We had a night off last night.
I mean the sort of night off where you get sick of sitting fruitlessly on the taxi rank, which was what happened to me at about half past seven, and give up and go home.
We were so surprised to find ourselves unoccupied that we thought we would watch a film.
It is ages and ages since we have done that, I can’t remember the last time, and so it was an exciting diversion in our quiet little lives, but dearie me, modern visual media is nonsense. We poured ourselves a glass of wine and watched something that I had thought would be a film but which turned out to be a series being streamed on Amazon. In fact I am sorry to say that it was the most complete twaddle I have seen in ages, at least since the last time we thought we would watch something.
It was some rhubarb about a barrister who got a client off on a technicality but then would not shake hands with him because he knew in his inner soul that the client was a rotter. This upset the client, so he went round to the barrister’s house and murdered his wife, which is of course the sort of thing that happens all the time at the Inns of Court. The barrister turned up just too late to save her but of course knew who had done it and embarked on a belated quest to mete out Justice After All. This was, I think, supposed to be ironic.
We never found out what happened because it was three episodes long and we were in agreement after the first that we had no wish to watch any more. This was partly because the plot was nonsensical tripe and partly because we did not wish to see blood-spattered naked blonde corpses cluttering up our evening. I will never understand why people believe that pornography is wicked but cheerfully fill their memories with pictures of unutterable gore.
We thought that the police would certainly have arrested the barrister, since there was no DNA evidence and he was at the scene of the crime covered in blood when they turned up, but inexplicably they didn’t. They said We’re Very Sorry For Your Loss Sir and left him to it, so note to barristers, the police won’t bother you if you murder your wife and blame a client.
Short break there whilst I ejected an extremely drunken nuisance. He would have liked a ride home but I had no wish for his company even for the three or four minutes it would have taken to return him to Windermere, and in any case my finely honed taxi driver radar was warning me that he probably had no money and might become rather unpleasantly unwell.
It took some time to get him out. Rather like the murderer in last night’s drama, he promised that he would ruin my life and that I would rue the day I had declined to take him home. Unlike the barrister in last night’s drama I am disinclined to be concerned, I think it unlikely that he will even remember tomorrow morning, still less turn up at the window of my remote country cottage whilst I am inexplicably taking a bath with all the curtains open.
You could tell he was successful. I could never afford to fill a bath right to the top like that, and they must have had a massive immersion heater.
We abandoned it there, with some regret because it would be nice to watch something sensible, and I have no idea where you might find anything sensible floating down the various modern media streams. I think I would like to watch Oppenheimer but will have to wait now until it turns up, maybe on Netflix or somewhere.
We haven’t even seen Barbie.
Winter is on its way so no doubt eventually we will.
That is what the long dark nights are for.
