Recent events brought back old memories of (very) early childhood TV viewing. As a young child, I found TV quite boring. Children’s TV, that is. I pretty much tolerated Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, possibly only because Little Weed was kind of cute. In a British middle class sort of way.
I never understood Bill or Ben though.
I also struggled a little with Sara and Hoppity.
Sara Brown has a toy as naughty can be, and he starts to sing when you wind up his key. One leg is much shorter, but give him a chance, and he will tell you how he can manage to dance;
Dear old Hoppity, naughty Hoppity, there is no toy as naughty can be;
Clever Hoppity, lovely Hoppity, he sings tiddly dum and he sings tiddly dee …
And it goes on in some weird, demented kind of way. That was a tiny piece of the theme tune: a tiny piece is enough.
The series was made in 1960, slightly before my time, but there was a lot of repetition on TV in those days. To me, in around 1965, it was new. And horrible. One can’t help but wonder how anyone could have imagined that such shit could have been of benefit to young children.
There’s a video or two on YouTube; I couldn’t bring myself to add I’m sure that such programmes must have damaged many children, now middled aged adults.
I’m now watching the third episode of And then there were none on TV. My second in command and I went to see the play in town a few months ago; it’s nice to see a more prolonged version (the judge has just been shot).
I was never a fan of Ms Christie’s works, but they do translate to the stage (and TV) pretty well.
Recently, my second in command has been experimenting with transport.
She was quite impressed with the stop button on buses, which emits a siren-like noise. Today, we visited our local hospital, where my second in command’s foot was scanned. We only need to wait 10-14 days for the results.
We’re hoping that’s some form of expectation management and that we’ll soon have an outcome. After our disappointment, we went, by wheelchair to our local.
Where people made a special romantic table for us.
And then there was a Â£1.60 cab home (with a massive tip).
Yesterday, my second in command had her first real excursion following her injury. We took a bus to the Central, where we seemed to be the only customers.
After a couple of beers and something to eat, we returned home to make pies. Mushroom and beer (Innes & Gunn original).
Now that she’s getting the hang of crutches, we’re considering venturing out again today.
The Christmas release of Red Alert on the OpenRA site …
The screenshot doesn’t really do it justice.
I quite like the angel on top of the Go-Northeast Christmas tree.
Might have to purchase (or make) one for next year.
I ache a lot. Mostly my calf muscles and the top of my arms/shoulders. Pushing my second in command around in a wheelchair has been a tiring experience.
I’m not actually complaining; she’d do the same for me if I were to be similarly damaged.
Still, she looks kind of cute in crutches.
I finally got around to replacing the broken bathroom light fitting, so our bathroom now has light again.
Unfortunately, it appears that, when something is fixed, something else must break. My second in command’s foot, for example.
She has a brand new cast on her foot and crutches.
While on the bus home from work this evening, waking from my slumber not far from my stop, a man sitting opposite engaged me in conversation.
Slurring heavily, he asked if I was on my way to work. I replied in the negative, stating that i’d finished for the day. He said that I was fortunate, finishing so early. Noticing my confusion, he said, you’re not a doorman?
Again, I said not. He was quite apologetic, but commented that I had a nice coat.
My temporary companion appeared not to recall our very similar bus conversation of an evening around last Christmas. Perhaps we shall meet again next year.
I may have pain. I mean real pain. I may have a broken leg. And fingers. And head.
After a rather pleasant evening, ending for the second night in our local, I sat, once home, on the back of the Sofa in the kitchen. Then, for some reason, leaned back.
My second in command was amused to see my legs fly over my head on my way down to the floor. Regrettably, our cast iron table wasn’t the best of cushions.
Fortunately, I have a bottle of Sam Smith’s oatmeal stout to ease my pain.