Post 301. STILL VERY WARY.

IT AIN'T THAT BROKE.
So why change it? This, of course, refers to my blog format which is so old I now have no idea what it is called but do remember that it was free with Google and, gawdblessem, has remained so to this day. Right now I am trying my printing hand with Calibri 22. It's a self-help notion. We'll see.
Haven't rung to find out how the computer lifeboat captain is faring. I really must do so. I'd write a reminder on my cuff if I didn't wear short sleeved shirts. Meanwhile...
TELEVISION.

The Wright Stuff. (Channel 5)
Ol' Wright moved studio location a while ago and some bright spark decided that the change of venue was an opportune time to change the format.
Trouble is, it wasn't that broke.
Now, instead of two permanent panellists per week and one guest visitor each day, they have opted to change all the guest panellists randomly, like a weekly end of series edition of Would I Lie To You, or Mock The Week, or Room 101. I find myself thinking it has to be repeats from over the last few weeks.
Then there's the papers: the tried and tested routine of each panellist reading out three or four items of news of the day before passing the baton for the next person to perform, has been superseded by a willy-nilly bobbing up and down the panel of the camera as each protagonist presents a snippet in turn.
It should be preceded by a warning to anyone suffering from epilepsy.
To add to the confusion, whenever Matthew took one of his (fairly frequent) breaks from the screen, his replacement as host was invariably Anne Diamond or Richard Madely.
He was away for a week recently and a fresh female face filled the screen every day. Did no harm, but I do rather like Anne and Richard and have no time for token gestures.
Somebody at Channel 5 needs to get a grip and I do wonder if the bright spark who proposed these changes ever considered the likely viewing public of a morning programme. Aside from the housebound and the unemployed, the vast number will, surely, be retired people.
Oldies.
And oldies, like children, are at best small c conservatives who do not like change or, at worst, capital C Conservatives who only watch BBC news.
All for now.
If you are American and have no idea what this has been all about, I'll try to mention President Trump next time out.

Post 300. Index 6. Posts 251 - 299

Adni, Daniel: 263 Alibhai Brown, Yasmin: 262 Allam, Roger: 286 Allingham, Margery: 253 Angel: 273 Anne, friend (see Wilkening) Anonymous John (Appleton) 274 Ashman, Kevin: 278 Ayres, Pam: 292 Bacon, Jonathan: 259, 269 Bailey, Nick: 287 Barbirolli, John: 269 Barenboim, Daniel: 271(b) Barnden, Maureen: (My Leader) Barnden, Neil: 251, 298, 299 Barnden, Pauline: 251, 273, 299 Barnden, Roz: 262, 270, 273, 276, 285,293, 296 Barnden, William "Bill" 258 Beaton, M.C. 253 Beckham, David: 282 Berry, Mary: 275 Berthoud, Mollie Freedman: 279 Bjorling, Jussi: 289 Blaehr, Tommy: 261 Blethyn, Brenda: 260 Booth, Webster: 289 Bradbury, Ray: 255 Brandon, John G. 253 Brear, Hannah: 270 Brenda from Bristol: 264 Brocklehurst, Danny: 256 Buddy: 273,293 Burke, Tom: 275 Burke, Alexandra: 281 Burnett, Robin: 273 Butler, Jean: 286 Butler, Phil: 286 Butler, Steve: 286 Calman, Susan: 264 Campbell, Alistair: 262 Caron, Leslie: 290 Cassandra: 256, 279 Castle, Roy: 265 Chandler, Raymond: 253, 274 Charteris, Leslie: 253 Cheyney, Peter: 274 Christie, Agatha: 253 Christine (neighbour): 274 Clarke, Allan: 271(b) Clarke, George: 252 Connor, William (see Cassandra) Cook, Jason: 279 Cooper. Charlie: 296 Cooper, Daisy: 296 Coren Mitchell, Victoria: 274 Costello, Elvis: 252 Creasey, John: 253 Cumberbatch, Benedict: 276 Daly, Tess: 274 Davies, Alan: 274 Davis, Andrew: 271(b) Dawson, Peter: 265 Day, Doris: 284 Dayer, Ellis: 270, 273, 285 Derek next door: 293 Derham, Katie: 271(b) Dexter, Colin: 262 Diamond, Anne: 251 Dillow, Ian: 258, 266, 290 Dodd, Ken: 287 duBeke, Anton: 274 Duff, Oliver: 256 DVLA: 259 Ellis, Vivian: 290 Ellman, Daphne: 273 Eliot, T.S. 292 Fairbrass, Richard: 262 Farage, Nigel: 260 Faust, Isabelle: 271(b) Fielding, Noel: 275 Forsyth, Bruce: 274 Fowler, Daphne: 278 Galbraith, Robert: 271(a) 275 Gibson, Sian: 279 Gigli, Beniamino: 289 Gillen, Aidan: 274 Google: 294 Goose, Claire: 260 Grande, Ariana: 266, 267 Granddaughter Jessica (see White) Grandson Ellis (see Dayer) Gray, Berkely: 253 Gray, Dolores: 265 Grayson, Larry: 281 Guetary, Georges: 290 Gunn, Victor: 253 Haitink, Bernard: 271(b) Hammett, Dashiell 274 Harrison, Bill: 280 Harrison, Kath: 280 Hatfield, Stefano: 256 Hawking, Stephen: 287 Heath, Eira: 265 Hollies, The: 284 Horowitz, Anthony: 277, 279 Hughes, Chris: 278 Hume, David: 253 Hurley, Graham: 258, 268 Hussain, Nadiya: 274 Ingleby, Lee: 276 Johnson, Boris: 276 Keep, Joan: 285, 286 Kelly, Gene: 290 Kelner, Simon: 256, 264 Kuusisto, Pekka: 293 Kyle, Jeremy: 274 Lancashire, Sarah: 284 Lanza, Mario: 290 Leith, Pru: 275 Len (neighbour): 274 Lincoln, Andrew: 278 Macdonald, Kelly: 276 Mackintosh, Cameron: 270 Madely, Richard: 251 Mahmoud, Mohammed: 269 Malone, Gareth: 273 Margolyes, Miriam: 283 Marr, Andrew: 253 Marsh, Ngaio: 253 Maxwell, Robert: 256 May, Teresa: 267 McCormack, John: 283 McEwan. Ian: 276 McFadden, Joe: 281 McGee, Debbie: 281 Morgan, Jeffrey Dean: 255, 278 Morgan, Piers: 260 Munch, Edvard: 294 Murdoch, Rupert: 256 Murnaghan, Dermot: 278 Murray, Douglas: 271(b) My Leader: (almost everywhere) Nilsson, Harry: 284 Ogden, John: 263, 269 O'Sullivan, Kevin: 264 Parfitt, Judy: 262, 287 Parker, Robert B: 274 Parry, David: 283 Pay, Colin: 276 Pay, Linda: 276 Peckham, Beth: 270 Perkins, Sue: 271(b) Plant, Margaret: 273 Pratchett, Terry: 252, 268, 271(a) Pullman, Philip: 279 Rana, Beatrice: 271(b) Riggs, Chandler: 286 Robeson, Paul: 284 Robins, John: 266 Roth, Tim: 276 Rowling, J.K. 271(a), 274 Sargeant, John: 275 Sargent, Malcolm: 271(b) Sayers, Dorothy L: 253 Shadow, the cat: 292 + almost everywhere Shaw, Percy: 254 Shorrock, Steph: 270 Skellern, Peter: 260 Skripal, Sergei: 295 Skripal, Yulia: 295 Spike: 273 Street Porter, Janet: 256 Tauber, Richard: 284, 289 Thomas, Dylan: 257 Tizz, Ina: 296 Toase, Anne: 273 Toksvig, Sandi: 275 Tree, Bubbles: 286 Tree, John: 285, 286 Trump, Donald: 255, 260 Turnbull, Giles: 288 Vegas, Johnny: 279 Viney, Carolyne: 273 Virgo, John: 264 Vogt, Lars: 293 Watts, Susana: 273 Webb, Lizbeth: 290 West, Tim and Pru: 275 White, Jessica: 258, 273, 285, 296 White, Peter: 265, 266 White, Robert: 265, 283 Whittam Smith, Andreas: 256 Wilkening, Anne: 276, 277, 278 Williams, John: 271(b)Williams, Mark: 260 Winkleman, Claudia: 274 Wiseman, Rich: 270 Wonnacott, Tim: 260 Wood, Henry: 271(b) Wright, Matthew: 251, 264

Post 299. BLOG INDEX TIME AGAIN.

AND THEN WHO KNOWS?
I've lost track of the times we've tackled this enigma. I promise myself there will be a change in blog format after I've published the next index: I must have made that promise four or five times now. Then I bumble around reading blurb on the web and listening in as pretty young women with American accents (is there an 'expert' left in the world who doesn't have an American accent?) assure me, in terms my semi-educated English skull is quite incapable of absorbing, why their blog format is far and away the best thing since sliced bread (an always over-hyped product in my opinion).
I then seek local advice: this time I sought it from the computer lifeboat captain who said (Post 298) that he would think about it. That was last Friday.
On Sunday I phoned his home number and had a chat with our daughter-in-law, Pauline, who is currently recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia that she simply refused to give in to: she's an Island girl. He was confined to bed with a heavy cold and sore throat. That's nasty, too.
It has been doing the rounds over here. My Mo is just getting over it. She insisted on getting up every day: she's a Pompey girl.
Anyway, I declined Paul's offer of a chat with Neil. There's a time for everything and I felt that wasn't the time. We'll get to talking again after blog index 6 has been published. Who knows? Before that, perhaps the faceless Silent Bobs at Google will break all their rules and offer me a solution - other than "fuck off" - in language I can understand.
Pigs might fly.
Oh, badgers do in The Badgers Of Deep Wood (my book for children aged nine to ninety nine) now almost completely revised and set to go.
Wish me the luck of finding favour with a pretty young publishing expert who has an American accent.
 
 
 

Post 298. ADVICE SOUGHT AGAIN.

FROM A RELIABLE LOCAL SOURCE.
The Computer Lifeboat Captain.

Made sense to phone him. He's our son Neil (pictured) and, somewhat to his father's perplexity, he's been making his living on computers for years.
I told him of the problem I have experienced in transferring (copy and paste) my carefully crafted WordPad (duplicated on OpenOfficeWriter) blog posts from their source to the 'edit' page.
My first question to him was: "Should I buy a domain?"
He didn't actually say "Christ, no!" but his reply did leave me in no doubt that somebody else always owns your domain, paid for or not and, in my case, any alteration to the status quo would be a big mistake. So how to rectify the difficulty of my dancing print size?
He didn't actually say "Christ knows!" but he did say he'll think about it.

Post 297. BUREAUCRACY GONE MAD.

MAD! NO DOUBT ABOUT IT.
And I am a diabetic.
Yes, I am a Type 2 (or, as I prefer to describe it, Grade 2 listed) diabetic and have been taking daily tablets for more years than I care to remember. Since I am increasingly too old, weak-willed and lazy to lose a couple of stone (28 pounds) in weight (look it up), for the rest of my life I shall probably be a who-knows-how-many-times-a-year regular at whatever local NHS establishment has the time and staff to deal with me.
They become harder and harder to find.
We still have a surgery in this village, but it is the branch surgery of a Newport practice currently beset by staffing problems.
For my next pre checkup blood test I have to go to the main surgery in Newport (a parking nightmare) or to St. Mary's Hospital on the other side of Newport (a bastion of self-importance over competence). That's the choice.
There is also a walk-in clinic in Ryde where you can chance your arm.
I opted for the main surgery and the earliest appointment I could get there - which is at the end of this month. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect Shangri-la and I do appreciate that others are faced with far greater problems, but for years I just walked down the road to obtain the scant services I required.
Not now. Too many patients: too few staff. 
Now it is bureaucracy gone mad.
No doubt about it, politicos are slowly killing off the NHS. If, diabetes notwithstanding, I survive another ten years, I doubt there will be a free service left. Who trusts an NHS Trust?
I was employed in family practitioner administration for thirty two years and believed in what it stood for. It's gone now. Successive governments have buggered everything up.
Not completely yet.
But watch 'em!

Post 296. WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE.

FOR THIS BLOG FORMAT?

Perhaps the final week.
I am examining the alternatives. And there are many of them. It seems the blogging world is alive with proficient people presenting fine new formats to tease the blogging beginner. I need advice less on beginning a blog (this one will be twelve years old come the 26th July) than on simply transferring to a modern, more easily prepared, publishing format.
If and when I find one, my entire output since 2006 may well become water under the bridge.
Probably already is.
There are far too many words floating about out there anyway. Half of Fleet Street adds to them every day and most of it is political twaddle.
We're better than that.
THIS COUNTRY.
Daughter Roz and granddaughter Jess came to see us yesterday. Usual family stuff until they got to talking about ThisCountry, a BBC iPlayer mockumentary starring brother and sister Daisy and Charlie Cooper and just about everyone else in their family (one of the joys of being the pair who created and wrote it). Roz and Jess were convulsed with laughter as they talked. We had to see it.
We have now.
My parents were too old for The Goon Show, let alone Monty Python. We were too old for The Young Ones.
Need I say more?
LETTER TO THE EDITOR.
Sir -
It has not escaped my organisation's notice that Watching is composed and edited by a male person. This is clearly an affront to gender equality about which immediate action should be taken.
Yours,
Ina Tizz,
for Women in Everything
Dear Ina - Have you ever met my Leader? Ed.

    



  









        

    
  







 

Post 295. DEPARTING DIPLOMATS.

COST IN WORLDWIDE TRAVEL?

One has to wonder...Why?
This Salisbury business has sure put the poison among the pigeons. Just in case you have been in outer space, Sergei Skripal (a sort of Russian Smiley's People character) and his daughter, Yulia, were found poisoned in Salisbury, England, on the 4th of this month (Post 287 refers).
The poison was Novichok which, apparently, is solely manufactered in Russia. It was a reckless attack and its perpetrators were irresponsible scum: but that's spooks for you.
Now, understandably, because nobody likes the thought of unfettered nerve agents roaming around their patch, the world and his wife have taken against those thought most likely to be behind the attack, Russia. Countries far and wide have dismissed from their nation's Russian embassy a token number of the blatant spooks they have tolerated for years. It seems these embassies have been spookily alive with them. (One has to wonder...Why?)
Now, as these countries expel Russian diplomats and Russia expels one country after another's diplomats in reprisal, hundreds of alleged spooks are on the move. Trains and planes are packed with them. If you're travelling first class, don't talk politics and keep your hand on your passport. If you're not travelling first class you won't meet them anyway.
Their countries pay their fares so they'll not be travelling with the hoi polloi.
God knows how much the total travel cost for all these comings and goings will be, but airlines everywhere must be rubbing their hands with glee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
   
   

Post 294. NOTHING WORKS.

WHATEVER I DO.
It's a Google plot.

So far in my quest to go from Post 288 to Post 300 at a rate approximating one a day I have had more trouble with the publishing than with the writing. Nothing works. Whatever I do.
As the regular reader may have noticed, I tried switching font from Times New Roman to Franklin Gothic Medium and at first that seemed to work. It didn't last. Yesterday's printing struggle was an absolute nightmare.
The end result had me swearing softly because original wording had to be cut or amended in places, but at least it's readable; if a trifle untidy.
I am in no doubt that this is all my own fault. Technology moves apace and a pleasant blog format in 2006 has to be overdue for updating in 2018. For a start, the number of words that old format will sensibly accommodate?
Don't ask me, ask the faceless Silent Bobs at Google and see where it gets you. If they ever spoke out it would only be to tell you there are great blog formats obtainable on Google Gold.
And that's where they mean you to be.
It's a Google plot; depending on your point of view of course.
Me? I could scream the scream

(with apologies to Edvard Munch)  

Post 293. THE POWER CUT ALWAYS COMES.

WHEN THE WORK HAS NOT BEEN SAVED.
It happened twice in succession yesterday.

I had wrestled the blog back from the cat Shadow (not without a show of petulance on his part), made a cup of coffee, weathered a "do the odd job because that's more important than any keyboard" session, acted as elderly retainer for a still lofty cat and we had been paid an unexpected visit by daughter Roz, who is currently suffering from shingles, poor love (there's no justice). She arrived as usual with Buddy (a mad puppy who is thankfully sane enough to avoid the cat Shadow).

After they departed, with my Leader sitting at the ironing board, Shadow surveying the dining room with a 'where's that bloody dog now?' look in his eyes and me blithely settled at my desk with the heading and first few lines of a post on the screen, there was suddenly no computer, no ironing, no electric kettle, no telephone, no television, no anything.

The power had gone.
As you will have gathered, I had saved nothing: not even the heading. Power came back minutes later.
Damage done.
I gently cursed, switched on the computer, tried to remember what I'd been writing, couldn't, began again. I had typed in the heading and a few unsaved lines when the second power cut came. 
It lasted...and lasted...and lasted.
Eventually we were back to second world war neighbourliness. Me on the phone to Derek next door and Derek next door on the phone to the nice lady on the other side of him and so on, until the nice lady on the other side got in touch with 'the electric' who said we'd be back in the warm world again by 5.30 pm.
We were. Bit sooner actually.
Too late for any more ironing, though, or for me to summon up the blog spirit again.
I spent the evening watching our magically alive television (Italians gaining a draw when one of them trips over his own feet in the penalty area? What a surprise) and went to bed with a smile on my face after experiencing again Lars Vogt's superb performance of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No.1 (found it on Sky Arts) and Pekka Kuusisto's joyful rendition of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto at the 2016 Proms: both courtesy of Den's 'erase these at your peril' television recordings.
A good end to the day.
Finally, I recently learned that Buddy has been letting next door know how unhappy he is when Roz is away from home.
I said he had better come here when she is at work then. He can settle on the chair in the conservatory when I am at work there, I suggested.
Huh!

 

Today, for the first time in a year or more, the cat Shadow spent the morning asleep in that very chair. He's back there now. It's not as if he hasn't got the above settee, too. Little perisher.
I'd swear he hears everything we say.

 

Post 292. I'M SHADOW.

I'M THE POETRY CAT.
A poem by Himself.

Way back at posts 126, It's Poetry Week... and 135, Roofing at home... the old guy who puts cat food down for me published my A Stroll With a Musing Cat and Shadow - The Poetry Cat (a take on T.S. Eliot) respectively: there have been other ditties, too. It seems that people liked them, so now that he has given me a post all to myself, stand by for:

Shadow - The Feline Bard.

I'm Shadow, I write poetry,
A verse does not come hard
I'll write it leaning against a tree,
Or lounging in the yard.
I'll write it for you on a fence
If that is what you wish.
Compose it standing on the stairs
Or in an unwashed dish.
I have no fear of rhyming,
No hang-ups and no cares.
On rooftops they all know me
As the pussycat Pam Ayres.
I do rhyming in the kitchen
And I versify in the loo.
I do doggerel in the dining room
And odes in the living room, too.
But I versify not in the bedroom -
On your bed I'll give forth not a peep
Except only for the gentlest of snore
To let you know I'm fast asleep

If you don't like it, keep it to yourself, eh?

Post 291. WHY CHANGE ANYTHING?

 

 

 

ONLY ASKING.

 

 

 

Because change is seldom ever for the better.

For a start it's clock changing time again. I swear we only undergo this ludicrous routine twice a year to make governments feel they are the bosses.
It does nobody any good and plays havoc with many a digestive system, but the powers-that-be persist with it year in year out.
What?
Oh, somebody else does Big Ben for them. Pathetic.
Truth to tell, so far this year no change (whether it be of Brexit-like importance or The Wright Stuff shuffling newspapers back and forth inconsequence) has in the slightest degree improved our lot.
So why change anything?
Which reminds me:
I still haven't changed the time on the oven clock.

Bugger! 

 

 

 

.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post 290. WHEN IT CAME TO SINGERS.

GEORGES GUETARY WAS GOOD, TOO.
And far better than most.

 Back at my desk I have the above pictured CD jauntily playing on the Steepletone.
I always liked Mr. Guétary (born Lambros Vorloou of Greek parents in Egypt) because, a naturalised Frenchman, he was more French and a far better singer than most of his contempories in the light music business.
I first heard him in 1947 when he was playing opposite Lizbeth Webb in Vivian Ellis's Bless The Bride at the Adelphi Theatre in London.
The show ran for 886 performances.
He then went on to star with Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron in An American in Paris, his one and only American film. I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise was the best number in that film and his was the best ever performance of it.
I always thought he stole the show and I don't think Hollywood ever quite forgave him.
Georges Guétary continued to give concert performances right up until his retirement to the Riviera at the age of eighty. He died, aged 82, in 1997.
So why, when old pal Ian Dillow has emailed me the name Mario Lanza (below), have I chosen a singer from operetta, rather than an opera, as my listening choice today? Well, counter tenor Georges may have had a lighter voice than bel canto Mario (who I also have on CD), but I think Georges was probably the nicer person.

Can't say more than that. 

Post 289. TODAY IT'S TENORS.

 

THE Original TENORS.

 

 

 

 

 

All three of them.

 

 

Midst news of another radicalised head case


gunning people down in France, nations at

 

 

each other's throats over political interference


from a social network, trade tariffs widening the


ever increasing gap between America and China


and murderous machinations in the spy world,

 

 

I am back at my desk in the real world: the little

 

 

Steepletone is doing its stuff. And today it's the

 

 

Original original three tenors: Enrico Caruso


(below right),Beniamino Gigli (above) and Jussi


Bjorling (below left).

 

Gigli was the first operatic tenor I ever heard on

 

 

record (old vinyl).

 

 

I had listened to Richard Tauber and Webster

 

 

Booth on the wireless of course, but Gigli was

 

 

something else again. Bjorling was a wonderful

 

 

Swedish tenor and Caruso was the benchmark for


the lot of them, and is to this very day. But I 


particularly liked Gigli. The little man had touches


of individuality(hear the last note of his Che gelida


manina) and I thought he was magic. Still do.
 

 

 

Where I picked up this CD, though, I have no 


idea.

 

 

You'll probably only get the later three now.

 

 

Well, they were pretty good, too.

Dare I say it?

 

 

 

Almost as good as my three.

 

Post 288. FROM HERE UNTIL 300

MORE MODULATED MEANDERINGS.

More frequent, too.
My blog posts up to post 300 are hence to be executed at a rate of knots hitherto untried. Why? Well, for whatever reason, the publishing of those somewhat longer posts has been an absolute beast for far too long and this particular Job's patience finally came to an end. From now on it's a more frequent dose of piano music on the music machine for me and a paragraph or two on the blog for you - if you're kind enough to look for it.
I hope to maintain the more frequent output until Post 300, when I shall publish a final index and Watching will be concluded in favour of a more modern format (if I can find the blighter).
That highly proficient computer guru Giles Turnbull once advised bloggers to turn out regular (possibly daily?) posts if they wanted to be regularly read. I mention Mr. Turnbull only because he was a blogger in whom I took considerable interest way back when I started online scribbling. We have not exchanged as much as a greeting and, to the best of my knowledge, he has never heard of me. But his wise words come back, together with a sad shake of the head, whenever I see my viewer statistics.    
Need I remind you there are lies, damned lies, and statistics?

Back soon.

 

 

Post 287. THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN.

THE MURDEROUS MUTTHEADS.

Yes, save our souls, those overgrown children from the school for spies are at it again: this time they have chosen to play one of their favourite pastimes for murderous muttheads, 'kill the turncoat kid.'
Now I haven't that much time for the alleged former Soviet agent currently in a critical condition in hospital. To me he appears to be just another of those daft buggers who has been playing silly James Bond games.
I do have a degree of sympathy with his daughter, a great deal of sympathy with Sergeant Nick Bailey of the Wiltshire Police, and concern for the many other innocent people effected, though.
Apparently they have been poisoned by a nerve gas known as Novichok: a Russian invention.Who says mad scientists can only be found in fiction?
As is the custom, politicians are spouting outrage and false innocence in equal measure.This has culminated in a Russian bigmouth reminding us that his country possesses nuclear arms so apparently should not be questioned. Bollocks! 
Most of the time, spies - like gangsters - stick to murdering each other, so the rest of us can pretend they don't exist: now we have been reminded again that they do. Appalling, isn't it?
With luck, and a load of decontamination, nothing will come of it all.
Without luck these recalcitrant renegades from the human race will eventually plunge us into another world war.
I'm far too old to let it frighten me, but I do fear for our descendants.
DEPARTURES.
In brief (because this blog is starting to look like an in memoriam column), both Ken Dodd and Stephen Hawking have died this week. Each man had a fine brain and each was an expert in his own field.
Wherever their spirits rest up will be the better for it.
TELEVISION.
We have been watching:
Shetland (good).
Below the Surface (good).
Portrait Artist of the Year (always watchable) and
Homeland (a neurotic nightmare).
We have also seen the entire series of Endeavour (excellent) and Call the Midwife (alive with loud ingenues in labour, fine ensemble acting, and a Judy Parfitt (pictured) performance that brought me close to tears of joy every week).

 (What's that? Recalcitrant renegades from the human race? Hell, if you're a born hack you can't resist the occasional jaunt into journalese.)
Cheers.