Last week The Fiancée© bought a new car. It had been a long time coming – she had put almost a hundred thousand miles on her Peugeot – and, although I don’t really need to be following in her footsteps… I’m a little jealous of her upgrade.
I’ve had my chariot for a decade, and while she doesn’t have nearly as many miles on her clock as her did, ten years is longer than any romantic relationship I’ve had, and my car has given me less bother than most of those too. I think perhaps that it is time to move on to a younger, more buxom model.
But let’s get through Christmas first.
The Fiancée© pulled a few strings and managed to get us on the guest list for John Bishop, who was performing last night… so there’s one reason to continue along this path with her.
It was a good show, even if his accent was a bit difficult to muddle through on occasion. He has a very relaxed presentation, and he sits down for most of his time on stage, so it just feels like one of your mates sitting in your living room.
There was a lot of Brexit stuff, but if that isn’t your bag most of the rest of the show was about marriage and relationships, including some priceless audience interaction that shows Bishop has the comedic chops to handle even the most awkward of situations.
My mum had a heart attack on Thursday night. She was travelling back home from London, and it happened just before the plane landed in Aberdeen. She’s had a stent put in, and she seems a lot better now, but she’s still in hospital for the next couple of days.
I was told it was a ‘mild’ one, but no matter what qualifier the doctors use to categorise it, it’s still a heart attack, and they are never going to be pleasant. It’s also scary to find a text at 5.30 in the morning from your mother detailing such.
My mum is a bit of a stresser. She worries about lots of things – most of which does not directly concern her and that she has no control over anyway.
She’ll be fine. She just needs to take it easy and focus on her own little corner of the universe for a change.
Starring: Boyd Holbrook, Michael C Hall, Cleopatra Coleman
A surface-level synopsis of this movie may make you feel like this is ripping off The Terminator, but once you dig down you will find that this Netflix offering is a little more complex than that, and perhaps a tad more grounded as well.
Time travel in movies is an easy sell for me, but it can be a difficult concept to pull off successfully. Although it ties itself up in knots in the final quarter hour, and the reveal is a little hard to swallow, In the Shadow of the Moon earns its stripes by managing to sidestep many of the head-scratching problems a movie like this faces.
Recommended (but you will need to keep your brain switched on) ⇑
Last night I went to see the British comic, Russell Kane. I have only seen a handful of comedians perform on stage because I can be quite particular about who I find funny, but I’m glad I went. The guy is pretty good.
He took to the stage at 7.30 (at the newly refurbished Music Hall here in Aberdeen) and maybe a hundred thousand words later, he was out of there by 10. No support; no elaborate stage. Just him and a microphone.
You see, Russell Kane likes to talk. And talk. And talk. Now that would just come off as annoying if he didn’t have anything interesting to say, but thankfully Kane has a lot of stories to tell, most of which had me laughing and nodding in agreement – whether it was the misuse of social media, the (un)importance of greeting cards, or his wife’s drunken antics.
Recommended if he comes to your town, and you’re short of a smile.
Word count – 4,900
As I am discovering with a lot of the stories in Night Shift, The Boogeyman is very straightforward, which I am sure has a lot to do with how young and inexperienced King was when he wrote these. No matter, such literary limitations often makes for a more focused tale, and the narrative here is pretty solid as a result.
The Boogeyman is set entirely in a therapy session with the central character taking the blame for the death of his three children, because he believes that he has allowed the titular boogeyman into their home. What follows is the conversation between doctor and patient as they both try to work through what has actualy happened.
This is a simple story that is possibly a little longer than it needs to be – because there isn’t much meat on the bone – but it’s a fun read, and worth your time if you want to dig in to the collection.
I went in for the second tooth to be taken out a few days after the hygienist had been in my mouth cleaning the rest of them, which is why I was a little taken aback when the dentist – after having looked again at the tooth she was going to remove – asked if I had perhaps changed my mind about the scale and polish that had been booked.
It had literally been only a few days since I had was in that same chair, shrinking back into the leather while the hygienist pressed down upon me with her tools, and I had done my best to keep my teeth in tip-top shape since then. To be honest, I think the dentist was just trying to promote my purchase of another £55 cleaning session, but I wasn’t about to open my wallet again.
The dentist told me once again that this extraction would not be as difficult as the previous one – an assurance that I was very happy to hear… except, after a few minutes trying to get the thing out, her words began to feel like the kind of empty promise a parent tells an upset child, just to shut them up and keep the tears at bay.
Just as I did the first time, I heard this one break too. But unlike the first time she then asked her assistant to go and get a different set of tools. I’m guessing bigger tools. Sharper tools. I kept my eyes closed because I didn’t fancy seeing them as they passed my eyeline. While I was waiting she told me to rinse my mouth out with that horrid red liquid they had sitting beside me, and I think I spat out part of my tooth along with the juice, which was a little alarming.
Next thing I know she was back in my mouth, ripping that bugger out. Thankfully this second part of the process was relatively quick and – given that most of my face was entirely numb – completely pain-free.
She let me go with a warning not to let it happen again, and on the way out I got the £50 bill for the two extractions. I was too doped up to argue the amount, or to bemoan the fallacy that is free dental care in this country, so I just handed over my credit card, grabbed the microscopic tube of toothpaste the receptionist offered me, and went on my way.