Just who can one rely on these days?!  I was doing so well, too, until it all went pear-shaped.   Apologies.  Two days late, maybe even three by the time I have finished this, my promised Friday deadline has been and gone.  This afternoon, however, I decided to pop out for a short walk round the village – no, not Davidson’s Mains – before settling down at my desk.  Not as cold as I had expected but a beautiful sky, once more, looking over to the sea.  Does anyone like November?  Damp, grey and gloomy.  Thank goodness for Christmas!  Talking of which, I spent some time, the other morning, trying to source my cards.  No easy task now.  As the tradition of card-sending goes the way everything else has, the selection is suitably dire.  Same old, same old.  I always buy from my favourite charities and, for years, my cards were from the Born Free Foundation.  Not of late.  Is there really no money to be made in Christmas cards anymore?  Is that why no effort is made?  I shall persevere being that it is a tradition I love.  Who knows, maybe I’ll end up like my mother who would adorn the house with this year’s cards, last year’s cards, cards from the Sixties … one gets the picture.  Why not?  If someone takes the time and trouble to send you a card, milk it!

That is by the by, however.  I was explaining that I went for short walk – and returned two hours later!  Not far from home, I exchanged greetings with a friendly chap digging his garden.  Meet Dave!  Clearly, wishing to chat, I crossed the road for a quick blether and I think we covered the lot.  Local gossip, the weather, politics, you name it.  Now, pitch dark – and having agreed that we’re, all, stuffed (excuse my French!) – I beat my retreat.  Not much gardening done and no writing, Dave said he would look out for me again.  Not good with names, he claimed that he would remember my face.  No change there, then.  What is it about my face?!

I planned to start with positivity, for once.  Make the most of it, you haven’t seen the rest of my notes!  So, the build-up to Christmas is in full swing and that means the Christmas adverts and the schmaltzy films – personally, once one gets past the inevitable woke casting, I quite like them.  Yes, the story is always the same – girl goes back to her hick home-town, for some reason or other, where everybody knows and loves her and she just happens to meet her first love … and they all live happily ever after.  What’s not to like?  The modern-day fairy tale.  There are snow-capped mountains, lovely wooden houses draped in fairy lights, everybody knows and looks out for everybody else – and they all drive Wranglers!  Let’s face it, it’s Star’s Hollow on speed and I, for one, would love to live in a beautiful town like that – and have my Wrangler!  In fact, what am I still doing here?  More to the point, where was I going with this?  Ah, yes, the positivity bit … Christmas adverts.

Something positive about Christmas adverts?  Little.  The world of wokery has put paid to that with its enforced quotas: the white family, the black family, the Chinese family … the black & white Dalmation, need I say more?  So contrived – so patronising – they only serve to infuriate.  However, bring in big guns, namely, the Coca- Cola advert.  The holidays are coming, holidays are coming …  It’s the same!  Coca-Cola hasn’t kowtowed.  First released in 1995 – and beloved – the illuminated red trucks are still making their way through the mountains of snow-covered Vancouver to the chants of ‘The holidays are coming, holidays are coming’ as the excited children run to catch a glimpse.  It has it all: the magic, the excitement, family.  The true spirit of Christmas as it, once, was.  Not a quota in sight.  All hail Coca-Cola!  Bigger than them all …   Meanwhile, John Lewis, Marks & Spencer, Sainsbury’s etc. are little more than puppets bowed by the powers of the far-left and the aggrieved woke brigade.  Spread sheets to the ready lest the ‘saintly’ George Floyd turn in his grave or the LGBTQ+ movement decide to add yet another letter!!

While still on the subject of submission to woke, King Charles …  Forgive me, I still have to pause before writing that – sorry, typing that.  For those who may be unfamiliar with the practice, writing involves the use of an implement – most commonly, an ink pen or a pencil – to inscribe a collection of letters, denoting words, onto a piece of paper for the purpose of conveying a message, or creating a piece of prose, to be read by a fellow human being.  I know.  Ridiculous!  Why go to all that effort when one can use the keyboard on one’s laptop or phone; when there is spellcheck and no need for capital letters, sentences or anything which remotely adheres to grammar?

Not cynical in the least.  Back to King Charles and his black poppy or, precisely, the Black Rose Poppy.  It is worn to honour the black servicemen killed at war who, some believe, are under-represented; some, such as Selina Carty who founded the movement in September 2010.  However, this black poppy also represents the black soldiers who fought against the British in a variety of wars and, moreover, the demand for reparations!  Thus, intensely political, it is totally against the spirit of Armistice Day, the Cenotaph and the wearing of the poppy; one which pays no heed to class, race, rank or medals but, rather, treats everybody the same …  A movement deserving of no credence, why, then, on a visit to Surrey in the run-up to Armistice Day, did King Charles have the emblem of the Black Rose Poppy pinned to his lapel immediately below the traditional poppy?  Unacceptable.  As I said, earlier, I struggle to call him King.  Forever weak, ironically, in his desperation to pacify the aggressive minorities, he is merely dissipating the dignity, the majesty which was, once, our monarchy.  Weakness.  Oh, cursed Achilles’ heel!

So much more to say …  Of course, Suella has gone.  In favour of controlled migration and robust law enforcement, she had a virtual target on her back.  Then, there is the recent approval of the new chicken pox vaccination for toddlers … one at twelve months and another at eighteen.  Way to go!  It seems natural immunity is to be considered a thing of the past …

What of the private parole hearing for Jon Venables, the monster who, aged ten – and, along with his friend, Robert Thompson – abducted, tortured and murdered two-year-old James Bulger?  Released after eight years, both he and Thompson were granted lifetime anonymity.  Venables has, since, been jailed a further twice – in 2010 and 2017 – for possession of indecent images of children and yet, he is being considered for parole again?  A private parole hearing, no less, in order that he be spared ‘disproportionate emotional stress’.  Sorry?  If he were dismembered while still breathing, that, alone, would not constitute the emotional stress he deserves!  The embodiment of pure evil, I despair of this woke world.

Finally – and on a lighter note (quite honestly, anything would be now) – am I the only person who suspects that Rishi Sunak and Tom Daley are one and the same?  Think about it.  Close your eyes.    They sound identical.  Have you ever seen them together?  Does one know what Rishi does in his  spare time – one plain, one purl?  Just saying …

Hang on, another ‘finally’!   How could I forget Vernon Kay and his heroic Ultra Ultra Marathon for Children in Need?  Absolutely superb!  So impressed.   One of the good guys – and the living embodiment of a lesson, for me.  Once, out of sorts when Ken Bruce was unceremoniously dismissed from Radio 2 and Vernon took over his slot, I had nothing good to say about Mr Kay.  Now?  An avid listener.  Walks on water!  Not in the least bit fickle.

Beneath the sun’s rays, our shadow is our comrade;
When clouds obscure the sun, our shadow flees.
So Fortune’s smiles the fickle crowd pursues,
But swift is gone whenever she veils her face.’


This is Trish, signing off.