Mr B is getting used to his new riser / recliner chair. Occasionally, through injudicious application of the remote button, he rises more than he was expecting, which is only marginally less exciting than when he reclines
more steeply than he planned. I, having been forbidden use of the remote control unless specifically requested to lend a hand, watch without passing any comment, as I know full well that my observations will not be welcome. I am adopting what might be called
a Watching Brief.
Mr B is also adopting a Watching Brief but his focus is, once again, on football. How many more football matches are there going to be, taking
over Prime Time Television night after night? In our living room, if not in yours. At least yesterday’s match involved Spurs, aka Mr B’s team, so he could be forgiven for wanting to watch it. Today’s main event is Everton versus Liverpool
which Mr B tells me is a local Derby. I imagine he means me to take this as a totally valid reason why footie is, once again, our evening entertainment. Now I understand why he suggested we sat down this afternoon to watch the pre-recorded first episode of
the new series of Death in Paradise.
I love Death in Paradise. I love the combination of holiday atmosphere with a generous dash of Agatha Christie. Plus
a juicy bit of murder thrown in. Just the sound of the title music transports me to the sunshine - even though Mr B points out, with some justification, that (i) I wouldn’t be able to stand the heat; and (ii) I’d be eaten alive by midges. That
would, indeed, be Death in Paradise. Or Death By Parasites, if you want to be pedantic.
I’ve always loved murder mysteries. As a teenager I read every single
Agatha Christie crime drama, followed Father Brown with slavish devotion, and fell totally in love with Leslie Charteris’s Saint long before he transformed into Roger Moore who, to be honest, didn’t look anything like the Hero Of My Dreams. I’m
still a fan - give me a book by P. D. James and I’ll be happy for the duration. These days I can re-read murder mystery books all over again, never remembering Who Dunnit till the very last page. It’s one of the benefits of reaching A Great Age.
Tomorrow it’s Twelfth Night and the Christmas decorations will have to come down, to be packed up and stored on the bed in the spare room until a kind family member
visits and finds him or herself encouraged up the loft ladder. While Mr B follows the fortunes of Liverpool and Everton, I try to decide on the order in which I should take down the decorations. Should it be the Christmas tree first, do you reckon? Or the
Christmas cards? How many cobwebs will I discover lurking beneath my festive garlands and strings of seasonal greetings? Will I be able to make good use of my Spider Catcher, a gift from friends Ted and Margaret? Should I have a quick practice? And, if so,
on what? I look over at Mr B, then think better of it.
The District Nurse arrives to dress Mr B’s poorly legs, interrupting his view of the match. He is
quite restrained all things considering. I ponder on the fact that, had I been the one kneeling before him, my head in front of the TV screen so completely blocking sight of Everton’s equaliser, he wouldn’t have been cracking jokes. Why is that
so, I wonder? It’s a mystery indeed.
Where is Miss Marple when you need her?