​Welcome to all my new readers!  Who could have guessed that the Court of Session would prove such a conduit?  God moves in mysterious ways …  Once again running late, I checked in at the beginning of the week expecting a fall in my readership as my last post was short and to the point – more of a message, really.  However, the opposite was true.  Karma, perhaps, or just a perfect ending for my forthcoming book?
My week began with the ‘uplifting’ King Lear so, before I address said tragedy and the mood sinks accordingly, perhaps I should draw attention to more trivial matters – unbelievable nonetheless!  Serena Williams’ chosen attire for her return to the world domination of women’s tennis at Roland Garros this week?  Personally, I feel her absence has been somewhat liberating enabling the chance for others to shine.  There is no doubting the talent and dedication of the Williams sisters but as one who has been allocated Centre Court tickets in the AELTC public ballot and anticipated another exhilarating day at Wimbledon, a word in hindsight: pray for a ‘men’s day’!  Who wants to see Serena Williams’ latest fashion faux pas as she knocks another fresh-faced opponent out of the court with the power of a beast?  There are no rallies.  She has no need to venture from the base line.  No question that one may risk missing a crucial point to go to the loo or to refresh one’s drinks.  Despite the courage of her opponent, there is no match.  It is boring!
Wimbledon is …  quintessentially British; it exudes timelessness, class, manners; a nod to days gone by when gentlemen were gentlemen and ladies enjoyed being treated as such.  Elegant in the extreme.  Never flash.  A Rolex?  Oh, no!  A tan was natural not out of a bottle, one’s dress was not several sizes too small for the purpose of exposing flesh and one could actually walk in one’s shoes.  Fascinators, thankfully, had not been invented!  Gentlemen made sure a lady’s glass was never empty, stood up when joined by company and, unquestionably, held open the door.  If I could save time in a bottle …  Thankfully, Wimbledon remains in a time warp.  Thankfully, the players must wear whites.  Thankfully, there will be no repeat of Serena’s black lycra all-in-one at the French Open!  No words.  Well, perhaps two: utterly ridiculous!
Another week in ‘status symbol land’ where the bins are all numbered and put out days in advance; where the cars are flash and it is obligatory that they are spotless … to be fair, that is just opposite.  New money/lottery winners have replaced the original families; the Archies and the Wilburs – big dogs in both character and size – sadly are long gone and, in their place, toy dogs or ridiculous crossbreeds such as the cockapoo fulfill the need for accessories.  There is nothing more emasculating than seeing a man walking a toy dog, believe me.  However, I digress.  Extensions …
The familiar house across the road, once characterised by the beautiful Rowan tree in the front garden and once the forever home of Ena and Jimmy, is in the hands of new ownership.  The Rowan tree has been hacked to the ground by cold-calling ‘tree fellers’ and the obligatory extension has been underway for the last six weeks or so.  No heed to anyone else, they work seven days a week causing constant noise pollution and parking mayhem.  Hideous though that is, I am more despairing of the fact that the owner of said house saw fit to have a friend offload his car across the road for three weeks – just to add to the chaos – while said friend went on holiday.  Can’t quite decide whether that is lack of consideration or brain matter?  I suspect both.  My time here is done.
King Lear?  No, first I have to mention a statistic I heard on the news this week: namely, the prescribing of more than 64 million anti-depressants in the UK in 2016.  Actually, I covered this subject some time ago but, scarily, the figures seem to be ever-increasing.  My thoughts on the reasons?  They are inherent throughout much of my writing with the key word being technology; the root of so much that is wrong with the world today.  Anti-depressants are merely the quick-fix, money-making band aid serving only to mask the symptoms with no heed for the problem, itself.  To establish the actual problem would take time and time is money.  No, dumb down all the senses and ensure that life is just one long platitude:
‘You’re losin’ all your highs and lows
Ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away?’
Desperado, Eagles.
I recorded a two-part programme this week entitled The Doctor Who Gave Up Drugs in which Dr Chris van Tulleken explores the reasons why children in the UK are taking three times more medication than those of forty years ago and why the prescribing of anti-depressants to  teenagers is on the increase.  Cheery stuff!  I shall report back.
Finally, King Lear.  What can I say?  My favourite Shakespeare play.  Written in, approximately, 1603, it could still serve as a microcosm of the world today – sadly.  Tragedy at its best depicting human nature at its worst.  An arrogant King and father who sees fit to measure the love of his three daughters in sycophancy fuelled by greed.  Self-obsessed, he dis-inherits Cordelia, the youngest, whose love for her father is genuine but who is steadfast in her refusal to prove it.  That which unfolds bears witness to the greed of Regan and Goneril, the loyalty of Kent – and, to a lesser extent, Gloucester – the ruthlessness of Edmund and his betrayal of his brother, Edgar.  The ensuing mayhem results in Goneril and Regan plotting against their father before turning on each other.  Cordelia, meanwhile, tries to save him but, in so doing, secures her own death.  Lear’s guilt is all-consuming and he dies of a broken heart.  Massive misjudgement unleashing evil against good!  Do the good guys ever win? One can but hope.  However, rest assured, guilt is, in itself, a life sentence.
In an effort to lighten the mood, let me end with a quote from Samantha in Sex & The City, here decrying the prospect of friendship with an ex:
‘Oh, please, there’s always a contest with an ex – it’s called ‘Who’ll die miserable?!’
This is Trish, signing off.