Post 334. NOTHING REALLY CHANGES

AS THIS POST SHOWS.

 On the 13th August 2008 (Post 109) I wrote: 

Perhaps I should feel more urgency about things, but I try not to kid myself that my views are of earth shattering importance. A month free of my meanderings will not have global repercussions. For that matter, I do not think the opinions of most people, no matter how honestly held, are of particular consequence. If they think anybody gives a toss they are sadly mistaken. 

In the same post (remarking on an email I had received from a blatant racist) I opined: 

Seems to me most of the trouble in this world is caused by religious fanatics and politicians of every persuasion. I cannot be bothered with them: or the blinkered morons who support them. 

No change there then. 

No change either in the following disclosure from the same post: 

I sometimes think I would like to have been an actor: but know I could never have made it. I have a dread of being regarded as a show off, suffer excruciating stage fright and am mortified by rejection. As compensation, I get great pleasure from watching professional actors skilfully practise their craft and enjoy putting together a few words about them when they have particularly impressed me. I feel I need not worry that they may read it. The good ones will be too busy learning their lines. 

Heck! This is an elderly chap's occasional blog, not a column in a national daily. 

Anyway, for what it is worth, as a scribbler I suffer depression occasionally and fools not at all. The depression usually comes at the outset of winter or when the fortnight which constitutes summer has gone. It is remedied by bright colours and plenty of light. The remedy for fools is deletion. And if you are the sort of smart arse who says it takes one to know one...

Click! 

Yep! Nothing really changes. 

Cheeky television programmers are still swamping us with repeats rescued from the archives: eternal damnation would be theirs were it not for the excellent performances of such fine actors as Nicola Walker, Sanjeev Bhaskar, Michael Kitchen David Suchet and the late Geraldine McEwan (to name but a handful of those currently on our screens). I try to resist second – or even third – viewings, but can still find it beyond me to ignore Ms Walker and Mr. Bhaskar's believability in Unforgotten, lovely old Geraldine McEwan's likeability in Marple, Mr. Kitchen's wry twist of the mouth in Foyle, or Mr. Suchet's definitive depiction of the most overplayed detective in fiction, Poirot. I can still be caught watching Endeavour and Lewis, too. 

I continue to have no interest whatsoever in reality television. 
Big brother? Love Island? Christ no! 

I do have a Facebook account, but I seldom look at it and I determinedly avoid Twitter on the grounds that one-liners are for stand-up comedians. 

FINALLY. 

It has been brought to my notice by daughter Jac that she has been unable to message me on the blog. I have no idea why. 

To anybody who has experienced similar difficulty I can only apologise. 

Go safely, my dears. 

There are few of you left.

Post 333. OVER THE CLOUDS.

THEN BACK TO EARTH

In a balloon. Yes! For a start they saw the rising sun from above the clouds. That was followed by what appears to have been a fascinating day before their final return to earth. It happened in Morocco yesterday (pictures are from Roz) and I am so full of joy that all went well for them that I had to let those of you nice folk who have followed Roz's progress since the double mastectomy see how she is right now. 

She, Jess and Ellis will be back on the Island next Tuesday. 

Also next week...

A VISITOR FROM THE MIDLANDS. 

Hannah, Mike Woods' lovely daughter, will be coming to stay for a while with the older of our two daughters, Jackie, and her father who has been Jac's partner for many years. 

Hannah has always been my little buddy and that will never change, even if the picture below does show that a little buddy can quietly transform into a sophisticated young woman. 

That's it again for now.  

Post 332. FAMILY IN AGADIR, MOROCCO.

CATS COMFORTABLE AT HOME.

We thought Roz's cats, Spike (pictured) and Angel, might miss the dog Buddy, their pal from back when Roz bought
them as kittens and him as little more than a puppy. But with typical feline adaptability they have settled to a comfortable life here without him and thoroughly enjoy being spoilt by two old people. He is being looked after by a nice carer at Freshwater for the entirety of Roz's trip with Jess and Ellis to Agadir. 

One of their holiday adventures will be a balloon flight taking them over part of the Atlas mountains. It sounds wonderful and the sort of thing everybody should do while they are still young enough to enjoy it. 

Me? I love the idea but my heart will be in my mouth until we hear that it's over and they are safe. 

Incidentally, on the eve of their departure for Morocco our Jess received news that she is now a fully fledged Master of Pharmacy: passed her finals with flying colours. We are all so proud and pleased for her. She takes nothing for granted and was convinced - as she always has been after sitting exams - that she had not done particularly well. In the event her marks were spectacularly good. 

Well done again, lovely girl. 

POLITICS. 

THEY DID IT, TOO. 

They selected Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (born in America, educated at Eton and Oxford) to be Prime Minister of the UK and Leader of the Conservative Party. 

A friend sent me the (surely of Irish design) T shirt picture. Well, let's see how things go when they call the next national election. 

Until then: Judico non hominem ab amicis autem suis hostibus.  
Mr. Johnson will understand that. 

TELEVISION. 

THRILLERS STILL FAVOURITE. 

We saw the second series of M.C. Beaton's Agatha Raisin (Acorn TV) and, like the books, it was tongue-in-cheek fun for those who cannot be constantly concerned about Brexit. We enjoyed it. So, apparently, did 96% of Google users. Won't you sleep better for knowing that? (No reply necessary.) I cannot remember whether we ever watched Keeping Faith but we have accumulated an impressive collection of back episodes of it upon which to binge when the time is right. My Leader will instantly recall every series we've ever seen. I tend to remember in bits and pieces and to gain full recollection only in the last five or ten minutes. (Yeah, I know.) In the meantime we are still occasionally beguiled by very very old repeats of Marple and Foyle. No doubt about it, the thriller is still my favourite genre. 

Now there is talk that the public wants a new Foyle series on its screens. I'll drink to that. It would certainly be better than another load of junk dealers or property related rubbish. 

Reality TV - which unashamedly proliferates - remains my bête noire.

AND THAT'S IT.

I've just seen my latest Post viewing figures.

Ah well.

As dear old Berkeley Grey once said: “What do I care? I only write the bloody things anyway.”

Post 331. ENGLAND WON. FEDERER LOST.

YEP. IT'S THAT TIME. 

You can't miss it in this country. 

Wimbledon and tennis tennis tennis on BBC television, at the same time as World Cup (don't ask me) Cricket which, apparently, England won by very narrowly beating New Zealand in the final. 

I gather this was 'one day' cricket: I have never watched it and I'm too bloody old to start now, but well done England, enjoy it while you can. 

As for the tennis. Well, the obvious favourite, Roger Federer, lost in the longest ever final to the reigning champion Novak Djokovic (the one whose support team looks like a police identity parade). 

They've played against each other so many times it would be decidedly déjà vu if they weren't so damned good. 

Anyway, millions watched and enjoyed it and neither of them is going home short of a few shillings and a lot of respect.

HOME. 

Our back garden has been given a bashing. 

Stuart and Dave and a rented digger have demolished what had become a mountain high mass of weed, to reveal the biggest back garden in Wootton Bridge. 

The bedraggled old shed has been broken up and burnt – to the expected complaints from the standard neighbourhood complainant (duly ignored) and some small trees have gone (at least for my lifetime). 

What will happen next? 

I haven't a clue. 

TELEVISION. 

Gentleman Jack. 

We watched Suranne Jones stride through this lively frolic and she didn't put a foot wrong. The real life character Anne Lister was clearly years before her time. 

As usual, in costume drama, the villains were starkly villainous and the pass-me-the-smelling-salts friend of the hero/ine was pretty and pathetic. 

I gather there will be another series. Good. 

Poldark (BBC One) 

In what purports to be the last series, Aidan Turner and Eleanor Tomlinson are back as the demanding goodies, with Jack Farthing still the definitive baddy. Looks like Poldark may be angling to single-handedly abolish the slave trade to America. He'll do it, too, with or without the interference of top brass.

Cheerio. Keep your powder dry.

Post 330. TOO HOT TO WRITE.

SUFFERING SUMMER ENNUI. 

And running out of rude remarks. 

Which, you may be inclined to agree, has to be a first for me.

Looked back at some of my old copy – it wasn't bad - and found that I have nothing more scathing to say about my pet hates now than I had then. 

Politicians are still self-serving troublemaking twits and reality television is still dumbed-down dross for dickheads. 

Sitting at a desk for hours hasn't done much to diminish my girth, either, but as long as I am able to do it I will. 

It has to be better for me than sitting on a sofa watching the box.

MORE IMPORTANT MATTERS. 

Daughter Roz. 

In her fight back to fitness, Roz is taking long walks with the dog Buddy and weekly trips to the gym with daughter Jess. She still gets very tired, but looks more her old self every day. 

Another baby cat. 

This is Betty. She is the latest addition to daughter Jac and her partner Mike's household. Don't be fooled by the little legs, apparently she can jump for England and spends unsettlingly long hours exploring her new neighbourhood. 

I like her already and I've not yet seen her. 

Well, you either dote on cats...

TELEVISION. 

We have watched: 

Forces of Nature and The Planets (on BBC Four and BBC Two respectively) presented by the eminently watchable Professor Brian Cox (above). Lots of scenes of the likeable boffin trudging across imitation alien landscapes, but still no evidence of human life beyond earth. 

We enjoyed it for all that. 

We also enjoyed Prunella Scales and Timothy West traversing the canals of Vietnam and Cambodia on their Asian Odyssey. 

I think they must make any of us over eighty feel deflated and inflated in equal proportion. I couldn't steer a model boat across a boating lake, so their canal barge derring-do somewhat humbles me, but their closeness and generosity of spirit then reminds me how lucky I, too, have been to spend the last fifty seven years with my Mo. 

Break a leg, West family! 

London Kills.

Another London cop series apparently shown in America before it got here. Why? It has a good cast and good scripts and deserves better than the afternoon B picture spot given it by the BBC. It ran for a week and finished. Hell, it's Wimbledon again now and nothing, but nothing, must interfere with that.

FINALLY THIS MONTH. 

The cat Shadow.

Has elected himself Guardian of the Slippers. 

It's an age thing.

Yeah, I know.

Post 329. SHADOW SOLDIERS ON.

A SHADOW OF HIMSELF.

The cat Shadow 

The old boy struggles to resist elderly impairment but sadly is no longer the indomitable lad seen in the picture. We keep him going with decent food and drink and a lot of affection. 

He has been part of our family for many years so, come what may, we'll not let him down now. 

Ah! Mistake! 

He caught a glimpse of the above and insisted I add the following contribution of his own: 

Cats need people? 

I'm Shadow, I'm the poetry cat. 

Quite handy with a verse. 

Ready, perhaps, for the knacker's yard. 

But not yet for the hearse. 

My eating habits are becoming erratic. 

I like being cuddled: 

But spend too much time static. 

And my two people pets 

Seem to give not a rap, 

So long as I gets 

To that bloody cat flap. 

As for cats needing people? 

Well, maybe it's true. 

Though never as much 

As their daft pet dogs do. 

So perhaps you'll remember 

When I finally go: 

I'm the cat who did doggerel. 

Not that nice guy below. 

(With apologies to Benjamin Zephaniah.) 

IOW FESTIVAL 2019. 

It's with us again. 

A long weekend of loud music, strobe lighting, traffic juggling, wind, and rain. Roz and Ellis have been. Neither stayed late, but they enjoyed the acts they saw. 

They'll be back there today to see Madness.

 Biffy Clyro are top group tonight. Mo and I won't go. We like Madness and I (in company with the cat Shadow) enjoy Biffy Clyro, but we'll watch them on television. 

We saw about ten minutes of Fatboy Slim's set on the box last night. My conclusion was that those in his audience who did not have an epileptic fit, would be stricken by acute deafness or, at best, a lifetime of recurrent headaches. 

We heard much of it from here and that's some three miles away. Roz assures me the fans enjoyed every moment of it. So clearly I'm not festival fan material. Nothing new there then. 

POLITICS. 

There are lies, damned lies, statistics, and politics. 

In the early days of this blog I seem to remember saying I would avoid politics. That turned out to be about as truthful as the words of most of the contenders in the current bunfight to become Prime Minister of the UK.

Leading the field right now is England's prize liar Boris Johnson, who seems to be favoured by America's prize liar Donald Trump. I think that says it all. 

SO...WHAT? 

So...many people are doing it, that's what. 

Starting a sentence with the word 'so' has become for many people the latest alternative to the insertion of the word 'like' (or the pointless effin' and blindin' spouted by many stand-up comedians) to support every point they make. 

It is an irksome affectation so it will probably go on for longer than I remain alive to swear under my breath when I hear it. 

TELEVISION. 

My Leader and I 

Have been watching The Looming Tower. 
No wonder the world is in such a shambles. What a shower of weird egotistical nutcases. 
And that's only the CIA and FBI. 

I have been watching Years and Years, the Russell T. Davies version of 1984. 

Every bit as frightening as Orwell. 

AND FINALLY. 

Our Roz - pictured below with her daemon, Buddy – (see Philip Pullman's Dark Materials) is making steady progress and it shows. We like the blonde look.

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.