Post 475. SAD TIMES HERE

 AS I GRADUALLY DELETE NAMES

FROM MY EMAIL FORWARDING LIST.
This month we received news that Dave West had died. Dave suffered a deal of ill health over several years and bravely kept going. Back in the days of email exchanges he much enjoyed the sending and receiving of comedic messages: he had an insatiable sense of fun, and will be greatly missed, RIP old pal.
Our commiserations to equally good friend, Dave's wife Jean.
WE ALSO received live link details for Ian Dillow's funeral from his daughter, Kerry, but were sadly unable (either through technical or doddery old people failure) to connect to them.
I just know Ian would have seen the funny side of it.
He, too, will be greatly missed by many people.
Our thanks to Jean Dillow and Kerry Nicholas. Take it easy for a while, you two.
AND THAT'S ME FOR THIS MONTH.
No gay television presenter with a career death wish, or government minister of dubious principles, is worth naming on the same page as any of the above, so I will not name them.
And with any luck this will be published before Russia and/or China openly starts WW3.
What a daft world it is.

I'm just going to relax.

Post 474. REALITY TELEVISION

 A 21st CENTURY CANKER

ON A PAR WITH THE STATE OF OUR RIVERS.
What brought this on? Well, we have just received a missive from Southern Water telling us that our payment to them is going up yet again and will be close on £700 p.a. from 1 June 2023. This for a commodity that abundantly falls from the sky (ask anybody in Fort William) at no base cost whatsoever. In 1989 the water companies in England and Wales were privatised.
In 2020/21 the CEO of Southern Water was paid more than £1 million despite the fact that the company had been fined £126 million in 2019 for over 50 breaches of environmental law.
The above picture shows shit being shot into a British river. There is now barely an unpolluted spot left. Rivers, the sea, and many beaches are equally contaminated. Private enterprise? Huh!
REALITY TELEVISION.
No need to name names. You only have to watch the majority of the programmes that Gogglebox (Channel 4) regulars are required to watch. They're paid to watch it. I'm not. Just as well. I like most of the Goggleboxers, they're a good laugh, but I dislike just about every aspect of reality TV including most of its presenters  I give it a wide berth. None of my business that some unfamiliar celebrity wants to do silly things in a jungle, that a randy publicity hungry teenager is prepared to bed another randy publicity hungry teenager on television, or that somebody I do not know can cook, sew, dance, or be a good loser. And why do gay (black, white, or sandy-grey-russet) couples feel such a desperate need to be married in front of television cameras? Ah well.
It will soon be time for The Proms again.

Even with modern music that's real television. 

    
.  

Post 473. ONE OF THE ONLY THINGS

WE STILL DO WELL

WAS WELL DONE.
It was all there for the coronation of King Charles III. All the dressed up top toffs in horse-drawn coaches, followed by their posh kith and kin in large, expensive, cars of colour (you don't call anything black now, do you?), surrounded by marching, or impressively mounted, members of the various services, watched by a suitably distanced and mostly friendly public  It was one of the handful of things we have left in this country that we still do well. It was well done. Now it's over. Red Arrows flown. Horses stabled. Limousines garaged. Harry off home. Stand easy!
I really didn't know whether I could be bothered but did, of course, finish up watching it with Mo. Despite constant reminders that it was a much shortened version of the late Queen's coronation in 1953, I thought it went on a bit, and reading everything off cards made it look as though we're managed by robots: but witness PMs Question Time and you realise we undoubtedly are.. 

Not much more to say right now. Have heard today that a certain pain-in-the-arse acolyte of a former pain-in-the-arse US President is thinking of bullshitting his way back into politics here: and there are  many twisted minds who would support him. I can only think of two words to say to the lot of them and the second one is 'off.' Oh, I think his name rhymes with garage.
Have my painting gear set up ready to go but have not so much as picked up a brush. 

Perhaps it is time I seriously put my mind to it.
Nothing ventured...as the would-be-returned politician might say..
Away with pomp

Until next time 

 

Post 472. ALL'S QUIET

 ON THE WORLD SNOOKER FRONT

A BELGIAN WON.
In what turned out to be the most fascinating World Snooker final I have ever seen, young Belgian Luca Brecel beat Mark Selby 18 - 15 to win half a million quid and the trophy.
Mark, though tactically as brilliant as ever, had to settle for two hundred thousand, a medal, and the admiration we reserve for heroic, sporting, runners-up in this country. Both men were a credit to the game. It was a good competition throughout. The two tables set-up at the Crucible seems to be a bit of a bundle, but it all works out well in the end, and Sheffield is a warm-hearted city deserving of the favourable publicity it gets. We almost became snooker fans.
ALSO ON TELEVISION.

We watched Great Expectations (BBC1) with somewhat less than great expectations, so were not entirely surprised that Steven Knight's mini series took us far from the Charles Dickens original.

It did not help that we still remember the David Lean film, made in 1946 starring John Mills and Finlay Currie: the entire cast, including little boy Pip, played by Anthony Wager, and Miss Havisham, played by Martita Hunt, was a casting director's dream. Sadly, even Olivia Colman couldn't better such a line-up on her own. So the 2023 version got a thumbs down from us. 

Fortunately, the BBC simultaneously repeated a 1999/2000 series of David Copperfield, directed by Simon Curtis.  What a contrast!

Young (pre Harry Potter) Daniel Radcliffe was the boy Pip, Maggie Smith was Aunt Betsey, Bob Hoskins was Wilkins Micawber, and Nicholas Lyndhurst was a hypnotically unctuous Uriah Heep. Oh, there was also Alun Armstrong, Trevor Eve, and Michael Elphick. It was Dickens as written by Dickens, with sound direction and a stellar cast. Thumbs up! Thumbs up!

LOCAL ELECTIONS AND THE CORONATION.
We didn't have a local election that I know of. If you did I hope you were happy with the result.
And that's it for now.
Mo will watch all the excitement tomorrow. 

If I'm not feeling too bolshie I probably will too.
Luck and good cheer to you and yours.    

Post 471. A SHORT MONTH.

SO ONLY

A SHORT POST.
The one in the picture was once topped by an owl who lit up at night. His lights went out when he became detached from the post, landed in the car park, and was run over by the gardener's truck. We have a replacement (courtesy of Jac and Mike) for which we are trying to find a safer nest.
MEANTIME IT'S TELEVISION.
Weather still a bit cold for long spells in the garden so we have watched more snooker than expected. Well, when the BBC gets The Crucible in its camera lenses there's not much else to watch. The final is on today: Mark Selby v Luca Brecel. If Mark Selby wins it will be his fifth time as World Champion: he beat Mark Allen in the semi final. I think his opponent finally succumbed to the tedium of watching him make up his mind what his next move would be. It could be a very long final. Luca, a twenty eight years old Belgian, looks and plays twice that age. He could win..
Of course we'll watch it. Then we'll watch the final episode of Great Expectations.

Is there no beginning to the excitement.
AND TO CONCLUDE.
We were saddened this month by the death of two old friends, Maureen Timmins (here on the island), and Ian Dillow (at his home in Romsey). They were thoroughly nice people and will be sorely missed. We have been, and will remain, in touch with Maureen's daughter, Wendy, and Ian's wife, Jean. Our condolences to both families  and I print below, for the last time, the only picture I have of either of them. This is Ian with Jean.

That's all for this month.

Post 470. ALLEGED BULLYING

IN THE GROWN-UPS PLAYGROUND

AKA PARLIAMENT.
What a surprise! Deputy Prime Minister Dominic Raab, accused by sundry civil servants of bullying, and following an investigation by Adam Tolley KC, is now former DPM. Can't say I have sympathy for him. There are too many bullies in this little country. Always have been. They built an empire. They went around the world telling the natives of other countries: "You are now citizens of the Great White Queen." The descendants of those so rashly integrated (and their like) now arrive here in droves to claim their inheritance. Do you blame them? I don't.
Like the Victorians, bullies of today never know when to keep their mouths shut. Mr. Raab concludes that the investigation was 'flawed.' Well, Mr. Trump complains that the last American election was 'rigged.' How quickly bullies becomes whiners. Ho hum.
TELEVISION. 
It is snooker from The Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, again. If you enjoy watching two guys knock a load of coloured balls about a baize covered table to the accompaniment of constantly droning old snooker players trying to give value for their commentator's fee, you'll love it. I'm impartial. 
This year has so far been brightened up by the unexpected arrival on a table of a powder 

scattering protestor. I think the protest had something to do with climate change. He was removed, and the mess cleaned up, and the ball potting went on. Ah, someone is always protesting about something. It's Britain in the twenty first century. Nothing much will be done.
SAME GOES FOR ME

Nice people have gone from the world and I don't know what to say..
So I'm off for a while to do other things. 

Such as?

Might do a bit of painting.
I'm my own boss. Well, almost...
Whatever you're doing: enjoy it.

Post 469. THE 'NO COMMENTS' MALARKY

 AT THE END OF MY POSTS ON

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
The dreadful admission is I don't know. It is part of the Google Blog set-up. Presumably some bright spark surmised that the addition in smaller letters of the words Post a Comment after No comments might encourage a response from the reader. I don't know and nobody at Google can be pestered for an explanation because nobody at Google has discourse with anybody outside Googleland. This, in common with so much that I write nowadays, is a repetitive moan and may, at least partly, explain the dearth of comment on my meanderings. From all I hear, Twitter and TikTok are plagued by unwell-wishers wishing unwell to total strangers, so my empty No comments Post a Comment spot, for whatever reason, is probably a positive. Say no more.
TELEVISION.
The customary preparations for summer are underway with an abundance of  'previously unseen outtakes from the concluded series' increasingly in evidence. Would I Lie...? is still worth a look.
The news, home and abroad, is uniformly dire; game shows are packed with people incorrectly described as 'celebrities,' chat shows attract recognizable celebs if they have something to sell, and any viewer who cannot conjure up iPlayer, X, Netflix, YouTube etc., is on a hiding to nothing.
Nowadays I get up every morning to the sound of whichever Classic FM broadcaster is silently seeking a knighthood by including something conducted by King Charles' pal John Eliot Gardiner.

I have breakfast and turn on the television. The Vine Show. If it's Yasmin Alibhai Brown or Owen Jones I stay with it. If not I run the tape (who the hell watches advert littered programmes 'live?') right through to 'The Papers et al.' I then decide whether or not to stay with Storm Huntley and the (who?) pair allocated to her as guests for the remainder of the morning. Mostly I do not..
Occasionally I watch a B picture on Channel 5 in the afternoon. As a rule it is an innocuous little  thriller, one that provides employment for actors who may never reach the heady heights.
The acting world is crowded and its stars are comparatively few. Good luck to the B picture crew.
Mo likes quizzes and some of the antiques and property search programmes. I like fictional detective stuff. We record most of our favourites and together watch quite a lot of Netflix. Recent films we have enjoyed include a second viewing of News of the World in which Tom Hanks starred with young Helena Zengel, Troll (2022) a fascinatingly dubbed Norwegian film, and Monster Hunter, which was based on a video game and often showed it.
I am usually late to bed and spend time watching You Tube. The adverts can be irksome, but they can be rushed through or wiped, and my Search list outweighs the interruptions.

I HAD MORE TO SAY.
But they were sad words and you will have your own sadnesses. So I will decline.
Peace and comfort to you and yours.
 

Post 468. I HAVE LOST TOUCH

WITH MANY OLD FRIENDS.

AS THE CLOCK TICKS ON.

It was inevitable I suppose. Those still alive are less active, or unwell, or simply can no longer bother with prattle. They neither answer the telephone nor reply to emails. They seem very old.
Sometimes, but fortunately not often, I know that feeling. I try to ignore it.
Yesterday I telephoned old pal Bill Harrison who lives in Pitlochry (Scotland for any American browser who still reads) and, surprise surprise, got through for the first time since last November (Post 454 refers). His hearing has not improved and he is currently paying a fortune for private treatment. So he talked at me for ten minutes or so, bless 'im, and at least I know he's alive.
Old age, as I tend boringly to opine, can sometimes be better imagined than experienced.

But, yep, it beats the alternative. So I cling to my sense of humour even though...

I DETEST PRACTICAL JOKES

AND LOATHE PRACTICAL LOKERS.
So on Saturday last, April Fool's Day, I kept my head down and scanned the paper (i weekend).
Patrick Cockburn was on form (when isn't he?), and I avoided any terribly funny deliberate error perpetrated by a 'humourist.' Nothing ever matches Panorama's 1957 spaghetti tree hoax.
Practical jokes played on individuals are invariably mean-minded laughs at the individual's expense and, 'learning to take a joke' bedamned, deserve the reward of a punch on the nose.

Not by me. At my age I only think violently: mostly when I'm watching reality television. I try to be impartial, but you can no more like everybody than you can expect everybody to like you. Thus to:

TELEVISION.

Where we have watched Meet Joe Black, a film starring Brad Pitt, Anthony Hopkins, Claire Forlani and Marcia Gay Harden. Apparently it received iffy revues back in 1998. We enjoyed it.
We also enjoyed the BBC series Beyond Paradise starring Kris Marshall and Sally Bretton. It was full of old-fashioned British daftness, so it suited us. Anyway, I have had a crush on Barbara Flynn ever since The Beiderbecke Tapes. Now that was a great series.

On Sunday mornings we have been watching Love Your Weekend with Alan Titchmarsh.
Celebrity guests appear and talk about their latest television show, book, play, film (you name it). their love of the countryside, and their part in its upkeep by dint of the farm they own and visit when they are temporarily without a  showbiz engagement. We have liked most of the guests so we have generally liked the show. We have enjoyed the llamas, shire horses, piglets et al, too.

But we have been resident on this (mostly pleasant) island for fifty five years. Our entire family currently lives here. We feel we belong. Which sadly means that the Channel 5 series The Isle of Wight - Jewel of the South, commentary by Mr. Titchmarsh, has not been to our liking  In fact it has been a load of back-scratching 'overner' crap. Ditch it. Go back to the bloody garden, Alan. 

HAVE A GOOD EASTER BREAK

WHETHER OR NOT YOU HAVE A RELIGION
AND GO CAREFULLY ON THOSE ROADS.

 
  

Post 467. BRIGHT, WINDY DAYS.

 WITH ONLY CATS AND FIDDLE-FADDLE

TO DISTRACT ME.
If I was a disciplined professional I might have written the opening chapters of a whodunit in the time it has taken me to start this post. The spirit has been willing: the muse, weak.

I have fussed around; feeding cats, making cups of coffee and tea, emptying the letter box, skipping through past blog posts, and handling routine chores. I have also fallen asleep with the cat Angel on my lap at around half past four every afternoon (even the annual buggering about with the clocks has not changed that). I have simply lacked the drive to shove a few words onto a computer screen. Sadly, my inhibition has not been helped by my current book of choice, Philip Pullman's Daemon Voices on stories and story telling. Sir Philip is unlikely ever to see this.

But what if somebody draws his attention to it because his name has been mentioned? Will he be disinclined to excuse grammatical malfeasance by a writer who has a collection of his books? 

I fear so. And the end of the month is upon us.  
So it is deadline time again for Den Barnden: Watching. 

Who says so? I do: and I'm the editor.

My grammar may not be pristine, but I'm a tough editor.
Chance academic criticism.

Publish and be damned!

Good day one and all.

    

Post 466. THE PIANO

ON TELEVISION.

DID YOU SEE IT?
It was a Love Production for Channel 4, presented by Claudia Winkleman, and 'a must' for any lover of the piano like me, a non player, whose childhood piano lessons got as far as Drink To Me Only with both hands before the discovery that I was reading the music from the numbers printed on the notes, rather than on their position on the score, brought an abrupt end to my tuition. Nobody had mentioned that the numbers were only a basic beginner's guide, I can still start DTMO with both hands, but probably not finish it. Bit like the lessons really. Ah well.
Back to The Piano.
 Amateur pianists were invited to play pianos sited on railway station platforms at St. Pancras in London, at Leeds, at Glasgow. and in Birmingham. Unbeknown to them they were being watched by the renowned performers Lang Lang and Mika who invited all of them to be spectators at a special concert to take place in the Royal Festival Hall, and who chose one of them from each group to play at the concert.
The chosen four were: Jay (25) from the Isle of Wight (winner at St. Pancras), Lucy (13) from West Yorkshire (winner at Leeds), Sean (27) from Edinburgh (winner at Glasgow), and Danny (26) from Manchester (winner at Birmingham). All were delighted to be chosen.
As is always the case in television, some dickhead in power insisted there be a winner because that's what the public wants/needs/expects.
So, come the performance, the ultimate accolade was given to  Lucy, whose performance of a Debussy Arabesque was beautiful, touching, and entirely worthy of the standing ovation she was given at its conclusion. Lucy is blind and neurodivergent, and everybody loved her.
But every one of the chosen finalists was a winner.
Did you see it? If you are in any way a piano lover it really was the best reality television so far this year. A welcome change from cooks, twaddle talkers, and junk dealers, too.
Well done all concerned.
BUT HERE THEY GO AGAIN.

THE STUDIED COMPLAINANTS.
Other than condoning change for the sake of it, why would any English speaking person heed the latest problematizing of our language, Oxfam's Inclusive Language Guide? 
Oxfam staff are apparently being urged to amend what we dinosaurs used to think of as 'plain English' (e.g. mother and father are out, parent is in). For what misbegotten reason?
Don't ask me. Ask Oxfam or any other of the studied complainants. They will find an abundance of reasons: anything from colonialism to disablism to  racism to sexism (not forgetting - never forgetting - anti Semitism). Give 'em the nod and they'll all moan together. It's a mad world.
And I've probably offended enough people for now.
Back before the month is out.

Post 465. STILL TAKING IT EASY

 WELL, WHY NOT?

WHEN YOU HAVE A BUDDY LIKE THIS,
It has been gradual but inexorable, the cat Angel's decision to befriend me. I put it down to our old pal Shadow's influence. He, as any regular reader of this blog will know, was my constant companion for many years, and his spirit still strongly exists here. At an early age I was firmly advised by my father that I should not believe in ghosts. "If you can't see it, it ain't there." Perhaps as a consequence, I have never seen a ghost. Ghosts are for people who want to see them.
But I do believe in spirits: for all, not just human, creatures. So I believe the spirit of the cat Shadow, along with that of our dear Roz (who would have celebrated her fifty third birthday last Sunday), are still here with us, and will be until we, too, become spirits. I'm happy with that.
ENDEAVOUR.
So that's it then. No more real ale, Times crossword, and elderly Jaguar cars. No more unfathomable (other than by our hero) murder mysteries and obscure classical music.
No more dah dah, dah dah dah, dit dah dit, dit dit dit, dit.
Or, for those not familiar with the code, no more Morse.
The last Endeavour episode did occasionally present as a tortuous attempt to tie up all the loose ends. Those who saw the last episode of Game of Thrones will know what I mean. But this was saved (as has often been the way) by the credibility of the entire cast. A wonderful team effort.
We saw it right through and then watched the denouement where cast members from every adaptation (Morse, Lewis, Endeavour) got together for the final farewell. Fascinating. Who would have imagined that Shaun Evans (Morse) has a north country accent, that Sara Vickers (Miss Thursday) is a Scot, or that Sean Rigby (DS Jim Strange in Endeavour) would one day become James Grout (Chief Superintendent Strange in Morse). Ah well: all good things...

GARY LINEKER.

I don't know the man. I have not been a football fan since the glory days of  1948/49 Pompey  I think every celebrity (however well meaning) should take a breath before spouting in public.
But so, I believe, should every touchy race, creed, or clique that leaps to take offence on their own or another's behalf  no matter how tenuous the connection.  Give us a break. Shut up. 
And let Gary Lineker continue to enjoy freedom of speech. After taking a breath, eh?

Even if he never did play for Pompey.

Keep warm. Keep safe.    

Post 464. TAKING IT EASY.

IN THE USUAL WAY.

WATCHING TELE TECS.
Endeavour is with us again. Hooray!
Shaun Evans as Endeavour Morse and Roger Allam as DCI Thursday, together with the same superbly chosen cast of fellow actors, are back on ITV1 for Series 9. Loose ends are being tied up and character development clarified. Shaun Evans' Endeavour has been a fitting tribute to the late John Thaw's older Morse, and Roger Allam's  Fred Thursday will always be one of my favourite television coppers: I have known a lot of  policemen over the years and he epitomizes the best of every old-fashioned one of them. I'll say no more or he may have to take his hat off.
This is a very short (three episode) series and, sad to report, will be the last ever. So the final appearance (other than repeats) of the late Colin Dexter's popular characters will take place next Sunday evening. If you want to see it, be there, as  Home Office pathologist Max DeBryn (James Bradshaw) might advise, at: "Shall we say eight o'clock?
Unforgotten is back on ITV1. (Or the entire series 5 can be viewed on ITVX.) It is not really a spoiler if I reveal that Sunny (Sanjeev Bhaskar) is sadly missing last boss Cassie (Nicola Walker) who died in a car crash at the end of series 4, and is thoroughly detesting new boss Jessica ("Call me Guv") James, played by Sinead Keenan. Every leading character in the story has 'at home' problems which, to my simple mind, is more than I have ever needed to know about a copper, fictional or not, but the acting is brilliant throughout and we shall enjoy every moment of it.

 Apologies if you are not a fan of the television detective genre.

And no, I wouldn't sack Gary Lineker.
Whatever happened to free speech?

That's all of mine for now.
      

   

Post 463. THANKS TO RESOLUTE STAFF

MANY FROM OTHER COUNYRIES

ALL WENT WELL.
So I am back at the computer only slightly the worse for a couple of nerve-racking hospital visits in the last couple of weeks. Nerve-racking? Well...yes,  I am fearfully uncomfortable in hospitals.
My discomfort at the hospital aura probably stems from my innate hatred of the bully masking as a disciplinarian. When I was a boy there were a lot of policemen of that ilk. Schoolteachers, too.
And hospitals back then were run much like an army unit. There was the equivalent of the top commissioned rank who was called the Consultant and the equivalent of the top non-commissioned rank who was called the Matron. The Consultant (of at least lieutenant colonel grade) had a posh accent and, while in the patient's presence, talked about rather than too her or him: this was accomplished via the ward sister (senior NCO rank) who was considered better to speak for the patient than was the patient her/himself. The Matron (RSM) meantime cast a steely eye over the blanket uniformity of every bed. Even the Consultant spoke politely to her.
Things have changed. The NHS, is another world now. The SDEC staff charged with my treatment (hydration) up to and after the CT scan last Thursday were from the Philippines. A young married man, Earl (family been on the island two years: has an eight year old daughter and six months old son; is happy and well settled  here), and Daisy, a charming young woman about whom I know less: she chatted with Mo who was able to remain with me for everything but the actual scan. The atmosphere was friendly, helpful, and reassuring. Everybody knew their job and knew it well. Our little team was on the go without pause. Without them and their like the NHS would have collapsed long ago. Let no xenophobic twat seek to drive them away!

Well, in our hospital pomp and ceremony seems to be a thing of the past. Good riddance too.  

I don't even mind that people to whom I have not been formally introduced now call me Dennis.

I've been called worse things. 
AND I KNOW I'VE SAID IT BEFORE

BUT BEST KEEP SCHTUM.
Rather than indulge in straightforwardness. I wrote about that last August (Post 441).

Now the easily offended are turning their erasure culture on the long ago written word.
Common sense tells me to keep schtum on the subject. You can't argue the past with those who are clearly becoming the future. But when I hear it rumoured that a head teacher is banning certain books because their content may contain material - or even a word - that could give offence, or that publishers are being leaned on to 'amend' certain words in new editions of old classics because some poor sod may be mortally damaged that a word like 'fat' was written in it  fifty years ago, I feel bound to abandon the gag.

People who want to change a word in a book are one step away from people who want to ban a book are one step away from people who want to burn a book. And dictatorships burn books!
That's my lot for this short month.

Mind how you go..

  

Post 462. IN DESPAIR

 THE WORLD NEWS.

DEATH AND DESTRUCTION.
If it's not civil war, or some mad bastard attacking a neighbouring country (above), it's faults in the surface of the earth causing earthquakes. The former is indefensible, the latter unstoppable. Both are a sad blight on the peaceful inhabitants of the world.

In the eyes of this very old man the twenty first century has not been much of a success so far. 

Almost universally, governments are a sick, sorry, mess.

Apart from getting poorer, however, nothing changes on the IOW. Same insufficiency of opportunity for young people. Same blinkered Council, Same blinkered MP. 

It's tolerable for reasonably active oldies, though.
Last week I went for a MRI scan at St. Mary's Hospital, Newport I.W. Lovely staff. Noisy machine. One needs the earphones and, from what I could hear through the boom-boom-boom of a thirty five minutes trip into medical mystery land, I got Classic FM with John Brunning, Excellent.
All I want now is for the NHS Trust (and who the hell trusts anything that calls itself a Trust?) to give those lovely hospital employees who looked after me - plus every one we applauded on our doorsteps in 2020 - better pay and free parking in the hospital grounds where they work.
See that pig fly by?

One advantage of age is that the NHS seems more concerned for my welfare now than it did in all the years I was employed by it. I have been invited to attend SDEC for a CT scan tomorrow. 

 It's a funny old world.
AND FRIGHTENING.

Unwell-wisher intrusion into the lives of others has made social media a dangerous place, particularly for those of a trusting disposition. Hate crimes are on the increase, youngsters wield lethal knives, and the sort of bullying twat who once ran a wheel clamping company now poses as a 'prepayment meter installer' or an 'expert on missing persons.' Nobody stops the legal bully.
Between scammers, thugs, thieves, and murderers, it's a frightening new world. 
BUT ALL BEING WELL HERE TOMORROW 

I'LL BE BACK BEFORE THE MONTH IS OUT
BE LUCKY. 

 

                                                                                                                                                                              
 

Post 461. WHERE WAS I?

 OH YES...

THE KITCHEN FLOOR.
All done and dusted again (a rarity in this house). I think it looks good, too. All we have to do is keep it that way. Can you sound sceptical in print? Now Mo's back to the jobbing, I'm back to the scribbling, and everything would be back to normal if only we knew which drawer, cupboard, empty space, currently contains this or that elusive item that had always been situated in the same safe spot because it belonged there. If I had a mind it would boggle. 
So that's enough of our world. Right now the hot topic is 

TELEVISION
Or simply Series 3 of 
Happy Valley with Sarah Lancashire, James Norton, and a superb fellow cast. We, along with over seven million more viewers, watched the final final episode last night.
Written by Sally Wainwright and directed by Fergus O'Brien it was everything the last ever episode of a long-awaited crime thriller could be. Great script. Experienced direction.  

And, without spouting a single spoiler, bloody marvellous acting.

We'll have to wait a while for something as good to come along again.
NOW I'M AWAY TO THE KITCHEN,

FANCY A CUPPA?    

Post 460. IF I WAS A VIDEO MAKER.

OUR KITCHEN CATASTROPHE

MIGHT GET MORE PUBLICITY.
At least, more than the few words it is going to get here.
There had clearly been a long-standing leak - maybe more than one - soundlessly and insidiously attacking from somewhere within our kitchen water system. Beneath a covering of cracking tiles and sodden surface board, floor joists had gone black with rot. The entire floor was a goner. 

I never thought I would write this about an insurance company, but thank the gods for our insurers: they retain D. Challis Property Services Ltd. as their repair works specialist.
Challis' tradesmen arrived and went to work. They were courteous, cheerful. careful, and competent: out came the refrigerator and suchlike heavies and, when the full extent of the damage was realised, up came the floor. There was a degree of sawing, hammering, relevant chatting, toing and froing, and tea and coffee drinking. In a week the job was done. Well, all except the actual floor surface which is going to be vinyl rather than the former stone effect. I'll try to obtain a picture when that's all over. Our thanks to the Challis team which has been first class.
One thing for sure: our new kitchen floor will outlast us.
NO APOLOGY.
I could be apologetic that this is another blog post in such a personal vein but, when I look at all the gubbins going on around us, what would be the point? Truth is, I really don't give a toss whether some multi millionaire Tory MP gets the sack or some royal prat uses the money gifted him by his late mother to buy all the favourable publicity an expensive PR firm can obtain for him.
They are of as much interest to me as I am to them. But, unlike them, I am not in the public eye.

I don't think I would enjoy being a public personality. Donning an expected persona every time you go out must be quite hard work if you are not a born extrovert or a dedicated actor.

Whatever you are, public perception can be frighteningly fickle. So to photos on...
TELEVISION.
When you are watching the murder mystery of your choice (Paradise, Midsomer, Vera, Lewis, whatever) have you ever wondered how it is that the wall of the detective's incident room becomes decked with superb equisized photographs of the suspects? Could it be that each of them has been asked to provide an up-to-date portrait from their collection of theatre foyer pictures? It must help when all your suspects are actors, mustn't it? Just a thought.  

ALL FOR NOW.

BACK WHEN IT'S ALL DONE           

Post 459. A TRIP TO THE DENTIST

 AS AN NHS PATIENT.

FOR LUCKY ME LAST WEEK.
Chipped tooth trouble. Some nagging pain. Phoned our dental surgery, Fradgley and Willetts of Ventnor, I.W. (upstairs in the above picture), and was given an appointment to see Mr. Tim Fradgley a couple of days later.
Sitting in the dental chair at the appointed time I reflected upon the good fortune of those in this family signed on as patients with a dentist still prepared to provide us with such a service. Tim's father, Keith, was dentist and friend to Mo and I for many years until he retired. Tim was not beholden to transfer us to his NHS list then, but he did. Our grandson, Ellis, thanks to his late mother's good sense, is also on Tim's list. We are three lucky people.
Few dental practices, including ours, are currently taking on NHS patients. The Service is dissolving. Excessive reorganization imposed by political lackeys has so increased the burden of paperwork that, together with niggardly and often tardy reimbursement, the provision of NHS treatment has become a liability even to the most charitable of dental surgeon. Forget the greater good. There's no curbing the march of private enterprise.

So I was decidedly upbeat when, nagging pain tooth treated and broken top front tooth excellently camouflaged I returned, smiling, to Mo and she said:
"Oh my love! He has put everything right again! You look absolutely great!"

I felt it, too. There should have been a group of trainee dentists at that session. I think I was the patient in a dentistry master class.

I've grinned at myself in the mirror more in the last few days than I did in the entire lengthy time since my last visit to the Ventnor surgery. Thanks again, Tim.

AND, WHILE I'M  ABOUT IT.

Thanks to my lovely Mo, too. She drove me to and fro in the same uncomplaining way she nowadays drives me wherever and whenever I have to go. My driving licence is still valid, but there are far too many old fools cluttering up island roads and I can no longer be arsed watching out for what one of them might do next. So I've dropped it all in Mo's lap, at least until Ellis passes his driving test - and I'm sure he will.
I may then sometimes scrounge a lift from the youngest member of the household.

WE-E-E-ELL: WE'LL SEE...

Post 458. LIFE WAS MY UNIVERSITY'.

I ENVY THOSE YOUNG PEOPLE SCHOOLED

BY EITHER OF THESE GIFTED ACADEMICS.
Mary Beard interviewing Philip Pullman on Front Row Late (pictured) was one of those amiable treats that makes BBC Four a must, even for a practising plebeian like me.
I envy those who had the good fortune to avoid the often bullying, strictly regimented, corporal punishment driven, elementary education afforded in the days of my youth: I do remember with gratitude those teachers whose dedication outweighed their resentment at being called from retirement to replace younger men conscripted for war service, but I also remember the sarcasm, negativity, casual violence, of the many who inwardly railed against the hopelessness of their lot. 

So yes, I do envy those young people schooled by Mary Beard, by Philip Pullman, or, at Oxford and here, by our daughter, Jacqueline.
Teachers should be better paid even if, as a consequence, they do not become authors.
A university education should still be free to those born in Britain.

Politicians should stop interfering and trying to run everything like a two-bit business.  

BBC Four must not be commercialized and littered with adverts. Last night I saw Mark Lawson talking to Stephen King, who would rather be thought of as a novelist than as a writer of horror stories. The author's candid musings, including the revelation that his mother considered, when it came to taste, all his taste was in his mouth, were dry and compelling. Liked him.

I am keeping this short. Now I am away to read Philip Pullman's DAEMON VOICES on Stories and Storytelling. It will be good. He mentioned it on Front Row Late.
Well you don't appear on a television chat show if you've nothing to sell, do you? 

And he sold it to me without a single advert in view..
Where BBC Four is concerned, let's keep it that way.
CHEERS, FRIENDS

HAPPY NEW YEAR 

Post 457. SOME YEAR, EH?

ANYTHING BUT PREDICTABLE.

IN A NO BRIGHTER BRITAIN.
On Thursday 22nd December an expected guest messaged to say she had Covid and was housebound: her entire Christmas wiped out and, when she recovered, a host of business appointments to be rearranged. It was the second time she had caught the damned thing. Her husband had also gone down with it. At around the same time another of Mo's pals rang to say her husband had contracted it and, though not startlingly ill, seemed unable to shake it off. They are all nice, sensible, people. There's no justice.
Now the talk is that one in every forty five of us could have Covid. The economy is in a heap. Most of the public services are - understandably - going on strike. It's not a brighter Britain. I blame Russia, China, and our government - in that order. Well, why not?
TELEVISION.
Late in his life I saw dear old Compton Mackenzie give a TV interview in which he said age was reducing his literary output; along with that - and he pointed to the television.
I meant to be back at the computer right after Boxing Day but finished up watching that which, sabre rattling films and royal claptrap apart, insidiously urged me not to abandon my armchair. Even the dross lulled me into a comfortable sleep.
Ironically, among the films on offer was the 2016 remake of Whisky Galore (which was to Compton Mackenzie what Cider With Rosie was to Laurie Lee). Well cast film. We enjoyed it.
And that's about it for this year. I'll be off back to my armchair for the New Year fireworks.
ALL THE BEST, DEAR READER, IN

I HOPE IT IS BETTER THAN THIS YEAR FOR YOU  

Post 456. IF YOU STILL READ THIS BLOG.

 SEASONAL GREETINGS

FROM THE GUY WHO WRITES IT.
Great that you have chosen to stay with the written word. I would not have the slightest idea how to produce a video and, according to that nice girl who talked to Sue Perkins on her Big American Road Trip, nobody reads any more; so you are a rare breed. Thank you.
And no, the guy in the picture didn't write it: he's just the token Christmas dressing.
GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEFOLK.
God rest ye merry gentlefolk
Whatever race or creed
Winter can be tough enough
Without your hatred and greed
So spare us all that doctrine driven
Religious or political need
In favour of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy

In favour of comfort and joy.
(The state this world is in, one verse is enough.)
FESTIVE ENTERTAINMENT.
Don't expect much, but you can always hope.

At least in the run up to Christmas we have a new Cormoran Strike series, Troubled Blood, starts on BBC 1 tomorrow night. Tom Burke and Holliday Grainger are back in the leading roles and the short series concludes next weekend, so look sharp or miss it.

THAT'S ABOUT IT

Until after the Boxing Day bubble and squeak with cold meat. Best meal ever.

CHEERS MY DEARS