What do you call an enclosure constructed specifically for the genus loxondonta?

Many of you (A Mrs Trellis of North Baker Street) will have been sitting as if permanently attached to their chairs, staring with anticipation at their monitors, waiting for my verdict on the latest Monday evening entertainment to be perpetrated by our friends at the BBC.


I refer of course to the latest attempt to squeeze on last drop of haemoglobin out of the basalt by another dramatisation of the Holmes stories. Oh dear. Seldom can we have seen a production so up itself. High camp and silliness abounds in this series which appears not to know whether it is Batman, Carry on up the Bakerloo line or Harry Potter. 


Mark Gatiss was excellent as Dr Chinnery. Unfortunately the book he attempted to write was rubbish, and he has now turned to thespianism. What a shame. 


But what I really wanted to write about was something that seems to happen in most crime series and films. It is as annoying as all American telephone numbers having the area code 555. It is not as annoying as David Cameron but I am still going to complain. 


In this instance, Holmes and Watson get in a taxi in Baker Street in daylight. When they arrive in Brixton it is night. Not dusk, not overcast, but black. I cannot think of a good reason for this. If Holmes is the cleverest man in London (a bit like saying the most handsome man in Norfolk), then why does he tolerate a taxi driver taking several hours to travel seven or eight miles? Do the producers/writers/continuity checkers believe that Brixton is in a different time zone? I shall not rest until I know the answer. This, more than all of the other nonsense, campery and absurd storylines made the whole production ludicrous and unbearable. I shall be watching again next week.


(I shall be awarding points in the comments section. You know to what I am referring.)

To er.. is human

Readers with a keen interest in matters spiritual (a Mrs Trellis of North WGGrace) will be expecting me to comment on the momentous individual achievement that happened in the world of Test Cricket today. Cricketers of earlier years would be hard pressed to believe the landmark reached today. Of course, much more cricket is played these days, but it would be churlish not to applaud today’s record-breaking feat.


For those of you not abreast of the latest news, I refer, of course, to the achievement of Bob Willis in becoming the first man to say “er..” 750,000 during a commentating career. This attainment is all the more remarkable given that Bob is no longer a regular commentator on Sky during test matches. How such professionalism can be overlooked is beyond the understanding of most of us. There seems to be unwarranted prejudice in favour of those who are articulate, avoid the monotone, have something to say, and fail to use clichés three times in every sentence. Willis has been delighting us for years with his references to “the cherry” and “the blade”. 


I have to finish here, I feel strangely anaesthetised.

George, don't do that.

I find myself surprisingly busy. Having been away from home for a couple of days, and having returned with/to several new projects I may be updating this little corner of creation less frequently, even in less frequently than in June. I will be watching you all, however, and possibly commenting on your writings. Do not take my lower profile as an excuse to allow standards to slip.