Making a Start . . .

In between taking Jenny out to potty (about every half hour as she's not clear yet about the appropriate place to pee and/or poop,) I made a start on wrapping some Christmas presents. And just for fun, painted some gift labels.

That and fixing dinner pretty much was my day. And then it was evening and, after one more potty out, dinner, another potty out, it was time to watch Dalgliesh. We had just finished watching all of Foyle's War yet again. Foyle and Sam are such decent people and so many of the ethical/moral dilemmas posed in this series have counterparts today, that I find more to love with each re-watching.

But all good things come to an end. We moved on to The Long Call--pretty good but not near as good as Vera in our opinion. And it didn't go on long enough for me to feel I really knew the characters.

Now we're onto Dalgliesh. Most of the episodes are somewhat familiar to me as I've read most of the novels. I'm enjoying what we've seen so far. Dalgliesh is an interesting fella--a Chief Inspector and a noted poet. A little humorless, at this point, as he's also grieving the loss of his wife and child. But I loved the novels and will look forward to the rest of the series.

Oops, time  for another potty out before bed. 

 

My Television Habit

After years of watching very little television (when I was writing under contract with deadlines looming,) I have become addicted to a quiet hour or so after supper, stretched out on the sofa and watching an episode of a show. Midsomer Murders proved so comforting and enjoyable (and went on so long) that I was hooked. 

Next we went through Miss Fisher's Mysteries -- a delightful bit of froth and eye candy.

When that was over, we tried Father Brown. I liked the main character but the predictable moralizing at the end and the scenery-chewing on the part of some of the other actors caused us to quit the good father after three episodes. (Plus it was set in the Fifties -- I was there for the Fifties and don't have a lot of nostalgia for the period.)

Maybe, I thought, I was ready for something more serious -- no froth and predictability. Maybe I was ready for Peaky Blinders -- the gritty drama set in Birmingham (UK) in the Twenties.

Oh, boy! This series is a winner! (I say this having only watched the first season so no spoilers in the comments, please!) Great music, amazing cinematography, stellar acting.

Tom Shelby, the main character, is the de facto boss of the crime family that controls the Peaky Blinders gang. He's complex and, to me at least, very likeable. He suffers from terrible dreams, a result of his experiences in the trenches in WWI and his blank blue stare is completely chilling. Like Michael in The Godfather, he has plans to take the family business (bookmaking) legal.

Two very strong female characters enhance the story line. Aunt Pol, Tom's dead mother's sister, who ran the family business while the Shelby men were fighting for King and Country, and Grace, an undercover agent posing as a barmaid in a Shelby owned pub while working with the authorities to bring down the Shelbys.

I find myself worrying about what is going to happen to these folks -- something that never happened with my comfort viewing because there it was a sure thing that Right would triumph in the end. Here, I can already envision tragic turns ahead. 

And that's, I think, the difference between froth and drama. In drama we invest our emotions, allow ourselves the uncertainty. Aristotle said that the aim of tragedy is to give the spectator a better understanding of the ways of gods and men and to bring about a catharsis -- to arouse feelings of fear and pity which are purged by witnessing some dire and compelling  change in the fortunes of the protagonist. (And, my goodness, the scene is set for that as Tom and Grace are falling in love.) 

Plus there are Gypsies -- Romani speakers with caravans. I'm a sucker for Gypsies.