On Thursday morning a strange thing happened. Ross got up and went to work. I stayed in bed.
I've finally fallen prey to the bug that's been going around. It feels rather
like a heavy head cold accompanied by a soar throat and a wheezy chest. I claim
to have the Crosby Croak. People at work say that I sounded like Barry White.
Ross says that I sound like Lilly Savage. Colin
says that it sounds as though I have a full blown case of CST (that's cock suckers
throat to the rest of you). It's amazing how coarse men of the cloth can be, you
know.
So, there's been nothing for it but to stay off work and wallow and catch up on various forms of entertainment.
Tuesday night brought us Footballers' Wives. This was Jackie Collins for television and was exactly what we needed on a cold night in January. Tacky glamour - which equals lots of money with no taste, overblown emoting and vigorous rumpy pumpy.
So far, the programme's title seems to be misleading as camera seems to be taking far more interest in the opportunities to show us the footballers' bodies than their wives. However, we are not complaining.
Luke (late of Hollyoaks) aka Gary Lucy was pleased to drop his shorts in
changing rooms and get his arse out for us. He also lept
into the shower with his team mates for another display of buttocks akimbo. There
was also something we thought was his hand until video induced slow motion freeze
frame revealed a very useful todger.
Phil was so moved by the whole episode
that he gave us a ring to make sure that we were watching. Anyhow, it should keep
us interested for the next seven weeks.
I also caught up with Shackleton which I taped over
New Year. Here was a real hero, caught in desperately extreme circumstances,
trapped in the ice in Antarctica for over a year, did not lose a single man
from his 30 strong party. They ate the dogs mind.
Kenneth Brannagh took the lead rôle. And very well too. He does leadership well. The dramatic gestures and empty high flown words delivered at the right moment will genuinely inspire if offered in the right way. And Brannagh knows how to do this. It was his Henry V for a more modern age. Cast and crew followed him to hell and back.
An epilogue informed us that, within three months of the crew landing safely in Britain, over half were serving on the Western Front. You'd have thought that they would have had enough of hardship and privation. Or maybe the Western Front was a doddle in comparison - if you could avoid the ordinance, that is. There was a telling moment in the TV programme, when, on arrival at Port Stanley, the crew were drinking with some whalers and discovered that they were all social misfits. They toasted "To those who do not fit in anywhere else".
The real Shackleton made one final trip to the Southern Hemisphere. Half a dozen of the Endurance party went with him. Symbolically for someone who was not happy at home, he had a heart attack and died there. He is buried underneath a rude cairn near a whaling station.
Time away from work has also meant that I've caught some daytime TV. Most is cheap trash but I did like House Invaders or rather I liked the handy hunk JJ Martinez, who Ross pointed out to me. Pick of the week was the film of Blithe Spirit which I had never seen before.
I've been revelling in the Cecilia Bartoli CDs Ross and I bought. Her Vivaldi is stupendous. The Gluck is fine but less varied I felt. I've also been taking the chance to listen to Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito in advance of Welsh National Opera performances this coming Easter.
I listened to my audiobook of Pride and Prejudice and marvelled yet again at the poise of Jane Austen's prose and the depth of her characterisation which allows you to find new things each time you approach the books. So much happens outside of the words. I felt this time round that I really understood the person of Mr Bennett much more. I saw that so much of his use of language and so many of this actions are a protective barrier against sharing a house with the woman his wife has become and the two daughters whom she has moulded in her image.
I've also been tucking into Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris who is the author of Chocolat. All three of her books that I have read have been set in rural France. They all deal with family histories and clashes of culture (whether it is pagan/christian, urban/rural, ancient/modern) and use food as a metaphoric agent for binding and dividing. I quite like her work but it does feel very much the same, a little like a Gallicised Joanna Trollope.
Anyhow, that's enough of me. Herewith a little about Ross's work.
He's at Sandfield Park Special Day School working to introduce art work into areas of the curriculum to do with numeracy. He's finding that the energy of young people can be daunting. Ross can get out of his wheelchair but suffers with loss of energy. They can't get out of their wheelchairs but have all the energy of youth. I think that this may be challenging for him.The end of each class is like the start of the 24 hour Le Mans.
The artist he is working alongside is called Rebecca. Ross says that she is even less organised than he is. My jaw dropped. Then I was punched in the arm.
He's also had a visit from Paula from Social Services. He should find out the level of support he is to receive sometime next week. I have a complex form to fill out to identify my needs as a carer.
On the two days that I did go into work, it was strange getting up in the dark and breakfasting in the pre-dawn twilight. Walking to the bus stop to the accompaniment of the dawn chorus was a compensation, however.
