Unfortunately I never got chance to study
literature at school. For some bizarre reason I had to make a choice between
that subject and geography and, not keen on getting lost in the world, coupled
with the offer of rainy day field trips to the Brecon Beacons, Geography narrowly
won the day. Ironic really - when I consider my current profession. Stupid too, having to make such sacrifice –
but then my school did things like that. Art was another thing I am sorry I
missed, in favour of history or rugby or some other essential. As a result I
wouldn’t know a Goya from a Gammon-steak and for years I thought that Hertz
Van-Rental was a Dutch painter! Anyway, my reason for broaching this subject is
that, although I never analyzed works by Arthur Conan Doyle, I am pretty sure
his words were highly intellectual and contained meaningful stories about good
and evil, right and wrong and possibly large dogs in deerstalkers. So how did
the BBC end up with such a load of bastardized piffle as the current Sherlock
Homes series, which bears about as much relevance to the traditional stories
and characters as my cat does to a dancing walrus! In it we see Benedictine Cucumber-patch
generally making a complete arse of himself in something that would more befit
a comic Carry-On caper rather than a detective story. I half expected Sid James
to make an appearance, or Norman Wisdom to come on and fall over. Maybe I have
been misled, but isn’t Sherlock supposed to solve crimes? Perhaps he could
start with the biggest crime so far this year – that of the BBC allowing this
twaddle onto our screens.
I don’t want to speak too soon but, for once, this
winter has been a bit kinder when it comes to the ‘big freeze’ issues, possibly
making some newspaper sensational headline-writers redundant in the process.
Not that nature has been completely nice, with its blowing down of age old
trees and a gallant attempt to drown us all.
On this latter issue, I would like to make an observation regarding Britain’s
coastline, with particular reference to sea-walls, and it is this. ‘If the wind is blowing up 20 feet high
waves and you have a notion to walk on the harbour wall to take photos, don’t
expect to live long.’ And furthermore, please do NOT expect to be rescued
from the bottom of the ocean by the coastguard with your Nikon round your neck.
Remember, stupidity is still the number killer in the world.
Well, by the time this gets to print, we will be
hopefully high up on a mountain where no floods can reach us, possibly in a
cabin buried under snow. It has been a few years since I had skis on, a fact
that was quite telling when I found that my ski-suit appeared to have shrunk
since its last use. In a vain attempt to get it back on again, I have now
joined the local gym, something I haven’t done in years either. In fact it is so long since I have been in
one of those mirrored environments, that I now have no idea what half the
machines do, nor how to work them. Gone are the days when you could just hope
on a cycle-machine and pedal away a few pounds. No, now it has gone all
hi-tech. Apparently I can simulate going uphill, downhill, forest-track,
velodrome, even Boris-bike death-wish rides. In front of me, gadgets, TV
screens and gobbledegook words tell me how many calories I am using, how close
my heart is to exploding while my pulse defies medical science, how hot I am
and what a fat-boy I have become. Meanwhile,
my own personal wafer-thin health-and-safety executive hangs around in her
lycra, making sure I don’t die on the premises. I was quite surprised she
didn’t make me wear a cycle helmet! Gleefully she informs me that, if I am
going skiing, I should do some ball exercises! I’ve no idea what they are and I’ve
been too scared to go back again to find out!
As we are heading to colder climes, the subject of
winter-wear raises its ears above the parapet once more. Last summer, on
possibly the hottest day of the year, I purchased an excellent winter coat, at
a discount from a down-on-his-luck trader at an agricultural show. Wendy was
with me at the time and I tried to persuade her to do the same. But no, she
didn’t need a new coat – then. Strangely though, now it is minus 5 outside, she
does. So off we go to the January sales, northwards into deepest Scotland to a
shop called the House of Bruar. Those of a country pursuit persuasion may have
heard of this place which is like the clothing equivalent of Fortnam and
Masons. Prince Charles shops there,
apparently. And Donald Trump. Not unlike
F&M, they don’t lower themselves to such vulgarities as winter sales. I
should have been put off by their slogan on the door which said, ‘.. if you
have to ask the price, then b*gger-off to Primark!’ We now have a ‘his and hers’ country look.
His: cheap and practical – hers: looks good with heels! Sadly, the winnings
from our subsequent day at the races didn’t even manage to pay for the fuel to
get there, let alone the jacket.
