28. Nov, 2021

Angela Black

Angela Black was a drama about gaslighting - or abusive, coercive control. So effective was it, that by the end, quite gaslit myself, I remained convinced there was a final episode seven I must have missed which explained all, and searched for a couple of weeks for it. It still didn't make any sense at the end of the series. Did Theo really exist, the so called private detective who set the full chain of events in motion by convincing Angela to let him kill her husband before he killed her? No, she's a madwoman, imagined the whole thing - or, is she? No she isn't, and he did, but he wasn't really what he seemed. No! Really? Ever seen 'Strangers on a Train?' Direct hit!

Her husband, Olivier, was Dutch. Either that explained a lot, or it didn't. It didn't really. Was there ever a murdered Chinese woman who was his ex mistress? I was never quite sure about that, either, and then, when Angela dropped her baby in the pool, aren't they supposed to swim instinctively, without being incarnations of one's deceased mother? Who knows? And what the hell DID happen at Edgewater? Throughout, Angela maintained an air of inscrutable calm in between events, and took so long making packed lunches that everyone must have been repeatedly late for school and work. No wonder Olivier became irritable so quickly in the mornings.

Is that it? Olivier's bundled in a boot and job done? Nope - if I keep on looking, I just know I'm going to find that last elusive episode which might finally make sense of all these weird things they kept on telling me. Or will it? Maybe I'll have to wait for Season Two. Or did I just imagine that they told me there would be one...?

Overview

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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.