, I defy those who read it not to enjoy the last few lines of this story.   
TELEVISION.
I am inclined to delete series we have seen and am often prompted to do so by my 'you can get rid of that now' Leader.
Which is all well and fine until it comes to the above heading when my addled old brain says: Hang on...what was that series I taped, we saw, and I've scrapped? And: what was that programme I recorded (thought was rather good, actually) and got rid of as soon as I was reminded we'd seen it? 
I should learn, but I'm afraid I never will.
Suffice to say we saw the last episode of Robert (J.K.) Galbraith's Strike: The Cuckoo's Calling.

Tom Burke (pictured) is good as Strike and the first three part series was well cast and interesting. It didn't stray far from the book, either.
I have seen part 1 of the second series, The Silkworm, and that, too, mirrors the book rather well.
Apparently J.K. Rowling keeps a personal eye on the process.
Good for her.
Despite my negative response to the initial transfer of The Great British Bake Off from the BBC to Channel 4, Mo and I have been captivated by the new series.
Sandi Toksvig and Noel Fielding have proven to be amiable replacements for 'irreplaceable' Mel and Sue, as has Prue Leith in replacing 'the one and only' Mary Berry.
Ah. We'll see.
What we haven't seen yet is the new Strictly.
We can wait.
All that running delightedly to meet the partner who has allegedly been picked out of a hat for you can be extremely tedious for the viewer. That has always been my partner's view and I tend to agree with her.
She never ever came running to meet me.
She'd just get into the car and we'd go for a drink.
What? Oh, neither of us can dance.
Neither of us can run now, either.
And (laboured intro into next subject) neither of us has ever set foot on a canal barge.
Have you seen any of journalist John Sergeant's Barging Round Britain canal adventures?
If you have seen and liked Tim and Pru West barging about on canals you will probably like this.
He hasn't run into them yet - not as far as I know - but with his steering skills and lovely Pru's memory, who knows?
Anyway he comes across, as always, like the nice old guy you'd enjoy meeting by chance for a quiet chat.

Say no more.
   

Post 274. I CAN'T SAY I'M J.K. ROWLING.

WRONG AGE. WRONG SEX. WRONG SHAPE.

And you would know it's not true.
I have been producing this blog for over eleven years and doubt it will attract much more than the regular five or six hundred hits (is that the word?) a month.
I don't expect it to.
It's not as if I'm a convicted felon who has miraculously found God and (surprise surprise) written a book about it, or that I am one of that tiresome tribe of here-today-gone-tonight nonentities hailed as 'a refreshing new voice' by 'experts' in the media, or that I am an unrecognisable reality show person described as 'a celebrity' on television chat/game shows.
It's not as if I can accidentally unveil that I am J.K, Rowling, either.
I'm the wrong age, wrong sex, wrong shape and you would know it's not true.
So, without the support of an agent, or a national newspaper, or regular appearances on television, or a publisher (other than the faceless Silent Bobs on Google) and with only my own name to rely on, I shall probably amble along the same old track ad infinitum, happy in the knowledge that a handful of discerning folk still look in, (internet stalkers - whatever they may be - are fortunately not among them) and that my Leader, together with the faithful few, is constantly supportive.
Good luck with writing two books at once, though, J. K. and respect from someone struggling with the very idea of it.
HOME.
Forwarded emails.
A smile - is a sign of joy.
A hug - is a sign of love.
A laugh - is a sign of happiness
And a friend like me?
Hell...that's just a sign of good taste.
How can anyone resist the sort of message that ends like that?
Glad to report a resurgence in the practice of forwarding allegedly funny emails: they remain few and far between, but are very welcome here.
There has even been the occasional new - or beyond memory - offering.
As a result, old pals like Anonymous John (word reached me that you were a bit off-colour recently, John: know the feeling and hope you are fighting fit again), David, Eamonn, Ian, and brother-in-law Mike, have taken up the torch.
It has mirrored former times and I have enjoyed it. Thanks, buddies.
As for the rest of the social network, I still find Facebook slightly hard going and Twitter wholly avoidable.
My loss, perhaps, but I lose no sleep over it.
The Phoenix Choir (amendment to Post 273).
It has been brought to my attention that mention of the Phoenix Choir making around £29,000 for deserving causes was well short of their collection total to date which, I understand, is now in excess of £38,000.
(Bit of a blip on their website-updating front apparently.)
Ne'er mind:
I was absolutely right with the word Bravo!
TELEVISION.

Maureen usually watches: (and I'll be told off for printing this picture again) about the last two thirds of any series of Strictly Come Dancing. She has always found the early stuff tedious.
She likes Claudia Winkleman and Tess Daly, was bored with Bruce Forsyth long before he left the show and thinks it is about time Anton du Beke got into and won a final.
I don't think Anton's too bothered; surely him not winning is just some twat's idea of 'good tele' again (like Alan Davies always coming last on QI).
As for ol' Bruce, I always thought he made a moderate talent go a very long way.
RIP anyway.
We'll still look in on the next series.

Mo also follows Only Connect with Victoria Coren Mitchell (pictured) and any of the (many since she won Great British Bake Off) programmes featuring Nadiya Hussain. 
She enjoys many reality shows that I don't: I couldn't care less whether or not some spoilt young woman in America says 'yes' to a dress. 
Together we watched Game of Thrones series 7 to its exciting conclusion and it will need no spoiler warning (read any newspaper) if I mention that Littlefinger, superbly played by Aidan Gillen, finally got his comeuppance at the hands of the Stark girls - a lovely twist in the tale! I gather that series 8 (next year or the year after) will be the last ever.
We have seen the first two Strike: The Cuckoo's Calling episodes on BBC1. The last of the three part series will be shown next Sunday at 9pm.
It is cheerfully well cast, gloomily ill-lit and I like it. I don't know whether Mo really does. Married to me she gets more than enough tele detective stuff.
You can't always like the same things.
It wouldn't be human.
But the pair of us do jointly avoid (Celebrity?)Big Brother, (Celebrity?) MasterChef, and The Jeremy Kyle Show.
Well, you have to retain some self-respect don't you.
Don't you?
Ah well.
READING.

I am still only half way through
Career of Evil, the third of Robert Galbraith's Strike detective stories.
That I am taking so long to read it is more down to age (mine) than any failure on the author's part to engage me. 
If I have a fault to find it is with those critics who delight in describing these very British tales as Chandleresque.
Have the buggers actually read any of Raymond Chandler's half a dozen or so Philip Marlowe stories? Or any of Dashiell Hammett's hard-boiled (Sam Spade etc.) detective yarns or even, recently, Robert B. Parker's Jessie Stone stuff?
We don't do them in this country.
Peter Cheyney tried hard with his Lemmy Caution and Slim Callaghan offerings, but I don't think he ever quite made it. 
Keep reading, though, whatever your taste.  

Post 273. DON'T LOOK FOR 272.

IT WAS 271 (b).
Computer simplification. 

Last month I turned out a blog post that was too long to suit Google's length of publications policy, if such a thing exists. Whatever.
Every time I set the post up for publication I was frustrated by the squeezed-up-words syndrome (which I am sure I have bemoaned before so won't bore you with again): upshot was the division of post 271 into two posts a) and b) which finally wangled me through the publishing process.
Google then rightly surmised that 272 blog posts had been published and will persist in reminding me so whenever I visit my Blogger posts list.
It's computer simplification, buddies.
Figures are figures and letters are letters and never the twain shall meet.
So that's why this is Post 273.
No, don't lose your temper; count to ten (a?)  HOME.
Here's a little buddy.

Daughter Roz has this little Buddy and a couple of perky kittens, Spike and Angel, in her world now.
The animals are mischievous and charming and she, along with Jess and Ellis, is delighted with them.
I asked the cat Shadow whether he would like me to find him two or three junior companions. "What?" he said. "More food? Bigger vets bills? Don't be daft. You can't afford me."
Tact has no place in his CV.
Inspired by Wight Art Exhibition.

Our daughter-in-law, Pauline Barnden (click on picture for gallery view), will be one of the artists with work on display at Ventnor Botanic Gardens, August 20 - 28.
Daphne Ellman, Anne Toase, Margaret Plant, Susana Watts and Carolyne Viney are fellow artists with work on show at this popular annual event.
A good afternoon out.
Parking is free and there is no entrance fee.
There's a decent cafe, too.
The Phoenix Choir, Isle of Wight. 

Maureen has been a follower of this highly successful Island choir (formed in April 2009 at Wootton Bridge) for a couple of years or so and, to my loss, up until this month I had declined all invitations to go with her to their concerts.
She went with her pal, Mo.
However, last Saturday evening (12th August) the choir was booked to appear at East Cowes Town Hall, just down the road from us, and (after all the positive publicity from my Leader, including the gift of their sell-out CD) I was persuaded to abandon my reclusive tendency and go with her to see them.
What followed was a typical Isle of Wight night out: you meet nice folk you have not seen for years, are reminded again how small the island is, and reflect how wretchedly short-sighted you are not to get out more often.
The choir, directed by its founder Robin Burnett, did not disappoint.
Their programme, varying from Cohen's Hallelujah to the traditional Men of Harlech, was performed with a confidence that would have brought joy to the heart of Gareth Malone and certainly brightened mine. Sadly their final two numbers had to be cancelled when one of the singers was taken ill and an ambulance was summoned. It looked as though the singer (a lady) would be taken to hospital: the ambulance was still standing by when, with apologies, the audience was asked to leave.
I have since learned that the lady concerned was taken to hospital where, fortunately, nothing untoward was found. When musical director Robin Burnett spoke to her the following day she was much improved. Just heat exhaustion perhaps, but very worrying for her and all around her.
Our good wishes go to the lady, and our thanks for an (only slightly shortened) evening of uplifting music go to the entire choir.
Performing under their banner "From Pavarotti to Presley" these splendid amateur singers have already raised close on £29,000 for deserving causes.
What more can one say?
Bravo!

 

Post 271(a). IF YOU WRITE.

YOU HAVE TO LIKE YOUR OWN COMPANY.

Or at least tolerate it.

It's a lonely game, writing. Not so much, I guess, for those 'celebrities' (most of whom couldn't write their own name without the aid of a - probably lonely - ghost writer) who produce egocentric 'autobiographies' to use as props on television chat shows, nor for the rightly famous and approachable professional writer.

J.K. Rowling, for example, probably has a Dursleybox full of mail every day and needs people around her to deal with it while she writes another couple of books. I imagine she will have company most of the time, even if they're only bringing in the coffee.

Her diary must be packed with appointments, too.

Every Harry Potter reader and film follower in the world would surely like to meet her; this one would, if only to say thank you for hours of happy reading and to ask if she would kindly sign the eight - four Potters, three Strikes and one 'village people' - hardbacks of her work in our library. I would not ask her to sign the four Potter paperbacks (those hardbacks went to someone very special), but I don't think she'd be offended if I did.

She will also, I'm sure, be constantly sought to guest at one or another of the book festivals now appearing annually around the country. (Time was, says the grumpy old man in me, when Hay-On-Wye was quite enough.) All said and done, though, she - and any compatriot who matches her in media popularity - is alone with a keyboard when the work starts.

No matter what your status, if you write you have to like, or at least tolerate, your own company for long periods of time.

Right now I'm off to make my Leader a cup of tea.

What?

Oh sod my own company.   

READING.

The Thief of Time: Terry Pratchett.
I finished this intriguing yarn buoyed and humbled by the sheer artistry of the writer. As you may have gathered, if you regularly look in, I have enjoyed each and every one of the late Sir Terence's Disc World books to come my way.
If you are interested, I recommend the in-depth analysis to be found in Pratchett Job, a blog produced by a truly knowledgeable follower of the master.
Sadly there will be no more Disc World books on loan to me, and it would take far too long to peruse the shelves in a bookshop hoping to find some I may not have read.
Anyway, there's at least one real life Black Books misery in the trade now who would rather shut up shop than let the customer browse.
Isn't that charming?
So I fear Disc World may be over for me.
I shall miss it.
Have just embarked on a Career of Evil by (I almost wrote with) Robert Galbraith. This is the third Cormoran Strike detective yarn under J.K. Rowling's pen name and it opens promisingly.

More to come.

 

 

 

Post 271 (b) IF YOU WRITE

MUSIC.

BBC Proms time again.

Which means lots more of Katie Derham. Hurray!

We watched the concert celebrating John Williams' 85th Birthday and were reminded once more that even the foremost composer of film music in the world is sometimes better heard when accompanied by screen images to divert attention from lengthy periods of pedestrian background music that are inevitable at film composer concerts.

No pictures at the Albert Hall, of course, just the orchestra. But Indiana Jones and Jaws and Raiders of the Lost Ark and Schindler's List and ET and Harry Potter were all in the programme and we loved it.

The man really is a genius, isn't he?

We also saw maestro Daniel Barenboim, who conducted the Staatskapelle Berlin, give what seemed to me to be a well-meaning, innocuous, little speech linking Elgar and Brexit. This affronted Spectator journalist Douglas Murray and a few other right (wing) thinking scribblers on-line.

Bravo Barenboim!

Let's never outlaw freedom of speech, eh?

That impeccable gentleman Bernard Haitink was back, too. He conducted a Chamber Orchestra of Europe programme: symphonies by Mozart and Schumann, along with a beautiful rendition of Mozart's Violin Concerto No.3 by Isabelle Faust.

Yes, the Proms looks good this year, even if I do have to be vigilant not to be taken in by increasing efforts to persuade me that 'modern,' or 'advanced,' music has to be given a hearing. I have tried, but even the most revered of those discordant composers puts my teeth on edge.

Walton's Facade, described as 'modern,' is an eminent exception: I certainly enjoyed those quirky excerpts from it played by the BBC Symphony Orchestra at Sir Malcolm Sargent's 500th Prom celebration.

The entire programme, from Sir Henry Wood's arrangement of The National Anthem, to the Schumann Piano Concerto, played by Italian pianist Beatrice Rana, through to Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, was music to my ears and the conductor, avuncular Sir Andrew Davis (pictured), was a joy to watch.

Right now I am sitting here with my Leader's The Hollies 20 Golden Greats CD playing on the music centre.

The opening lines of I can't tell the bottom from the top have me close to tears. Silly old fool.

But they were a great group at their best (the times when Allan Clarke was lead vocalist) and I can understand why Mo rated them so highly.

TELEVISION.

Repetition and a bit of bunkum.

Along with the usual crop of repeated repeats: Morse, Lewis, Endeavour, Foyle, Midsomer Murders,Vera and Wycliffe, we are currently enjoying (currently on Sunday afternoons) a re-run of the entire Harry Potter film series (four down, four to go).

Room 101: Extra Storage is much in evidence, too, and Would I Lie To You?

Ripper Street has gone forever, hardly a spoiler to reflect: 'not very happily.' 

But Game of Thrones is back. It has a new follow-up programme, too: Thronecast, led by Sue Perkins.

Seen it? I have. It's bunkum.

Whether or not you have already seen them, do watch the Potter films, though.

They're great.

That's it for the time being.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Post 270. IT'S ANOTHER WORLD.

BUT SOME THINGS DO STAY GOOD.

Entertainment.
Last Friday evening we joined an empathetic audience (mostly family members of the cast) to watch an enthusiastic gathering of drama group pupils at Medina College perform a young people's version of Les Miserables which was called Do You Hear The People Sing.
Grandson Ellis, twelve years old and showing early promise of a good bass-baritone voice, had asked whether he could have one of the few leftover tickets for the show. Cast members were allocated two tickets each (no charge - contributions welcomed at the end of the show) and his two had been reserved for his mother and for his grandmother. He was asked if he was sure the person the third ticket was for would use it and had apparently replied: 
"Oh yes, he has all the music."
So I received an unexpected invitation which led to a most enjoyable evening back at school.
Mo and I arrived ahead of Roz, who is a LSA and knows the building well, so just finding the drama studio took the pair of us back to my very first blog post, which went as follows:
It's a bit like when the kids were at school and...you were invited to go one evening to meet the teacher. I always finished up feeling that our kids had to start next term with a few Brownie points if we had somehow found the classroom, found the teacher and, wonder of wonders, managed to arrive on time.
Afterwards it was more a case of hoping the teacher would be sympathetic towards our kids, considering the obvious disadvantage they had being raised by such parents.
In the event, we became 'such grandparents,' ambling around the nearby theatre complex before discovering that the drama studio was actually in the main school building.
Fortunately we had set out early, so did reach our destination in Brownie points time.
It was a small studio for a large cast playing to a capacity audience on a warm night.
But the young people gave their all - don't they always? - and, bless 'em, they brought it off.
By the time the show ended the stifling heat no longer mattered. The cast exited to cheers and clammy hands clapping squishy appreciation.
These young people had been given five days to learn, rehearse, and stage a tastefully modified version of a show packed with music known and loved all over the world. The teachers who set it up and gave their time and skill to make it work: Hannah Brear (who wrote it), Steph Shorrock, Rich Wiseman, and the 'orchestra' that was Beth Peckham on the hidden piano, had undertaken an almost impossible task. All the tutoring and rehearsal in the world cannot disguise the reality of breaking voices, and the majority of the young men in the cast were of that age.
It didn't matter.
The young women stoically accepted any sudden change of key introduced by their male partner in a duet. It was clearly par for the course.
So in the end a few cues may have been missed, a few lines may have been lost or inadvertently repeated, a few top notes may have cracked and Javert may not have jumped off a bridge. So what.
This was a school show, not a Cameron Mackintosh production. Given the confines in which it was staged (and 5 days!) it was a triumph. A very, very brave triumph.
As we were leaving, I spoke to teaching staff about the confines in which it was staged and remarked that it should have been shown in 'the school theatre.' 
"Yes," I was told, "but we couldn't afford that." Couldn't afford?
How come?
Are we not talking school theatre here?
Well, no, the theatre is part of Medina Leisure Centre, not the school; if the school wants to put on a show it has to hire the theatre, just like anybody else.  I was shocked.
Even in the constantly changing - wickedly underpaid - world of education (blame governments, councils, Ofsted et al), this seemed to me to be a giant step backwards.
Mo and I had been living over here for quite a while when the former Medina High School was built. It was a grand concept set in a pleasant area on the outskirts of Newport and with it came a theatre and swimming pools.
Our son and two daughters were pupils there, as was our granddaughter and, now, our grandson.
All three of our children appeared in shows at the theatre - good shows put together by Medina school drama teachers - and there was never, ever, talk of any payment by the school to put them on.
So how and when did all this payment for use (presumably to the council) start? When exactly did the 'school theatre' become what I can only surmise is now just another council (or, worse still, private) money tree?
I would write and ask, but I don't think knowing the answer would give me that much satisfaction.
Those kids did try hard though. We loved it.
Some things do stay good.

Thanks again to all involved.