Post 286. A SHORT MONTH.

SO SOME SHORT 
Goodbyes and Hallos.

On Monday of this week we said our final goodbye to old friend Joan Keep. Customary service at the (above) crematorium down the road from here.
The one bright note was that her beloved little dog has been adopted and, our reliable informant tells us, is blissfully happy with its new owner.
She would like that.
The late John Tree's funeral service will take place on the mainland next week. I have been invited to attend but have regretfully declined. It's a bit too soon after Joan's and a bit too far for me to travel. (The spirit's willing, but the bladder...)
My kindest thoughts will be at Southwick - pronounced Suthick - in Hampshire on the day. My parents lived at Widley, a village close by, as did my Leader and I for the first few years of our marriage.
Unbeknown to me until many years later, John Tree and his wife, Bubbles, lived on the other side of the village from us, in the very road where my grandparents (on my mother's side) resided throughout WW2 and for some while thereafter.
A cliche, I know, but sometimes it really is a small world.
So to Tuesday of this week when we said happy hallos to Maureen's nephews Steve and Phil, the sons of her late (loved by the entire family) sister Jean Butler.
They - icy wind and snow squalls notwithstanding - ventured over from Gosport, Hants., for the day to take us out to lunch, reminisce, and generally make an elderly aunt and uncle feel wanted.
Despite the fact that they now qualify for bus passes, we still think of them as "the boys."
Over the years they have had their health problems, but neither has ever let illness keep him out of the work place for a single day more than the medics have deemed entirely necessary. The pair of them are a credit to their departed parents and thoroughly nice people to know.
So thanks again, boys. We'll try to make it over there to you for a day in summer.
TELEVISION.
Endeavour has been back.
All the leading actors (and those who back them up) are excellent. Roger Allam's DCI Fred Thursday is the best character currently on television.
The Walking Dead is back.
All the leading actors (and those who back them up) are excellent. Chandler Riggs's Carl Grimes (below) is the best character currently leaving television.
On a personal note: we have very much enjoyed your acting (and seeing you grow up) over the past six years, Chandler. Thank you and every good wish for the future.

Post 285. THE CHEERFUL AND THE SAD.

 

FIRST THE CHEERFUL.
On the really bright side.

First and foremost we have had the news that our favourite granddaughter, Jess (above left), gained a first in her recent university exams.
I don't have an inkling what that really means (lacked the background and the nous ever to qualify for uni) but I gather a first anywhere along the line is a very good mark indeed.
We are delighted with - and for - her.
Bonchurch Pond no longer beckons, lovely girl.
And on Shrove Tuesday our favourite grandson, Ellis (above right), came here with his mum, our Roz (nowhere above), for the annual pancake fest.
He took one look at Mo cooking the first of the batch and asked: "Can I do that?"
Maureen has never in her life turned down a willing volunteer. "Why not," she said and prepared him with one more example prior to handing over the ladle and skillet.
He then turned out nigh on a score of perfect pancakes.
Any television chef would have been proud of him.
We certainly were.
We ate very well that evening.
AND NOW THE SAD.
RIP two more old friends.
The older you get the more it happens. Stands to reason, doesn't it?
A week ago last Tuesday: our friend, and a former work colleague of Mo, Joan Keep, died in a nursing home at Sandown.
Joan was highly competent at whatever she undertook. A first class social services administrator, a devoted carer to her parents throughout their later years, and a splendid gardener all her life, it was a particularly sad irony that this nice lady, eventually stricken with dementia, was forced to leave her pet dog, together with her lovely home and garden at Ryde, and go into care.
We were told that she died peacefully, in her sleep. No surprise there. Joan never made a fuss about anything.
Then, last Sunday evening one of the straightest coppers I have ever known, longtime acquaintance John Tree, died at his home on the mainland following a long illness.
John was a born policeman. I think he first went into the police as a cadet, followed that with national service in the Royal Military Police and then joined the Portsmouth and Hampshire force to serve out the rest of a solid police career, quickly reaching the rank of sergeant.
By the time he retired from police work I believe he had become something of a security expert.
For a while he was the highly respected security chief of the largest company here on the Island, eventually leaving when his health started to deteriorate and the commute from the mainland became too much.
I'm afraid I then lost touch - only hearing on the grape vine of his ventures into local radio and 'oldie' choir singing - but I continued to like him and everything I heard about him.
He once said to me, apropos the security world: "There's no such thing as complete security. You can never cover all the angles."
John Tree was a man to whom you listened. He had no time for bullshit.
Go carefully, friends, you're a dwindling race.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Post 284. A LITTLE TOUCH OF SCHMILSSON

STILL LIGHTENS MY HEART.

Yep, a month into the new year
and time again to battle my annual inclination to cancel everything and hybernate for whatever remains of winter. Harry Nilsson (above) has been a godsend for years: A little touch of SCHMILSSON in the night on the music centre transforms my SAD into relatively optimistic for as long as it lasts, i.e. long enough to get me back to the keyboard with a faint smile on my face.
After that it's all a bit of a lottery. Finding music that is easy to listen to whilst retaining the incentive to scribble is not as simple as it may seem: few albums are good right through and those that are can be more of a distraction than an inspiration. I would perhaps eschew background music altogether - I do on the rare occasions I drive the car - but there's not just myself to consider: in our current ground floor living situation there's also my Leader
AND A CERTAIN CAT.

The cat Shadow can doze peacefully to Doris Day, Nilsson, Robeson, Tauber, The Hollies, most piano concertos and anything tuneful on the violin: I think the latter has some archaic connection to catgut.
He is not keen on anything too loud, clearly favours the romantic school, and is out of the cat flap like a bullet the moment Sir Simon or whoever opines that modern classical music is anything other than a cacophony. (I have taught him rather well. It's not.)
Right now he is asleep on a chair in front of a radiator and in sight of Mo's sewing machine in the study next door. She is working there.
The chosen music is gentle.
He is blissfully happy.
That's good. It spreads.
TELEVISION.

We have been watching the French series Spiral on BBC Four, the English series Kiri (with Sarah Lancashire - pictured) on Channel 4, and have finally watched the Bond film Spectre, originally shown on ITV1 on New Year's Day.
The French series contains more sexual content than the Bond film and the English series is more disturbing than either of them.
None of it has shocked or affected me as much as have the latest episodes of Silent Witness.
I can laugh at Still Open All Hours and Death in Paradise (picture below), too, and be close to tears over Call the Midwife.
I know, 'get' and 'a life' spring to mind.
All for now.

Next month: Text it, Brexit or Trump it?
Cheers.

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Post 283. TO START 2018.

IN COLD LIGHT.

Whatever the tunnel it does all look rather black.
Somebody on television (possibly the ubiquitous Miriam Margolyes, top marks to her agents) recently remarked that they saw no light at the end of a tunnel.
How very sad that is, whoever said it.
But how understandable when you stop to think: around the world there is nonstop conflict, much of it indescribably bloody.
So vast are the numbers trying to escape assault or annihilation that many of the countries where refuge is customarily given are talking migrant saturation and threatening to close their doors.
What can anyone do?
Well in this country it seems what we do is try to sell arms to even more tinpot dictators than the current crop from whom we currently obtain billions of pounds a year (and probably sustain better than 100,000 jobs).
Nobody in government will ever be seen to lose such a buoyant source of revenue.
I think it's called 'economics' or, in political terms, 'common sense.'
I wish I could be optimistic, but in cold light, whatever the tunnel, it does all look rather black.
The rich get richer and the poor get stateless.
Not very promising, is it.
So, on a lighter note...
TELEVISION.  

Rummaging through my list of saved television programmes recently I found another recording of The Good Old Days (this one circa 1980) with Leeds City Varieties favourite Robert White on the bill.
He sang three songs and on that occasion concluded with the John McCormack signature tune I Hear You Calling Me.
It could have been the Count himself up there.
As he acknowledged the applause I said to my Leader: "Now that's a singer. Every word as clear as a bell." 
She smiled. "And effortless," she said.
Mr. White is also listed to appear on a Good Old Days (1980) repeat to be shown on BBC Four next Friday (19th January, 2018).
He was eighty one on the 27th October 2017. Doubtless still singing.
Doubtless, too, he will never see this blog post.
But belated birthday greetings anyway, maestro, and many happy returns.
SO ON TO.
An email Fw: Google Pizza sent to me by old pal David Parry which I hope appeals not only to those to whom I have already sent it but to anybody else who may read it, including those faceless geniuses at Google:
CALLER: Is this Gordon's Pizza?
GOOGLE: No sir, it's Google Pizza.
CALLER: I must have dialled a wrong number. Sorry.
GOOGLE: No sir, Google bought Gordon's Pizza last month.
CALLER: OK. I would like to order a pizza.
GOOGLE: Do you want your usual, sir?
CALLER: My usual? You know me?
GOOGLE: According to our caller ID data sheet, the last 12 times you called you ordered an extra-large pizza with three cheeses, sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms and meatballs on a thick crust.
CALLER: OK! That's what I want ...
GOOGLE: May I suggest that this time you order a pizza with ricotta, arugula, sun-dried tomatoes and olives on a whole wheat gluten free thin crust?
CALLER: What? I detest vegetables.
GOOGLE: Your cholesterol is not good, sir.
CALLER: How the hell do you know that?GOOGLE: Well, we cross-referenced your home phone number with your medical records. We have the result of your blood tests for the last 7 years.
CALLER: Okay, but I do not want your rotten vegetable pizza! I already take medication for my cholesterol.
GOOGLE: Excuse me sir, but you have not taken your medication regularly. According to our database, you only purchased a box of 30 cholesterol tablets once, at Drug RX Network, 4 months ago.
CALLER: I bought more from another drugstore.
GOOGLE: That doesn't show on your credit card statement.
CALLER: I paid in cash.
GOOGLE: But you did not withdraw enough cash according to your bank statement.
CALLER: I have other sources of cash.
GOOGLE: That doesn't show on your last tax return unless you bought them using an undeclared income source, which is against the law.
CALLER: WHAT THE HELL?
GOOGLE: I'm sorry, sir, we use such information only with the sole intention of helping you.
CALLER: Enough already! I'm sick to death of Google, Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp and all the others. I'm going to an island without internet, cable TV, where there is no cell phone service and no one to watch me or spy on me.
GOOGLE: I understand sir, but you need to renew your passport first. It expired 6 weeks ago...
AND FINALLY.

Must go now: it's time for The Archers (an everyday story of BBC cosmopolitan country folk) on BBC Radio 4.
Keep smiling.

Post 282. SO MUCH FOR 2017.

NOT A GOOD YEAR
Home.
On 27 January 2017 (Post 258) I concluded with the words 'may this year be good to you.' Sadly it has been nothing like good for far too many people. Four of our best friends and a number of esteemed acquaintances died from one or another of the terminal cancers that can strike, with scant warning, at any time.
Loved ones have been left brokenhearted: friends helpless to placate them.
Elsewhere in Britain people have lost their nearest and dearest to the wanton acts of those who are a waste of space in any society: worthless nutcases who have driven vehicles at the innocent, shot them, bombed them or cut them down for no good purpose.
I would still hang every twisted little sociopath caught carrying out such an act.
But then, I would have hanged Brady and Hindley.
I'd happily throw arms dealers off a plane into an active minefield, too. We oldies can be impatient.
No. it has not been a good year.
SAME OLD STORY.

 Abroad.
A little fat ego in North Korea deliberately upset a big fat ego in America by recklessly ordering the launching of nuclear missiles into the Pacific Ocean, each of them increasingly close to America.
Not a wise move.
Now the US has stationed three aircraft carriers off the Korean Peninsula and there has been much rattling of nuclear sabres.
WW1 was proudly boasted to be the war to end all wars. What a reliable prophecy that turned out to be. There has been war all over the world ever since.
Watch us hasten to attach ourselves to any forthcoming US led conflict.
Will the buggers never learn?
SO TO END THE YEAR.

Honours.
So far as I can see, neither David Beckham (above) nor I has been knighted this year.
I am disappointed for Becks, but now that I've seen the list of those thus honoured I'm not sorry to still be a mister.
The cat Shadow has had his breakfast and is now comfortably settled on my Canon printer.
A kindly New Year's Greetings email has just arrived. Life's good.

 A Happy 2018 to you and yours, dear reader.



    

 

Post 281. GAWBLIMEY! IT'S CHRISTMAS!

AND ALL THAT HO HO HO STUFF.

Yeah, it's on us again.
I don't know why I bother to pack the decorations away. You no sooner lose the fairy off the tree than it's time to put the little varmint back up there again – if you can find her. Every year I swear I'll give up on it all and every year I finish up chasing my tail and wondering how many friendly noses we shall put out of joint this year because we have somehow overlooked sending them the customary greetings card. It's never deliberate but it gets worse by the year.
My Leader writes most of the cards now anyway. I plead arthritis. She also purchases, packs and sends all the presents. I maintain a studied indifference. She, bless her, cheerfully absorbs the spirit of Christmas right up until it arrives and then on to the end of the year. I sit back querulously reflecting that for a two day event we appear to have stockpiled enough food for a fortnight.
Happy Christmas, though, if you're one of the nice folk who bothers to read this.
Apologies in advance, too, if you're expecting a card from the Barndens but don't get one. 
TELEVISION.
Clearly Christmas is with us.
Most series are coming to an end or, like The Walking Dead, reaching half term and killing off at least one main character in the process.
Everything feels as though it has been given the compulsory light coating of tinsel or simply been raked up from the network's archive of hopefully forgotten dross.

We watched all five episodes of 32 Brinkburn Street (obviously straight from the Beeb's archives), an old fashioned drama set in Manchester and we struggled through the eight episodes of Witnesses: A Frozen Death (BBC Four) which was a load of bilge valiantly acted by French speaking actors. We gained little but didn't lose much from watching either series.
We also saw the final of Strictly Come Dancing and concluded that the whole of Scotland had to vote for Joe McFadden (a worthy but uninspiring finalist) if he was to beat Alexandra Burke or Debbie McGee to the glitterball trophy. Looks like the whole of Scotland (plus a mixed herd of racists and mysogynists?) actually did.
There's no accounting for folk.
And, as Larry Grayson used to say, he seems like a nice boy. 
TO CONCLUDE.
Pictured below is our plastic half tree bought many years ago.

It makes no mess and is easily packed away when it's all over.
We like it and can't be having with the snobs who don't.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, DEAR READER, TO YOU AND YOUR NEAREST AND DEAREST

 

Post 280. LATE FOR PUBLICATION.

AND THE SAD REASON WHY.

Last Tuesday, 28 November, 2017:
I was telephoned by one of my oldest friends, Bill Harrison, who lives in Pitlochry, Scotland, with the news that on the previous Tuesday, the 21st, his dear wife, Kath, had died of pancreatic cancer.
She went quickly, and (God bless the NHS) without pain, in the cottage hospital at Pitlochry. 
I think the last time Bill and Kath were mentioned in this blog was at 2(48) BACK AGAIN (Wednesday August 17, 2016) when, following one of their rare visits to the Island, I described them as 'high on my list of favourite people.'
Can't say much more than that.
It is one of those occasions when I am at a loss to find the right written words.
Kath's funeral was on Thursday last (RIP, lovely girl) and her departure leaves a huge gap in the lives of all those to whom she and Bill have given their unswerving friendship.
Our most sincere commiserations go to Bill, who has not been in the best of health himself of late.
Keep trundling on, old mate.

That's it for the time being.

Post 279. MOSTLY THE REST OF 278.

WHAT'S WITH THE BEARDS?
Have they something to hide?

Gone off razors? Or what? Many years ago the Daily Mirror columnist Cassandra (William Connor - above) castigated the increasing number of up-with-those-times males who were growing beards. What, he wondered, were they trying to hide? Weak chins?
Well they're back now, those beards: every foolish follower of fashion in fiefdom seems to have grown, or be growing, one.
Why?
If you're as ugly as sin clean-shaven a beard is unlikely to improve your looks, and if you are devastatingly handsome without a beard, growing one only makes you look like a sad, ageing dropout.
Perhaps the PC Brigade and the Fighting Feminists should take against face fungus: well, they've taken against just about everything else since the start of this century, so the weak-willed sheep who slavishly follow the herd would surely return to the razor rather than face their combined displeasure.
I'll just be glad when the fad is over. I think young men should stay looking young for as long as they can and older men should know better than to camouflage character (of whatever degree) with a scruffy stubble.
End of lesson.
READING.
Have just read:

The Book of Dust volume one La Belle Sauvage by Philip Pullman. 
Mr. Pullman is back in his parallel world where humans are accompanied by their own daemon.
If, twenty two years ago, you read and enjoyed the three His Dark Materials stories you will enjoy this, the first of another trilogy.
La Belle Sauvage tells baby Lyra's tale before the events in His Dark Materials took place: the hero is Malcolm Polstead, eleven years old, potboy and son of the innkeeper of the Trout inn.  Lyra's survival throughout the first year of her life eventually depends on his (and determined antiheroine Alice's) unswerving devotion.
The following two books will pick up the story after The Amber Spyglass (last of the first trilogy) ended.
Wonderful writing and well worth the wait.
As a follow up I am now reading Skeleton Key, the third of Anthony Horowitz's Alex Rider stories for teenagers.
This is another writer who knows his market very well indeed; according to the web, the Alex Rider yarns will soon be seen on our television screens, too. Apparently they will be made by a former producer of Foyle's War.
Sounds good to me.
TELEVISION.
A marvellous send-up.

Murder on the Blackpool Express. (GOLD) If you have not seen it, Johnny Vegas and Sian Gibson are top of the bill in this marvellous send-up of every star-studded whodunit ever filmed anywhere. I almost got caught out by the last minute red herring.
Loved it and hope writers Jason Cook and Mollie Freedman Berthoud will do many more along similar lines.
It's bound to be repeated around Christmastime, so if you did miss it...

Post 278. WRITER'S BLOCK?

NO, ENNUI.

I have been

less than assiduous in the writing department of late.The intention has been there but the execution has too often wavered.

It could be the onset of winter; it could be the thought of that bloody hour changing again; it could even be just an age thing (it would be daft not to admit, sometimes, that I'm getting on a bit).

Rule out that most pretentious excuse for idleness, writer's block, though. I prefer the word ennui.

And that's enough introspection for now:
let's move on...

PRICES - AND STUFF.

Everything seems to have become disturbingly more expensive of late. Here on the Isle of Wight, England (I name the country for the benefit of any nice American reader who may automatically assume I am sitting at a desk in Virginia) we are not short of large supermarkets. Since Mo and I moved over here in 1968 their presence has increased at a rate far beyond anyone's wildest speculation: much the same goes for their prices.

In view of the limited off-season population of the island (140,500 in 2010) whether they are all making a profit has to be open to question.

I can only assume there is so much money about (on an island packed with pensioners which for years has endured one of the highest unemployment rates in Britain?) and their profit margins are so high, that nothing can sink them.

If all else fails, brass neck will see them through.

Which reminds me of the many nonstop charity organisations already begging for Christmas donations. Let's move on...

ART.

Wrote in Post 277

that I would maybe include friend Anne's painting of feet and the rest at the end of the month.

Here it is and isn't it good?

TELEVISION.

My current viewing is decidedly haphazard.

So The Walking Dead is back (series 8) and in the very first episode Rick (Andrew Lincoln) had Negan (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) in his sights and could have shot him dead.

He should have.

That he didn't is what is wrong with every one of those television series that began life as an American comic book. None of them makes the slightest damned sense.

Oh, I'll still watch.

My Leader's love of quiz shows has me occasionally looking in on Eggheads for all its glaring faults.

The format still needs a change to even out the balance of the questions.

How much more does the opposition need to know about the weakest subject of every indivdual Egg? The director/producer (whoever) of the programme should desist from encouraging (instructing?) presenter Jeremy Vine to openly side with the opposition, too.

(Dermot Murnaghan clearly had the same brief.)

And it's about time dear old Chris Hughes retired from the scene. He now spends more time in the banished box (mostly thanks to sport - which he loves not) than he does on the panel.

He should have gone gracefully when Daphne Fowler did.

And for gawdsake don't ever lose Kevin Ashman.

He is the Eggheads

 

Happy bonfire night to you all. Mind those beards!

 

 

 

 

 

Post 277. IT'S BLACK OUT THERE.

COULD IT BE OPHELIA?
Or is that racist and sexist?

 And do I care? Well, you never know whose corns/bunions/suffering feet you are going to tread on nowadays do you?
My Leader continues to monitor her husband's occasional plunge into the pit of the politically incorrect, but unless she chooses to mention it he is mostly unaware of such transgressions.
No working class Englishman, brought up in the nineteen thirties, should be expected to have a doctorate in diplomacy anyway.
Diplomacy is for politicians and look what a backstabbing, lying, undesirable bunch they can be.
That having been said: I did learn tact in the NHS. Just decline being tactful to an angry dentist (former navy officers were particularly prone to tantrums), a pompous GP (would-be consultants could be the most fearful snobs), a self-pitying pharmacist ("Our profession is bedevilled by bureaucrats and doctors' handwriting!"), an irate optician ("We'll all be back to 'private' soon anyway."), or an always aggrieved member of the public ("Oi pays me stamp."); let alone upset that political pain in the arse member of your governing committee ("The people who voted me in won't like this..."): and see where it gets you.
Out in the street sans pension is where.
Oh yes, I learned to be tactful: albeit with difficulty and a tongue scarred from the biting of it.
But that was long ago.
I finished up with early retirement and my pension so it shouldn't still rankle. In any case, the protagonists from my time are all dead or retired now. Unlikely I will come across any of them again.
What?
Oh, it's not that small an island: and after I've kicked the bucket I doubt I shall encounter any of them playing a harp in some cloud-cuckoo-land in the sky, or stoking up a devilish furnace in the bowels of the earth.
But enough of the light-hearted stuff...
TAKE A SERIOUS LOOK.
At this lovely artistry.

Our friend Anne (see Post 276), the semi-retired GP whose former surgery is now our home, has, at our request, emailed us a selection of her recent art work.
She attends a part time course at an art school in Cornwall and is currently concentrating on the realistic reproduction of hands and feet. Hands here. Feet and the rest at the end of the month maybe.
And there's more.
Not only does she produce this remarkably promising artwork, she is also a highly qualified professional acupuncturist and a constantly active chorister who has sung in cathedrals all over the world. I know. I'm in awe, too.
But I shan't tell her.
She won't read this.
When it comes to the written word though...
READING.
Anthony Horowitz (pictured).

I have just read the first two books in Mr. Horowitz's Alex Rider series: Storm Breaker and Point Blanc.
Alex, a fourteen year old schoolboy, is destined to transform into a teenage James Bond; a role he has no innate desire to play.
The stories are delightful tosh, clearly aimed at the teenage market and I (at 87) have loved every glorious, unbelievable, mad moment of them.
Well, what would you expect from the man who wrote Foyle.s War?
Eight more to read.

Quiet please in the library.
      

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.