Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Wicked Witch of the West

As a conservative government plant their late great leader at huge public expense amid unprecedented economic hardship that could be argued was wholly precipitated by her decisions whilst in government, I have to shake my head. Because my head is muddy, muddled and fuddled. As much by the ostentatious bravado of giving TBW a state funeral as by my illness. (tbw = That Bloody Woman)

I met her husband Denis in a professional manner while she was in power. A passing meeting, one where I had to get a few snaps of him and his sponsor at an event. Nothing special, but how the great and the good behave towards the insignificant is interesting and insightful. I don't know him of course, but from my little experience I came away with the firm impression of an arrogant and overbearing man preening in the reflected power of his wife. I rather think they were both of much the same nature. 

The picture above is of the sick table in the biohazard exclusion zone that is my bedroom. I've been flat on my back since Sunday. Hacking and coughing, sneezing, eyes streaming and throat constricting. Just a cold. But these days, colds lay me out. The concerned authorities, anxious that the ceremony going on in London shouldn't be infected, must have thrown a biohazard exclusion zone around the area, including stopping any radio waves that have surely stopped my worried sick daughters sending any sympathies. Only my wife has brought sustenance twice daily. At least I think it's my wife. Difficult to tell who it is that appears in that biohazard suite fitted with respirators, plexiglass gold reflective mask and thick rubber gloves. The hose down with cold water I have to admit is refreshing. Did you know it was only fifty years ago that TB patients in this country, often very young, were wheeled out and left in their beds outside on the veranda of the hospital in all weathers, even during winter, as the authorities believed fresh air helped... 

I might be sick, but I'm sicker of daytime TV. God. Cash in the Attic, Homes under the Hammer and Heir Hunters. It's enough to make the sick walk and turn off the telly. Then I discovered through sheer desperation, Radio 4 Extra... A digital channel tucked away in the outer nether regions of digital space. So now I'm listening to classic comedy radio, The Goon Show, Hancock's Half Hour and I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again as well as forgotten dramatisations for radio. But today these brilliant shows have competition from the comedy funeral going on in London. Decisions, decisions...


  1. I am sorry you're ill, but say! Another Ian Rankin fan, eh?

  2. Fan? Hmmm... I've started, but not finished.