I have a feeling this used to be humorous; I used to be humorous. What happened? Granted, it’s been a while since my last blog post – still hate that word – and, again, why is that, that I haven’t written? Once upon a time, there was a structure of sorts, in my life; now, it’s more a chaos, of sorts! Yes, I still waken with the list of ‘To dos’ in my head but somehow I, increasingly, find it all too easy to convince myself that tomorrow is expandable and I’ll do them all then. Just me? It’s dark. It’s windy and it’s miserable. Sunlight? Remember that? Not really. In fact, if I was asked to sum up 2024 in one word, perhaps grey would be the most appropriate. Actually, gloom might be another! So much bad news. So much sad news. People are struggling in an increasingly brutal world. Enter Keir Starmer, stage left. Thank God for Donald Trump, poised, stage right …
There used to be humour … and then there was politics. That said, Trump is one of the few people, these days, who makes me smile. At him? With him? Undeniably, unique, he is equally unpredictable and, apparently, without filter. Apparently. Astute, intelligent, he’s nobody’s fool. Hallelujah! For death by boredom was becoming a distinct possibility in a world pervaded by unbridled wokery. No more. The cavalry is in sight. The bugle has sounded … How I used to love watching all the Westerns of old. Goodies and baddies – and, no panic, the goodies always won. Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning. Now, there’s a business idea: budget flights to Never Never Land. Returns? Don’t be silly!
I used to make myself laugh, sometimes, reading back over old posts. Right now, if I make it to the end of this one, I’ll be grateful – no, I said that; beat you to it! In my defence, I did have the television on earlier, while sitting at the table writing my ‘select few’ Christmas cards – more on that later. It was The Royal Variety Performance, of all things. Predictably awful, towards the end, came the roll call of all those, in the world of entertainment, whom we lost this year. That kills me, pardon the pun! Has always killed me but more than ever now. Suddenly, they’re of my era and younger, every one of them a part of my life. One-by-one, gone. Bob Newhart, the American comedian, was there. How he made me laugh. The famous skit on the submarine: ‘My door is always open. Can I ask that whoever took it, return it …’, or words to that effect. Irreplaceable. David Soul, Hutch, was there, too. Be still my beating heart. Just thankful Donny is, of course, immortal – albeit, barely recognisable. Seems while his friend, Michael, strived to be white, Donny is rather partial to the perma-tan. Complimentary with the fillers? Stop it! I digress as ever … As the images and dates of the departed appeared on the big screen, the accompanying music was an orchestral rendition of a One Direction song – a fitting tribute to, arguably, the saddest loss of all. A photograph of Liam Payne, smiling. His dates, below, 1993 – 2024. Thirty-one years-old. 2024, its cruelty laid bare.
Desperately in need of some light relief. How about this? Adapted from a comment on Instagram, I jotted this down to remind myself that there is humour to be found in everything: What is the definition of a lucky break? Writing to ‘jim’ll Fix It’ in the Seventies, asking to meet Rolf Harris – and being unsuccessful! That is funny, if not a little macabre. To think how beloved these two predators were and, too, the presumed innocence of those gentler times. Nothing is as it seems.
I posted my ‘select few’ Christmas cards today – well, those going abroad for the cost of a small mortgage! That’s the thing, who’s prepared to/can afford to pay the cost of the stamps now? The perfect excuse to abstain as the Christmas card tradition breathes its dying breath, just another victim of the digital monster. First, it was the printed labels, denying the fun of guessing the handwriting; then came the e-card. How to make one feel special! Gone the individual; the personal touch. In its place, the clone. Dumbed down. Malleable. The power of the disconnect … I will continue to send Christmas cards, my only concession being that I hone the recipients! Such is my rebellion, in fact, that I am writing them all in ink. Quill? Do you know, we used to have desks with proper ink wells – filled – at our school and we were adept at writing in fountain pen. A must for the ‘Thank you’ note or the luncheon invitation, ubiquitous in the life of a young lady! Mock at your leisure. Princess Diana was a pupil at the same school of etiquette … Anyway, the master of thoughtful gifts, Manny bought me a lovely fountain pen, a couple of years ago, complete with green cartridges. No guessing my cards, then. Mind you, recognisable though it may be – and rather pleasing, methinks – my handwriting, to the unfamiliar eye, is also illegible. Not to worry. It was a school for young ladies. We were supposed to marry well, too!
As of now, my tree has not progressed indoors. Traditional, I call it. In Austria, they bring their tree in on Christmas Eve and decorate it whilst enjoying a little refreshment. A real tree. I prefer to spend my Christmases in Austria – and plan to do so, again, in the very near future (the book, remember, the book!) – so, whilst I remain captive here against my will, I fully intend to do as they do. Captive here against my will? Look, Keir Starmer, alone – the embodiment of blind ambition devoid of personality or a heart – is sufficient reason to vamoose the country, never mind the godawful weather. Prince Andrew has blown it again, GK Barry, a social influencer (?) who appeared on I’m a Celebrity is a millionaire with no clue when the Second World War was, 3.4 million of the population are severely obese and to be fed weight-loss drugs as an easy fix (go Big Pharma!) and the most popular name for a baby boy in England and Wales is Mohammed. Need I go on? Once again, a reminder to check passport …
It’s miserable. Not a good idea to binge-watch the three series of The Split, then! I remember the hype at the time – 2022, I think – but, not my viewing of choice considering I’d done the practical, as it were. Of course, it’s about divorce and it’s suitably brutal. Brutal. My God, if one was ever in doubt that divorce is a blood-sucking business! A superbly-written insight and one which served as an invaluable reminder, to me, of detail I may have omitted – yes, that accurate. However, the juggernaut of poignancy lies in the genius of the concurrent depiction of family; the deep-rooted love of family above all else. The kind of love borne of shared memories; a shared history. The kind of love borne of time.
‘Nothing is promised. This little life of ours is less about what we’ve earned and what we’ve gathered and more who we’ve loved and who we leave behind. I’ve always known that it’s less about the life lived and more about who you live that life with …’
‘The Split’. A lesson in perspective – and a boost for Kleenex.
This is Trish, signing off.
