A Fond Recollection and Two Little Catastrophes.

You know, every week I buy a TV listings magazine, and every week it sits on my sofa unopened. I hardly ever watch the TV; there’s nothing on it to interest me.

So, I was thinking back to the good old days before those twin scumbags Maxwell and Murdoch invaded the airways with their satellite and cable, and infected our brave old world with media versions of McDonalds and KFC. I did warn people at the time, but they didn’t listen; such is the power of advertising and the myopic tendency of the great British public.

In particular, I remembered what I consider to have been the most consistently and outrageously funny sitcom ever made – Drop the Dead Donkey. A major part of its appeal was that it sent up the twin Ms and their pernicious cultural plague quite mercilessly, and the characters were brilliant conceived, brilliantly written, and brilliantly executed. The only thing that worried me slightly was the disturbing similarity in character traits between Henry Davenport and me, but I’d prefer not to expand on that (except, perhaps, to say that I haven’t taken to wearing a toupee yet.) It’s complicated.

Instead, I must just mention tonight’s little catastrophes.

The evening was warm, damp and sultry, with a low, heavy, grey sky driving remorselessly from the south. Having gone to check on the sheep at the top of the lane, I came back and made my way to my favourite gate at the top of the farm track opposite Bag Lane.

No gate. It was there, but it wasn’t on its hinges; it was lying prone (or maybe supine – its hard to tell with gates) on the grass nearby. A quick check around the field indicated that the farmer is in the process of re-posting and hanging his gates.

Well, the sight of the Weaver Hills having their tops obscured by low cloud was atmospheric and pleasing, but what compensation is that for not having a gate to lean on? Not quite enough, I’m sorry to say.

Tonight’s other little catastrophe was the realisation that I’d forgotten to buy a croissant to dunk in my French coffee. I’m coming to quite like the stuff, but it’s nearly gone. I could always get some more ‘Café de Paris’ the next time I go to Uttoxeter, of course, and maybe the rival supermarket nearby will have fresh croissants. OK, that’s the plan.

(I wonder whether New Yorkers have considered dunking their cronuts in coffee. Maybe I should ask one.)