20. Dec, 2020
Does anyone else have the same difficulty in distinguishing between the end of the atmospheric car advert preceding these Scandilous noirs and the start of the actual programme? I keep feeling the moody character stalking about in the advert is key to the drama and get suckered into watching Volvo instead of Valhalla on a regular basis. It's pretty hard to work out what's going on most of the time anyway, due to the days being so short it's dusk in the lighting department whatever the hour of the action. This snow scene was set in Iceland, but as ever, there was barely a twinkle from the northern lights throughout the unremitting gloom. It's de rigeur since 'the Bridge' for the heroine police officer to be blonde, difficult, a touch autistic perhaps, and be working with a mystery partner who appears from somewhere else and after an awkward start, develops an awkward working relationship with them. The plot wasn't hard to unravel but it went on a long time and when eventually the extra twist came, I'd been convinced the previous week had to be the last episode. Another two hour drama later, it hadn't been, but equally, everyone was so distant and a bit odd that did we really care? Boys had been abused by their social workers in a boys' home years before. A top man was the torture master. Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' was explained in the angst of the austere faced lead male detective, who was a dead ringer for the painting. This was due to some sect like religious upbringing which had led to him severing all ties with place and family. I never could fathom out, if it did ever become clear, why he came back to this place of Calvinistic horrors. He did get the chance to gloat coldly over his father on his deathbed, though, another heartwarming moment. If hell is other people, at least in the Valhalla Murders they couldn't see much of them through the grey blizzard of their surroundings. It was no wonder so many murders happened uninterrupted. Even in the middle of the city there never seemed to be anyone around for miles. What they could have done with was some proper entertainment. Where's Bjork when you need her?
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.