Season Three has just come to a climactic conclusion. No more will Catherine Cawood's deadpan delivery cut other people's histrionics down to size with some withering observation leaving them gobsmacked. Even psychotic Tommy Lee Royce (always given his full monicker like a famed Western gunslinger) could only answer feebly "Hiya" when Catherine finally confronted him with a brutally flat "'Ello"...
She had, against all likelihood, but then a few of those were already in question by now, crept into the house like a bulky Terminator with taser at the ready, realising that - 'ey up there's a broken window, no police surveillance and a crazed nutter bent on revenge killing bound to be in 'ere, best get on wi' it on me lonesome as per bloody usual then?
It wasn't the greeting you'd expect between these two dyed in the wool enemies, and could equally well have been followed up with "Can I 'ave some scraps with that" by one of them ordering fish and chips somewhere. Usually, Catherine ends one of her monotone perorations with "so..." and a shrug, leaving plenty caustically unsaid. In this case, though, she got on with it and let fly with Tommy Lee Royce's failings, which were legion. This came, rather oddly since he'd tried to kill her before and was personally responsible for many other 'orrible deaths, as a bit of a shock to him. He looked wounded. Well, he was already mortally wounded, obviously, or it would have taken more than a flick through a photograph album to turn him from psychopath to softy. But he'd had to pass the time somehow waiting for her to come back and the sight of young Ryan having all the things he'd never had gave him a new insight. Probably his first ever.
Catherine was so unimpressed he was left with no recourse but to finish off the job he'd started in season two, with a flighty bit of self-immolation to show her mutton from goat. If he'd just let the Knezevics get on with that in the first place with the petrol can in the boot he could have saved himself the trouble.
Once again, in this very Yorkshire series, I was struck by the weather. Or lack of it. I grew up in Calderdale. It rains. A lot. Especially on the hillsides where much of the action takes place. Beware trippers! You'll need a good mack for a start and it's too windy for brollies, so...
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.