The other evening a colleague took a couple of us to a village pub out in the middle of nowhere, where we had a meal and a pleasant couple of pints. I'm glad he was driving, because it was down single-track country lanes, which I'm never that keen on.
Because he'd chosen the pub for the quality of its beer, I thought I'd try some of the real ale to go with the Hungarian Goulash - usually I stick to lager or Guinness. The first pint of Doombar was so nice, that I felt obliged to have another. Well, we had come a long way...
In town at the weekend, I bought the box set of the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films, made between 1939 and 1946. There are 14 in all, which have been wonderfully restored by the UCLA, a project which took them 10 years.
Even though I like detective stories, I've never been too sure about Sherlock Holmes. He's always jumping to amazingly detailed conclusions from the tiniest bits of evidence, and too many of the villans smoke unusual brands of Turkish cigarettes. He's also not a very likeable character.
Nevertheless, I've watched the first two so far with Helena, who really enjoyed them. The first one was the "Hound of the Baskervilles", which has the ominous line at the end "Watson, the needle.", reminding us of Holmes' opium addiction. And the second was a WW II propaganda film, though not too bad considering.
There. It doesn't take a detective to see from today's meagre WW offering that this week has so far been uneventful, but busy...