This weekend the grandkids were with us. Actually they came over on Thursday and left about two on Sunday afternoon. If I had a dime for every, “No-o-o-o-o,” or “M-i-i-i-n-n-n-e,” that came from our two-year-old grandson, and the accompanying “Sto-o-o-p it” from his eight-year-old sister, I’d now be on a sandy beach with a cold drink in my hand. (No umbrellas, I don’t care for sticks in my drinks.)
The Super Bowl was played this past Sunday. Again I didn’t watch. And, again, by Tuesday I don’t remember who won. My biggest upset on Sunday was not having a new episode of “Vera,” (a cop show, nothing to do with Wang or Bradley), to watch on Brit Box. This is why we stream at our house. When networks are so callas as to preempt shows, I can get my fix by watching old episodes while waiting for the new.
If you’ve never seen Vera, it’s typical cop-with-probs show. But, for a writer, it’s a great lesson in character evolution. In the first season, Vera is pretty terrible with people. Murderers, muggers, and victims are all treated the same. Children are anathema. We are now in series eight and Vera has grown! She is now able to put her hand on a weeping victim’s shoulder without gagging. The gesture is awkward as hell, but I suppose when your mother dies when you’re young and your widower father is a sullen poacher/taxidermist, who lives at the crossroads of No and Where, there is little need for deportment.
If you have access to Hulu you can see the first three seasons. Acorn TV (streaming) has seasons 1-7, and Brit Box (streaming) is the only place to get season eight.
And so, I wait.