QUIET KNIGHTS IN

Of course, having resumed the process of bloggery, it seems rather unfortunate that I should then find myself going through a phase of such utter inactivity and boredom.

Well, perhaps not boredom, but just being very, very boring…

The sleeplessness doesn’t help, nor the lying there fretting about all of the things that I ought to be doing but aren’t. Then there’s the general sense of feeling rather unwell, with all of my limbs feeling weak in that “Am I coming down with something?” way which makes me feel wretched and miserable.

Mind you, given that “wretched and miserable” is pretty much my default position nowadays, it’s probably hard to tell…

Still, after weeks of having little else to post other than the dubious excitements of yet another tedious cloud photograph in my social record in those places where most people are burbling on about parties and family events, even the clouds started to fill in and become less interesting.

Whilst they did that, of course, rather naturally, the clouds in my mind began to fill in too, and persuaded me that I was, in fact, being terribly boring by continually posting those pictures anyway, and decided that all it was doing was confirming my tediousness to the last people in the world who did actually purport  to give the slightest of damns…

Meanwhile, my uneventful evenings continue.

After collecting the Beloved from work, I got home, washed the pots, made couple of mugs of tea, and crashed out on the couch watching “James May’s Cars of the People” which is proving interesting enough to me (despite having a bizarre need to include some pointless “Top Gear” buffoonery from time to time), and disinteresting enough to the Beloved that she went off to cook that recipe which we bought the ingredients for at the weekend but then failed to actually cook.

Afterwards, as it bubbled away and my absent appetite returned (mostly because of the excellent cooking smells coming from the kitchen), we scrabbled about on the recording box looking for something to pass the time, and settled upon “The Saint’s Vacation” a short (and now mildly silly-looking) feature film from 1941, which marked Hugh Sinclair’s debut as Simon Templar in the seventh of the RKO film series, and the first both starring Hugh Sinclair and made in Britain during the war.

It had been recorded a few weeks ago when I finally spotted that BBC2 were showing them in the wee small hours of the weekend mornings, but far too late for me to catch the first half dozen featuring Louis Hayward or George Sanders.

Oh well, I actually rather enjoyed it, to be honest, despite its vintage, and there really did seem to be occasional moments when it could have been Roger Moore stepping through that door rather than his predecessor, and I maintain that the moment when the Saint leaps from the back of the moving car to climb into the villain’s house was probably just as thrilling to its audience as Indiana Jones clambering all over that truck was a generation later.

Obviously, however, given that my idea of what is “thrilling” nowadays might be managing to climb the stairs without getting halfway up and realising that I never checked that the front door was locked, perhaps you might choose to disagree with me.