I like Garrows Law (BBC) on a Sunday evening. Sunday evenings are for life mournful events, and the triumph of justice over avarice is heartwarming, even if this production is another piece of pure theatre manufactured by the 'machine'. I really don't like this 'machine'. 

Late last night, those of us nearly fifty, nearly sixty and nearly ninety joined together as a family as we do once in a while. The drink and conversation flowed until we knew issues of some importance would inadvertently be discussed. I was doused as a Marxist, Julie too, my father was quiet, even he sees trouble at the mill he used to ascribe all hope to, my mother plaintively longed for us all to join the church. My brother said the church was evidently missing the point in all and everything- when did you last hear a parson deliver a sermon on global warming or heroin clinics (good or bad?) It was at once healthy and surprising and scary. Middle class families or course do their best not to discuss anything for years and years- it is their very definition. 

I bought a tweed flat cap when Julie and I escaped to the garden centre this morning with hangovers. I needed head cover in the rain, but I'm rather pleased with it.  

I look like either Chas or Dave.