I realised with some horror last night that I had over ten hours of taped TV building up. So I settled down for a viewing. I started with Episode Three of the Great War, from ten days ago. Episode 4 wasn't shown last weekend, because of sport, or something, but judging from the Radio Times, it won't be shown next week either. I suppose the Beeb have pulled it out of sensitivity to the current situation, a logical decision, but in my opinion, a wholly inappropriate logic.
I then watched "This Little Life". David Morrissey was in this, and, as his sister had the impossible task of teaching me netball, I always try to watch stuff he's in. The "I knew his sister" has been overtaken by a realisation that not only is he generally in fine dramas, but is a rather fine actor. This was a terrifyingly weepy drama. Not sentimental-schmaltzy, but haunting.
I then watched the last two episodes of Cold Feet, the death of Rachel. Again, extraordinarily weepy. Although I know these are only fiction, watching such things, especially late at night, does affect me emotionally. They rather affected my inability to sleep (perhaps not helped by the hour's nap I had taken earlier in the bath - not exactly quality sleep).
So to wake up to this morning's news, no less shocking for its predictable inevitability, has left me rather melancholy. When I was younger, wars (or, indeed, illegitimate invasions) used to make me angry and passionate in my railing against the international patriarchal-capitalist conspiracy. Now it makes me sad and despairing.
I think a good bit of escapist catching up on four episodes of Grange Hill will do me good tonight. I know I should be protesting in Whitehall, but, I feel powerless.
(And Jon, I've only just spotted your comemnt - I would very much appreciate taking you up on your video offer and will email you later!)
