We watched a film with our pasta last night.
I am sorry to say that we wasted two hours of our lives watching the improbable adventures of a gormless bit of beefcake called Uhtred Son Of Uhtred.
He was once in a Netflix series, and now he has his very own film, but unless you like the sort of film that makes you howl with derision every couple of minutes, it probably isn’t worth bothering about.
Uhtred Son Of Uhtred was a real person who lived just over a thousand years ago, although might not have been very like his polished Netflix namesake. This chap had long eyelashes, an attractively French accent, and very fortunately he had managed to build his castle of machine-sawn timber. Just to help his bold and rugged appearance, his various girlfriends had cleverly made everybody’s clothes on sewing machines. I don’t know where he got the timber, actually, because it looked to be pine fence posts and there wasn’t a single pine tree for absolutely miles, probably all been chainsawed down to build the castle I suppose.
Also, come to that, I don’t know how his girlfriends managed to get all that sewing done even with sewing machines, because they seemed to spend the entire film hanging about the tavern with baskets, gossiping to one another.
They all rode horses everywhere, which was impressive given that they travelled from Wessex to Northumbria about six times without resting or feeding them, occupying roughly five minutes with every journey, and one horse managed to get a huge iron spike stuck in its hoof and then still galloped off into battle as soon as its rider pulled it out. They were very low-maintenance horses. I wish I knew where they found them, because I would quite like to own a horse, and the only real reason I don’t is that they take so much time to look after them.
I haven’t got to hang around a tavern with a basket all day and then make my husband’s clothes on a medieval sewing machine, either.
All the same, it was jolly nice to do absolutely nothing whatsoever for a couple of hours, just to loaf around being entertained. It might be some time before we get chance to do it again, so we made the very most of it. I have been flea-spraying the dogs several times a day lately, which they loathe, but I think it is an important precautionary measure, especially since it is not me that has to put up with the smell. In consequence we considered it would probably be safe to allow them on the carpet, and they sat with us and we all gawped along mindlessly together.
I bathed them this morning, just to be sure, and although neither of them could have been considered squeaky clean, I did not find either eggs or fleas, so perhaps we are over the worst. The owners of the visiting dog are not speaking to us, because the RSPCA went to see them and gave them a stern ticking off, not that it will have made any difference, but even if they were I would not be allowing it back again. It is probably crawling again by now.
It could be worse.
I expect we are all very glad we don’t live in their house.
