Good Evening my Dear Ones . . .
Although one feels it is rather early to express such a salutation, the dark day has finally given way to night and yet the clock insists that it is just after 5... there is tea to drink and maybe a biscuit or two to tempt our taste buds as in the lands of the North, where the Black Rocks stand guard against the cold sea, in the dark night that is very long, we the Men of the Northlands sit by our great log fires and tell a tale...
Well, sort of anyway! A little paraphrasing of the great Oliver Postgate there; it is from the introduction to Noggin the Nog, one of the first of his works I ever recall seeing on our flickery Stella black and white TV, way back in the mists of time . . . as I remarked to a friend earlier in the week, 'Stella' was the first word I ever typed - I was sitting playing on my uncle's old Remington typewriter and I copied the letters from the front of the TV . . . I think I was about 4 or so at the time . . . ah me! I wonder how many words I have caused to be brought into existence since? Too, too many I hear you cry and you could very well be right!
And so what does the evening offer? Well, evidently a lot of people from Coronation St are to be sacrificed to the gods of ratings to celebrate (?) 50 years of this particular form of torture; the world is ending because of the snow - again; I'm struggling with my temper and trying not to evaporate Facebook and its new format from the face of the Earth as it consistently refuses to let me update my profile with correct information - it will, however let me do it as long as I conform to the format, so for example I can speak English but the minute I add any other languages it deletes the lot! Of course, being of American design I suppose erudition was not included in the design brief . . . wonder if there's a fast-food bit?
Other than that, and chats with friends, the evening is so far as still and horse-lattitudey as the doldrums - to mix my naval gazing metaphors ; I really have struggled with sleep over the past few nights so tonight could well be an opportunity to try and bag a few hours on account.
On a rather sad note I should record that yesterday morning saw the death of Ethel Round, the President of Wigan Little Theatre; she had achieved a grand old age of over 100 years and was present at every performance of every play . . . a marvelous character who will be very much missed by everyone who knew her.
And that, dear ones, is pretty much it; outside the weather is as grim as it's supposed to be up North and an evening dozing in the warmth and comfort of one's own BPS is a luxury beyond the fortune of Croesus!
'til next time
Be Seeing You !