29. Oct, 2017

Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

Fawkes is very well done (as are several passing heretics). A bit too much disembowelling, pressing with stones and screamingly realistic being put to the rack for comfortable Saturday night viewing but, hey, it's a change from the carnage that being kicked off from Come Dancing brings on, isn't it?

Pass the treacle toffee and join me in wondering why, when everyone else is solemnly imbued with period speak, banging on about espions being everywhere and barely able to see over their ruffs, King James wanders in with his young favourite as if about to order a pint after a match, delivering lines with a drily modern irony foreign to every other character, whilst being so in your face Scottish you might worry about getting a Glasgow kiss rather than a bow from him.

Catesby and Father John have just escaped the Tower by crawling out through a sewer (the latterday equivalent of the ubiquitous sci fi air vent made so popular by Dr Who). I can't help wondering if the effluent might prove more fatal than the racking and stabbing they have both individually endured, but it's probably going to be fine, as this was a derring do bit, rather than a, strap on your seatbelts, it's time for another execution bit. I expect that will come later. Time will tell, as indeed, history does.

Overview

Share this page

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.