Post 328. LIKE BAD PENNIES

THEY KEEP TURNING UP.

I won't bother with their names. If you are a television viewer in Britain you cannot have failed to see them: 'reality' and 'chat' shows would cease to exist without them. If you are a welcome reader elsewhere in the world you will probably have seen or heard of none of them and be no worse off for it. 

Here in the UK they have transmogrified from right wing political nonentities into elected MEPs, carried into power on the newly formed Brexit Party bandwagon.

Their leader and founder once led the UK Independence Party: he is a political chancer who apparently has visions of steering this current crop of populist posers all the way to the top in the House of Commons. 

Christ help us if that ever happens. 

Should the opportunity arise, though, many bleating sheep will follow them and, given the current political scene, who knows...? 

They wouldn't get my vote. 

But I wouldn't have voted for the National Socialist German Workers' Party, either. 

HOME.

Daughter Roz (pictured over the last five months) is fast becoming her old self. Hair growing well. Weight control underway. Tiredness still a problem but sense of humour resolutely intact. Good for you, girl.

Sometimes our house resembles Isle of Wight Cats Protection, but the ambience is generally harmonious and summer is coming. 

TELEVISION. 

Gwendoline Christie (pictured) who played Brienne of Tarth was still alive when, sadly, Game of Thrones came to an end. I liked her and I'm glad she made it. 

The last episode did seem somewhat hurried, but apparently George R.R. Martin has not yet finished the book, so I guess it came down to somebody at HBO wanting their toys back. 

Never mind. 
At the weekend Montalbano returns to us on BBC Four, so there is a life after Westeros. 

In the meantime, I shall get my entertainment from the real life characters taking an offstage break below. 

Left to right they are Spike, Angel and the dog Buddy.

Footnote: I looked up The Brexit Party Manifesto on the web. It said: This page can't be displayed. Huh! 

Mind how you vote.

Post 327. ANOTHER DIRE WARNING

FROM THE READILY AFFRONTED MILITIA. 

 Danny Baker (above) has been sacked (again) by the BBC.

God help him, he posted a bloody silly picture in respect of the new royal baby. 

PC National Command (see Post 307) instantly issued a condemnation order and all anti-racist hell broke loose. The popular programme presenter rapidly discovered his mistake. What a celebrity posts online in this day and age is strictly monitored by the Readily Affronted Militia and no apology, heartfelt or resentful, will ever satisfy them. 

So he was swiftly skuttled for this moment of madness and not even a successful, post bollock dropping, gig in Nottingham can disguise the ignominy of it. 

Let's be sensible, though. He's not a terrorist. He didn't kill anybody. He just incorrectly interpreted what today's public might regard as funny. 

Well, he's a quick-witted scrapper who reputedly has many friends throughout the media, so he'll survive. 

I think the Beeb was a bit hasty. Worry about listening figures I suppose. And it can't always be easy reining in the skittish selection of moderate talent allied to massive ego that fights for fame in Broadcasting House. 

ON THE COMMERCIAL FRONT 

Jeremy Kyle hit trouble, too. A former guest on his ITV show committed suicide. 

I saw very little of Kyle, and what I did see only confirmed my opinion that all reality television, including Love Island (which has similarly led to deaths), is crap. As far back as 1968 Nigel Kneale wrote a disturbing play, The Year of the Sex Olympics, where a pathetic populace was moronically fixated on 'live' television. I am reminded of it whenever I chance upon the 'reality' stuff now. 

It should be scrapped en masse. 

What? Oh I know you don't watch it. 

You wouldn't be reading this if you did. Which nicely leads on to...
TELEVISION. 
Game of Thrones

 If ever a final series was destined to go out in a blaze of glory, this Sky Atlantic epic is the one. We had the penultimate episode at the beginning of this week and now, like a perfect holiday, we just don't want it to end. Will Peter Dinklage (above) be left alive? Will anyone?

The acting has been splendid throughout and the special effects are good enough for a blockbuster film. When it finishes we shall be hard pressed to find a replacement. Unless, that is, George R.R. Martin has a sequel up his sleeve? Keep hoping. 

We bade a fond farewell to The Durrells, too. 

They were wonderfully eccentric pre-war Brits writ large for the American market. Loved 'em and loved Corfu. 

Happy viewing, texting, whatever...

Post 326. WAS THAT IT THEN?

HOME. 

Summer came early. 

Too early? Well it lasted right through the Easter holiday when the schools were closed. It's not supposed to do that, is it? 

This year the stick-at-homes were genuinely able to feign sympathy with the many sun seekers stuck in airport terminals. 

It was brighter here. 

Needless to say, the perpetual pessimists are of the mind that an Easter like that can only mean one thing: a lousy Summer. 

There's no pleasing some people. 

The cat Shadow woke the world at dark o'clock one morning last week when he came through the cat flap with a large (and very dead) mouse. 

How, in his dotage, he had caught/found/stolen the poor creature he did not say, but he did say, loudly, that he was still up to it, so what did I think of that? 

“I think you're a boastful, murderous little bugger,” I said. 

“And will that replace, or accompany, a pernickety old sod?” he enquired silkily. 

I really must moderate my language. 

Pernickety? 

TELEVISION. 

The Durrells. (ITV) 

Hurray! The Durrell family is back for Season 4. 

Keeley Hawes (as matriarch Louisa) and the usual excellent fellow cast, ensure that Simon Nye's Corfu romp - based on Gerald Durrell's books - is quirky and eminently watchable. 

My own favourite is young Gerry, played by Milo Parker (pictured). Love the hat. 
Make the most of them all, though. This is their last season. 

Line of Duty. (BBC One) is also nearing the end of another series. The ubiquitous Jed Mercurio's bent law enforcers are fast setting the benchmark for television police personnel. 

I know I've said this before, but it bears repeating: I have known and counted as friends many police officers over the years. There have been the occasional drinkers, the frequent philanderers, some poor marriage partakers and a few ebullient bullshitters among them, but the majority have been decent, ordinary blokes who made the best they could of an often unpopular and sometimes dangerous job. I don't think any them was corrupt. I doubt some of them could even spell the word. 

So who in Line of Duty is determined to end the career (even the life) of Superintendent Ted Hastings? And is he H? We'll probably find out next Sunday. Meanwhile we shall burn the midnight oil watching Game of Thrones (shown here on Sky Atlantic). 

The battle episode this week was the most gripping I have ever seen on television or in a cinema. Marvellous stuff. 

Can't stop. Tele to watch.

Post 325. BACK TO NORMAL

WELL, ALMOST. 

Depends what you call normal.

We were never all that normal anyway. The picture of housemate daughter Roz and her adoring dog Buddy says it all. Awash with books, clutter, and animals, we are hardly the stuff that Ideal Homes recommends. People who proudly pose in pristine palaces seldom visit us, people allergic to cats (three now) or dogs (just the one) do not visit us, and people we have come to recognise as sound friends still turn up on a regular basis to accept us as we are.

One such made her annual visit here last week when longtime friend Anne Wilkening (pictured) drove up from Cornwall to stay for a few days. 

With Roz's blessing, she slept in the room left vacant while Ellis was skiing in Austria (a school trip). 

We very much enjoyed her company and our grandson reports that he thoroughly enjoyed his time abroad. 

Success all round. 

Oh, the photo was taken in Mallorca last year, but it looks quite like the Isle of Wight and Anne doesn't alter at all.

TELEVISION. 

Line of Duty is back and as good as ever. 

Adrian Dunbar and colleagues never fail to impress and writer Jed Mercurio's obsession with dicey coppers makes for lively viewing. 

Game of Thrones is back. too. Last series. 

Will anyone still be alive when it ends? 

Along with half the world, we shall follow every twist and turn. 

READING. 

I have just finished the late Terry Pratchett's A Blink of the Screen and advise anybody who thinks they can write to read it and think again. I have also read Last Stories by the late William Trevor (a Christmas gift from our daughter Jac). The ten short (ish) stories were beautifully written, immaculately observed and, so far as I could judge, without plot or point. Well, that's life. 

Mr. Trevor (Picture below) won the Whitbread Prize three times and was four times shortlisted for the Booker. 

Anybody who thinks they can write should read him and try harder.

All being well I shall be back at the end of the month. 

Post 324. ALL FINALLY AGREED

ON BREXIT. 

Great news. 

The hitherto secret agreement obtained by Mrs. May to a Brexit deal that suited all parties involved (on both sides of the Channel) was welcomed in this house where, at a time too far back for our simple minds to question the whys and wherefores, one of the owners chose 'leave' and the other 'remain.' 

The further news that the Prime Minister's negotiations had been boosted by the support of all her Conservative colleagues, the SNP, Plaid Cymru, the DUP, Labour and other opposing parties keen to put country before self, plus the Speaker of the House of Commons, came as something of a surprise. 

The abrupt resignation of Messrs. Gove, Johnson and Rees-Mogg was an unexpected bonus. 

FILM AND TELEVISION. 

Most interesting 

New film proposal currently doing the rounds is a possible remake of The Naked Civil Servant with Idris Elba as Quentin Crisp. 

Apparently this follows news that Peter Dinklage is to be the next James Bond. 

THAT'S THE END 

of this short, no picture, post. 

And if you have believed a word of it, check the date of publication. 

I do believe either of the actors mentioned would be totally convincing in any part he chose to play, though.

Post 323. REGRET THE DELAY.

HOME. 

Been busy.

It has been change, change, and change again. 

Roz and Ellis, with dog Buddy, cat Angel and cat Spike (pictured), moved in and seem to be settling down. 

Roz began a three week course of radiotherapy treatment last week. She goes daily to Southampton General Hospital. Up at 5.30 a.m. to walk the dog, then on to the Red-Jet Ferry in time to catch the mini bus to the hospital. It can be a long and tiring day for her. 

My Leader has been taking Ellis to school, a couple of miles along the road to Newport from here: it's a three quarters of an hour or more drive if you catch the peak time traffic into town, a little less than half that if you travel off-peak, and (come what may) a ten minutes cruise back home. 

Thank the gods I no longer drive. 

My language, even as a passenger, can be choice. 

With the extended family in mind came the first of three changes in as many days to the furniture layout of our living rooms. Weariness apart, we finished up with almost the same format as we had before it started, but Roz does have her own downstairs living room now. 

Eh? Oh, we have a bit more clutter. What's new? 

We also have an interesting animal hierarchy. 

The cat Shadow (approximate age 23/4) is too old to give a cuss about aliens in his home and, other than occasionally bullying the dog, ignores both cats if he can. Present state of play: 
Buddy is a buddy to his two family cats and avoids Shadow where possible, the male cat Angel (I'll explain sometime) spends his daylight hours in Ellis's bedroom, and the pretty little female, Spike, flirts shamelessly with any human and swears fearfully at Shadow. I, of course, adore her. He gives her his 'do stop it, kid, I ran an entire terrace for twelve years' look, but she gets bolder and he gets older by the day. 

Time will tell. 

TELEVISION. 

Endings, repeats and flounderers. 

First: the endings. 

The latest series of Shetland, starring Douglas Henshall, concluded here last week and The Missing spin-off, Baptiste, starring Tchéky Karyo (above), ended last night. 

Both had plots relating to people trafficking (currently much in vogue with tv playwrights), both were splendidly acted, and both warned that not all policemen can be trusted. 

Well, there's good and bad in every walk of life. 

It was easy viewing. 

Second: the repeats. 

Look anywhere. The BBC is awash with reruns of every conceivable type of time filler, ITV struggles to fill its plethora of outlets with a small percentage of new material and Sky is overcast with easily forgotten stuff we saw forty years ago and are now sought payment to view. 

Are we mad? 

Finally: the flounderers. 

NCIS is running out of half-believable story lines - they only ever were half-believable - and is currently wallowing in sentiment (America's sickly alternative to violence). The Walking Dead and comic strip counterparts are equally prone to 'he might be psychopathic but he loves his mum' moments. 

I still wouldn't miss Mark Harmon and Co, though. Love 'em.

Meanwhile, Channels Four and Five compete to present celebrity faces that have you asking 'who?' and most chat shows are inhabited by guests who have a book to sell or a show to plug.

Come to think of it, when weren't they? 

THAT'S ME FOR NOW. 

The Badgers of Deep Wood. 

My book for children aged nine to ninety nine is finished at last. 

Rewritten and extended by another twelve chapters.

All I need now is to print it off (not simple with my oldish Canon printer) and persuade our artist son to undertake additions to the excellent pictures he did way back when. 

Then I'll try to find a reputable agent. 

I'm too bloody old to spend a million years on slush piles. 

Wish me luck, pals.

Post 322. MID MONTH.

AND A SETBACK.
Regarding the sale of Roz's house.

The young couple from the mainland
who were, and still are, keen to buy our daughter Roz's house (pictured) have been stymied by some legal financial rule or other and are currently unable to progress any further. Consequently the house has had to be put back on the market, if only pro tem.
The move here.
Roz and grandson Ellis (together with the dog Buddy and two cats) will be moving in with us next Wednesday. Not even the cat Shadow will stymie that: he hasn't gone out of his way to sabotage the preparations, but he moans a bit.
Right now our place is in uproar. You don't know how much junk you've accumulated until you try to condense it.
We are completely emptying one downstairs room for Roz to transform into her living room. Almost finished and starting to realise that, at a combined age is 163, we are not quite as brimful of energy as we once were.
Ne'er mind.
We'll get there and it will be worth it.
TELEVISION.
Just a few words.
Endeavour is back: darker and peopled by characters who (in the first episode) seem to have become strangely off-piste since the closure of Cowley.
Dunno what Russell Lewis is up to, but give it time.
Grantchester: a couple of episodes from series end, is darker and doesn't seem to know which way to turn.
Interesting though, and Robson Green (below) is, as always, unerringly dependable.

Can't stop. Dinner's ready.

Post 321. ANOTHER YEAR ANOTHER OUTLOOK.

HOME.
Our Roz.

Good news all you kind supporters who have been wishing Roz well in her battle with cancer. On 16 Jan she had the first meeting with her consultant since that double mastectomy and was informed – verbally to be followed in writing – that she is currently free of all cancerous cells. I cannot describe the relief. 
Please keep wishing her well, my dears, it's obviously working.
Thank you.
Nephew Phil. My Leader's nephew, Phil Butler, who has been a stalwart supporter of his cousin Roz throughout her illness, has phoned from his home on the mainland to say that initial stage cancer cells have now been discovered in his liver and lungs. We can only wish him safe recovery. Good luck and keep fighting, mate. You're a star. 
BLOODY TECHNOLOGY.

Internet Explorer keeps telling me (via a little box on Facebook) that Internet Explorer has stopped working. 'A problem caused the program to stop working correctly.' (It says) 'Windows will close the program and notify you if a solution is available.'
Beneath that a smaller box invites me to 'Close program.'
If I've offended 'em I don't know how.
Bloody technology! 
ONLINE IS AWASH.
With competitors.

Now that newspapers are passé and banks are almost lost from the high street I am wondering how long it will be before the Ban Everything brigade moves into Wipe the Web mode and seeks legislation to rid online of any company or individual with an annual income of less than £400m.
The legislation lobby strengthens under the groaning weight of daily newspaper journalists now flooding the web and understandably keen to establish it as a place legally occupied only by their own kind, i.e. paid purveyors of politically bigoted bosh. 
This country really does get more like America every day.
TELEVISION.
Good tele? 

If you are English you should know, if you are American you may not, that Father Brown - based on the fictional character invented by writer and broadcaster G.K. Chesterton KC*SG (1874 – 1936) - bears resemblance neither to this England at any time in the its pre or post WW2 history, nor to the popular-in-their-day stories written by Chesterton. I mention this to amend my earlier description of the series as: 'a watchable dose of dated hokum.'
It is watchable and it is hokum, but it is not dated. The age depicted has simply never existed. It is just a fantasy age drummed up by television producers and directors. In avoiding such notions of what constitutes 'good tele,' I now avoid any programme (antiques, snooker, quiz...whatever) wherein participants are given bloody silly nicknames, any competition finale where I am expected to wait longer than it would take to make a cup of tea to find out, after I have been told “the winner is,” just who the bloody winner actually is, and any show where the 'witty' presenter has clearly been instructed to take the piss out of fellow performers because 'that's what the public wants.'
If that's what the public wants, it deserves what it gets: dumbed down television.
I watch more films and repeats on my planner now.
And if you think I've written all this before, your memory is better than mine.
Watch your step and avoid road racing.

 

Post 320. TRUDGING ON HOPEFULLY.

INTO 2019.
Our Roz. 

On January 7th Roz went into St. Mary's Hospital, IW, for a double mastectomy performed by a team from Southampton: two surgeons worked simultaneously over some ninety minutes.
She recovered better than expected from the anaesthetic and, though sore, has felt well since and is now back in her own home under the care of a district nurse, of Mo, of kind friends, and of granddaughter Jess who is staying with her every night until full recovery. 
On the same basis, grandson Ellis is staying here with us.
I am just eternally grateful for the dedicated and skilled professionals who carry out such superlative work.
Suffice to say I have, over the past year, discovered I am nothing like as tough as I thought myself to be; a finding that has not escaped my Leader, who knows my every mood backwards. Well, even English boys of the nineteen thirties can't always hide their emotions. Sad though that we feel so guilty about showing them.
As mentioned elsewhere within these posts, I was a NHS employee for over three decades (1957 – 89), believed in it implicitly, often found fault with it, too easily fell out with snotty seniors, and thought then, as I still do, that politicians and shit top administration will eventually do away with any semblance of the wonderful public funded service it was meant to be.
We'll finish up following America again. Devil take the hindmost.
In the meantime, keep thanking the gods for all the wonderful doctors, nurses and administrative staff we still have left in Britain.
No final date for Roz to move here yet, but it should be before the month is out. Radiators are in (thanks, Dean, you're a good lad), carpeting is down and everything is ready.
Whether you know her or not, wish her good luck, eh?
MUSIC.
To relax.

Relaxing while working, with the little music centre doing its stuff.
A long time favourite CD of mine, Lars Vogt playing Schumann's Piano Concerto, with the CBSO conducted by Simon (now Sir Simon) Rattle. Young Lars played it beautifully at Leeds in 1990 and I ordered and picked up the recording from Symphony Hall Gift Shop, Birmingham, on a day trip to a CBSO matinee (a sixtieth birthday present from Mo).
We can't manage trips of that sort anymore, but we enjoyed them while we could. I console myself with the thought that if I went now I'd probably have to listen, before the real music came on, to some modern cacophony that infuriated me.
Which reminds me: since Desert Island Discs on Radio 4 was taken over by Lauren Laverne (from the excellent Kirsty Young), people young enough to regard twentieth century music as ancient have become the fashionable castaways. Listening to a recent choice I sourly remarked to Mo: “If I was rowing towards a desert island and heard that one's music I'd turn right around and row away.”
(Yeah, I know. Miserable old sod.)
But, to be fair, 'that one' would probably turn right around and row away if he or she heard any of mine. 
TELEVISION.
Hunters and hunted.

We are being caught up by police procedural in the crop of old coppers' memoirs currently in evidence. My favourite to date has been Manhunt in which Martin Clunes (brilliantly underacting) plays real life DCI Colin Sutton of the Metropolitan Police, a man who plainly never overacted throughout his entire career and as a consequence was, without doubt, frequently dismissed by glib bullshitters of higher rank.
DCI Sutton's painstaking pursuit of the serial killer Levi Bellfield was shown on ITV over three nights and - even to one who normally eschews both literary and screen 'true detective' depictions - was mesmerising stuff. 
Can't say the same for Hunted or ex cop Peter Bleksley on Channel 4: my disenchantment with reality television has been diminished by neither.
For the fictional detective devotee two new series with the return of Father Brown (BBC1) played by Mark Williams, a watchable dose of dated hokum, and Grantchester (ITV) starring Robson Green and, apparently for the last time, James Norton: a feel good dose of sham 1950s for the oldies.

I watch both with frequent smiles and an occasional groan. Love the premise, see the flaws.
THAT'S IT FOR NOW.
Thanks for your Christmas cards, all who sent them, and apologies to those who may have somehow been missed off our list. It came and went so fast.

All the best again for the New Year.
Mind how you go, and avoid picking up the phone to any number you don't recognize.

 

   

Post 319. ANOTHER CHRISTMAS GONE.

TIME TO REFLECT.
This is our mantlepiece.

Yes, our mantlepiece, temporary home to a handful of the Santa Claus collection that emerges here each year at Christmastime.
We no longer know why we bother.
Our children and grandchildren are well beyond the age when the Santa's Grotto look interested - let alone impressed - them, so I guess it has to be habit and, maybe, a roguish desire to prove that old age is not necessarily allied to wisdom.
I long ago shattered that supposition anyway.
HOME.
A sometimes sad year.
Early in the year our friend Joan Keep died and a week before Christmas my late cousin Don Stanley's wife, Thelma, with whom I have maintained affable occasional telephone contact over the years, died in a Sheffield care home at the age of eighty five: she had been in increasingly poor health, so the news did not come as a shock, but I always liked her, will very much miss her, and commiserate with her lovely family.
All the very best for the future my dears.
I also miss
old pal Anonymous John who has had a troublesome year healthwise. Hope next year is vastly better for you, John.
And I have fingers crossed
for our brave, brave daughter Roz, who will enter hospital early in January for a double mastectomy and afterwards move, with our grandson, from Newport to take up home with us for a while. I don't pray but I do a lot of hoping.
On the bright side.

 The replacement of radiators apart (where are you, Dean?) there is only the carpeting - bedrooms and stairs - left to do and the upstairs accommodation will be ready for Roz and Ellis to move in. Our thanks again to Stuart (proprietor Stuart Boyd-Kerr Property Developments Limited), for installing the truly splendid en suite shower room (pictured above), and to Mick Birmingham (MGB Painting and Decorating) for breaking his 'quiet December' rule to plaster and decorate before Christmas the bedrooms, en suite, stairway pictured below, and hall of this sadly neglected former surgery.

What a relief.
TELEVISION.
I am not going to dwell on the paucity of decent tele over the festive season.
We did see and enjoy Agatha and the Truth of Murder, The ABC Murders, Clint Eastwood: A Life in Film, The Midnight Gang and The BFG. The old boys and girls tackling University Challenge were fun, too.

AND THAT'S THE LOT FOR THIS YEAR.
Hope your Christmas was good. All the best for New Year.

Post 318. THE REST OF THE WORLD.

MUCH OF IT DESPERATE.
Refugees.

Don't tell me this country of ours really cares who drowns in The Channel. I don't think your average little Englander gives a toss how many desperate beings sink trying to get here, providing they sink without trace and don't wash up on our beaches.
Truth is, we live in an increasingly ruthless and uncaring world where devil take the hindmost has become the sad norm. It has given rise to an international upsurge in blinkered nationalism and, to those of us born before world war 2, ominously presages what could be the first world war of the twenty first century.
For the sake of humanity, all of you, wake up and bear in mind: it only takes one bonkers-in-the-head politician to press a button or elevated nutcase to say the wrong word!
HOME.
Our Roz. Last chemo undergone with all the unpleasant after effects that follow. She's a gradely fighter. So far as future living arrangements are concerned, her en suite here is now underway thanks to...
Stuart the builder partner of our lovely hairdresser friend Maxine Boyd-kerr (we've been pals for over twenty years) who, although he knew Mo and I only through our lengthy friendship with Maxie, kindly stepped in to allay our fears that we would never be suitably adapted to accommodate Roz and Ellis when their removal time arrives.
We will now. He's doing a great job.
Blessyer, mate.
TELEVISION.
The Walking Dead

(SPOILER) This series reached the halfway mark and took another step in the direction of let's kill off all the limeys with the weird murder of British actor Tom Payne (above) who played Paul 'Jesus' Rovia.
He was, I fear, too good looking to last.
Long-time cast member Andrew Lincoln, another Brit, was spirited away a couple of weeks ago along with Pollyanna McIntosh, a Scottish actress who played the unpredictable 'trash queen,' but room has been left for the return of either or both of them.
The departure of these Brits can be no surprise to any viewer of The Talking Dead fronted by lively Chris Hardwick.
On a couple of occasions over the years he has griped (albeit in mock fun) “Why do we employ all these Brits? Our actors can't go over there and get jobs on Downton Abbey.”
Had I been close enough to give him a reply I would have said: “No, your actors just take over our West End theatres and finish up buying the bloody Downton Abbeys.”
C'est la vie.

Mind how you go. 

Post 317. MORE CELEBRATIONS.

IN PERSONAL CORNER. 

My Leader. 

It was Maureen's birthday on Monday (she's the non-furry one in the picture with the cat Shadow). 

There were no expensive gifts and the weather wasn't great, but she had a nice little bunch of cards, the phone didn't stop ringing all day and there was much kindness and love and being visited. 

A happy day. 

The cat Shadow. 

Dear old Shadow (he's the furry one in the picture with Maureen) is around 22/23 years old now and, bless 'im, starts to act it. 

He sleeps more, miaows more and eats less. 

We have been together since the start of the century and have lauded and cursed each other in equal measure. His time in our company is clearly more important to him at present than ever before and he has been the most dedicated family cat ever to adopt us. If he kicks the bucket before I do a piece of my heart will go with him. Let's move on to something lighthearted. 

Our Jess. 

Granddaughter Jess, one of Maureen's birthday visitors, who recently moved into her own home in Ryde, celebrates her twenty third birthday next week and has asked whether her get-together might be held at our house.  

Answer: Yes, of course. 

It will be another happy day: Mo will see to that. 

In the meantime, lovely Jess has published the following on Facebook: 

Story - 

For my birthday this year I'm asking for donations to Stand Up To Cancer. As some/all of you know, my mum was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer which, to be honest, has been less than ideal. Luckily she's doing really well but it is important that research into all different types of cancer continues, so that survival rates can continue to improve. Stand Up To Cancer (SU2C) brings together today's top scientists to collaborate. Our mission is to make every cancer patient a cancer survivor. Every little helps – thank you. 

Jess Daisy White - 14 November 2018. 

Facebook itself is among the early contributors. 

We couldn't be more proud of her or her mother. 

Our Roz. 

Roz has seen her consultant today and has been assured that, in her case, both breasts can be removed and restructured. This is the best news she has had since treatment began. 

She will be given her last session of chemo next week and the operation will take place early in January 2019. 

Your kind thoughts are much appreciated, nice people. 

That's all for now. 

I'll be back with the rest of the world next time