Right.   It’s 2.30pm and I am giving myself one hour.  Honestly, I have no clue where the time goes – or why this computer is so keen on double spacing between words!   Maybe my typing skills are too advanced and it can’t keep up.  That’s it.  Mrs Pole, you would be proud of me!

Now, easing in gently, that’s one paragraph free from controversy …   Just noticed my hair in the mirror before sitting down to write this.  Come to think of it, I wonder who invented the mirror?  A narcissist, obviously, but …  Having said that, slipping quickly back to my one and only lesson for Physics ‘O’ Level – well, yes, I use the term ‘slipping’ loosely – I do recall something about the refraction of light and I’m sure a mirror was involved?   Sure, also, a mirror is a necessary component of a camera, without which there would be no photographs!  A prospect too awful to contemplate.  So, on second thoughts, insurmountable gratitude to the person who invented the mirror and apologies for suggesting he was a narcissist.  (‘Woke’ readers?  Give up or shut up!)

Actually, on the subject of my Physics ‘O’ Level back in the day, it does make me smile.  I was completely useless at Science in any shape or form, always a scholar of words.  Books, reading, writing, that part of my brain was alive and kicking and, I suppose, an affinity for Latin was a natural consequence of that.  To me, it was a jigsaw and the satisfaction on working out the meaning of a sentence was immense.  I, also, loved learning about life in Roman times; life in the Forum, the villas, the baths, the Patricians and the Plebs – need I say more!  Pop was always on hand to help me with a translation, if I got stuck, the love of words and, thus, language definitely inherited from his side of the family.  Anyway, fast forward – or back – to the choosing of my subjects for ‘O’ Level and I chose Physics instead of Latin!  For the life of me, I cannot think why but, suffice to say, one lesson was enough and it was suggested, politely, by my teacher – Mr Warmer – that I may prefer Latin?  None taken.  Turns out, I have much to thank him for, as does Becca.  Many years on, I would encourage both she and Manny to take Latin, the importance of which should never be under-estimated.  The foundation upon which so many modern languages were built, Latin remains everywhere.  Given that dictionaries are all but consigned to history, if one has studied Latin, one can work out the meaning of most words, the roots of which are embedded in the ancient language.  Invaluable in its structure, it not only disciplines the brain but highlights the importance of grammar.  Ubiquitous in the legal world, every plant, too, has a Latin name …  Honestly, I would go as far as to argue that Latin should be compulsory in all schools.   Alongside English, there has been no subject more valuable to me.  It is a tool for life!  Sadly, in Scotland, today, there is little evidence to acknowledge that fact.  Long associated with public schools – boarding schools – Latin is regarded as a subject for the privileged elite and, thus, has all but been phased out in the state system.  Ironically, it is worth noting, here, the origin of the word ‘elite’: derived from the French, ‘élite’, it comes from the Latin, ‘eligere’ meaning ‘to choose or to select’ …  Clinging to existence in the few traditional independent schools remaining in Scotland, I am devastated at the blatant downgrading of the subject in my old school; a school which, now, remains in name only.

The time is approaching 4.30pm and I have addressed nothing I intended.  Some may regard that as dodging a bullet!  Perhaps, but before I leave the subject of subjects, interestingly, I happened to notice a question on Google as to what foreign languages are taught in Scottish schools?  Those listed as available are: French, German, Spanish, Italian, Gaelic (for learners), Urdu, Mandarin or Cantonese.  No sign of Latin but Urdu, Mandarin or Cantonese?  Little wonder ‘woke’ is thriving.  Erase the past and move on.  How sad.  In need of some Native American wisdom, I found the following quote: ‘It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story.’  We are our past, borne of its triumphs and its errors.  Failure to acknowledge that is, at once, foolhardy and disrespectful.

A mere two hours and forty minutes later, a nod to my notes.  Firstly, Trish-Trash continues to conquer the world …   Well, I discovered that I have a reader in Lithuania and ‘a victim’ in Namibia.   ‘A victim’, one may ask?  It just came into my head.  Pop would always refer to any male suitor as ‘a victim’.  How I miss his humour although, clearly, he remains ‘The Voice in My Head’.

I wonder if any ‘victims’ happened to watch Piers Morgan Uncensored on the new channel, TalkTV, last night?  His ‘eagerly anticipated’ interview with Trump.  Oh, boy!  (No apologies) Where to start?  Now, we met Piers Morgan at The Dunhill, last October, and he couldn’t have been nicer, or more obliging.  I was impressed.  A fan, for some time, I loved his honesty, his refusal to conform and his courage to speak out; to voice his opinion, regardless.  Intelligent, sarcastic, funny, he was exciting to watch.  However, he also revealed his compassionate side in his Life Stories.  A superb interviewer.  It seemed most of his opinions aligned with mine: his dislike/mistrust of Meghan Markle and his contempt of the ‘woke’ culture to name but two.  I followed him on Instagram, delighting in his daily posts until 2021, COVID-19 and the vaccination.  There, we parted ways as he directed uncompromising vitriol at those who did not comply.  I saw him for his arrogance and his ego, a side I did not like.  I unfollowed him.

That said, I was interested in the widely publicised Trump interview, finally aired last night.  My verdict?  In all honesty, not worthy of re-following him on Instagram!  Firstly, the over-dramatic introductory music was irritating in the extreme.  Then, there was Piers sitting behind his ‘presidential’ desk spouting his diatribe on the increasing restraints on free speech.  Two minutes, perhaps, but the delivery – awash with ego and drama – seemed never-ending as he set the stage for the big interview.  Well-publicised that Trump ‘stormed out’, one knew the ending!

Now, Piers Morgan is a friend of Donald Trump.  Both have acknowledged the same.  However, Piers pre-empted the interview by disclosing that President Trump was delivered of a dossier – just before said interview – containing all the disparaging comments made by his ‘friend’, about him, in the public domain.  Some friend!  Apparently, touch and go, Trump did agree to sit down with Piers.  In my opinion, big mistake!

Piers Morgan was on the attack from the offset.  Determined to make a memorable comeback, he sacrificed his ‘friend’ for his ego.  Dramatic in the extreme, he goaded Trump, initially, about Putin and the Russian onslaught on Ukraine.

Trump: ‘Putin is an evil, genocidal monster.’

Emblazoned across the screen, those are the words of Piers Morgan NOT Donald Trump.  Trump, merely – when asked – agreed with them.  Wholly misleading.  From that moment on, he lost me.  As Donald Trump questioned his loyalty – as a friend – I was on his side.  Piers Morgan stabbed him in the back, hell bent on inflating his own ego.  Persevering longer than I would have, President Trump, finally, had had enough and called a halt to the interview.  What took him so long?

Part Two?  Will I change my mind?  I doubt it.  Piers Morgan has mega ground to make up!

Despite wishing to end on a high note, I cannot fail to mention the reporting of a news item last night: ‘NHS worker among four killed in a blood bath’.  Half listening to the News at Ten, these words penetrated my slumber.  What place does ‘NHS worker’ have – what relevance – in the reporting of a mass murder?!  What the hell difference does it make whether she was a prostitute or an NHS worker?  She was murdered!  An innocent victim.  Enough of this deifying the NHS.  Enough!

Angela Rayner and the crossing and uncrossing of her legs?  Has it come to this?  Perhaps, deservedly so.  In fixating on the blanket equality of the sexes, women have afforded the embarrassing minutiae credence.  In the eyes of the intelligent, more fool them.

Thank God for the likes of the Dowager Countess of Grantham, alias Maggie Smith.  How I long for two hours’ escapism from a world which has lost its way.  Primed by the enticing trailer for the new Downton Abbey film – and her incorrigible wit – my seat in the Gold Cinema (is there any other?) is a must!

Do I look as if I’d turn down a villa in the South of France?’


This is Trish, signing off.

Oh, well, one hour, five hours, give or take …