More Misery And Mayhem!

 No, Don't Worry, We're Not Starting Off With "Tormentor"

If you recall, and you should do, for you lot are not goldfish, Conrad has been watching a relentlessly bleak and grim Ruffian apocalyptic drama called "To The Lake".  Rather presciently it is set in a world ravaged by a plague with no cure that kills four days after infection.  I did mention it was bleak, didn't I?

     SPOILERY BITS AHEAD

     I do like to give you fair warning.  Art!

     One of the groups, splintered off from the ones who made it to the lake, encounters an Orthodox priest who fixes their car, as he was a mechanic before taking holy orders.  "The hands remember", he says.

     There then follows a religious ceremony Conrad would not have believed possible on Ruffian television back in the Eighties.   Marina and Lolyna and Misha and Polina all get married, with the priest going through the Orthodox ritual, which involves swapping rings, drinking holy water and having both hands tied together with a scarf.   Art!

Also hats and candles

     Conrad, for he is an unworthy scoundrel, could think of nothing but taking a pair of scissors to the priest's enormously long and straggly beard, but still retained enough wit to note the actor's well-delivered dubious 'hmph' when all four of our protagonists express a sincere belief in Jesus.  Art!

     I cannot find any pictures of the Elder, but that above is the actor Timofey Spivak with his beard as it would have been trimmed by Conrad. 

WICKED SPOILERS HERE

BE WARNED!

YOU WERE WARNED

     Okay, so there is a grand reunion at the very end of the last episode, which is also when everybody out on the lake (which is everyone bar Irina and Anna) suddenly notices that their timber ship-cum-shed is mightily ablaze.  Then we see a group of soldiers on snowmobiles keeping a binocular eye on our protagonists, before moving off to barked commands in what Conrad thinks was Chinese.  They certainly seemed to be armed with current Populous Dictatorship assault rifles.

     HOWEVER of course none of this is what I wanted to talk about.  Get real, how often do we begin with the meat of the matter?  Perhaps one Intro in ten.  TTL having finished, Conrad was looking for another short series before plunging back into "Sisyphus: The Myth" and - what's this trailer on Netflix?  It looks dark and disturbing.  "Into The Night".  Hmmmm.  Dark.  Disturbing.  Apocalyptic.  Belgian.  Ticks all the boxes!  Art!

"Who bought crypto-currency?"

     The premise is that, all of a sudden, sunlight is killing people, so an insane-looking Italian major hijacks a passenger jet at Brussels airport in order to travel as far west as possible, keeping ahead of the sunrise OR THEY WILL DIE.  Of course - obviously! - nobody believes him at first, which is a consequence of looking like a swivel-eyed loon sweating pints, and also perhaps the gun he stole.  That is, until they overfly Reykjavik ...

     I'll keep you informed.  Whether you want it or not.

Is Conrad Still Breathing?  Then He Must Still Be Seething!

The one begets the other.  You know how it is when you're a grumpy old man, the slightest thing sets you off.  It's too hot, it's too cold, it's too wet, it's still too wet, what, do I need to grow gills now? and so on.

     Thus we come to the latest lexicographical crimes as perpetrated by the Codeword Compilers*.  

"QUAESTOR": YOU WHAT?  No, I'll bet you've never heard this word before, unless you are an historian familiar with the magistracy of ancient Rome, where these chaps were magistrates with responsibility for overseeing finances.  You might be able to find a more obscure word, if you looked REALLY REALLY hard.  Art!

An anagram of "The Quaestor Pest"

"CHOU": ? Conrad unsure here.  There's nothing for this word in my Collins Concise, and a resort to Google reveals that it's French for 'cabbage', unless it's a variant spelling of "Choux", which is that incredibly runny pastry you require a piping bag for.  That or they're being overly-familiar with Chou-En-Lai, who happened to be a bigwig in the Populous Dictatorship last century.  Art?

Close enough

"EONS":  "And with strange eons even death may die" which is a line from a cod-poem dreamed up by H. P. Lovecraft, and I believe over 97% of all uses of the word "Eon" in the English language are down to him.  Thankfully I read a ton of his stuff when I was a teenager, so I'm fine - but think of all the Codeword aficionados who lack this vital background, and weep for them.

Okay, Now It's "Tormentor" Time

You didn't think you were going to get away that easily, did you?  SIT BACK DOWN!  

On Saturday Louis ventured to the nearby precinct and a branch of Samuels.  He left the shop two hundred pounds poorer but the owner of a substantial silver bracelet which had a couple of interesting qualities.  Bought more in the pious hope it would never be needed than the expectation of having to use it, he explained to Jen.  She never took her eys off the bracelet.

               ‘I don’t like it,’ she told him, shortly, and vanished for the rest of the day.

               On Sunday afternoon Louis felt in good enough spirits, without being aware of the pun, to go to the cemetery after dinner.

               “Gone to visit Jack & Nat” he wrote on a post-it, leaving it pinned to the television.  Nobody reading it would suspect the intended audience was a long-dead schoolgirl spirit.  All the same, he wanted it ambiguous, just in case.

               The walk to the graveyard was a mile as the crow flies, rather longer on pavement, and longer still thanks to his slow and musing progress.  The fixture-florist at the entrance was there today, so he bought a spray of tulips, which had been Jackie’s favourite.  Nat had liked roses, and dandelions.

               At the gravestone he went down on one knee and placed the flowers on the granite.

               ‘For you two,’ he said.  ‘How I wish you were here.’

               Silence.  No spirits here.  No words, no sights, nothing.  So much for his ability to see the spirit world, much good it did him here. 

               ‘Wherever you are, I wish you all the best, Jackie, Natasha.  God, I wish I could see you and talk to you again, just for a minute.’

               This was the reason he only came here occasionally, either when he was profoundly depressed or in a bouyant mood that defied all depression.

     For your information, Samuels are (or were) a British jewellery chain back when this was written.  No idea if they're still going or not.  Also for your information, that above brings us to Page 30 of 81.

Paying The Piper, The Price And The Fiddler

Let us have another splendidly evocative watercolour by the South Canadian artist C M Russell, who is unfortunately a complete unknown in This Sceptred Isle.  Art!

"Paying The Fiddler"

     Lest you be unaware, this is the demise of a cattle rustler, who has tied up his purloined heifer next to a fire, so he can fake a brand into it's hide.  Sadly for him rough justice has prevailed, because cattlemen of the time didn't wait for due process of law and if they caught you red-handed, a bullet or two would speed you on your heavenly way.

Finally -

Blimey, tea may be the cup that cheers and not inebriates, yet it definitely bloats you up like a blimp.  At least it feels like that, on top of the baked hamburger and mushrooms and boiled spinach and potatoes - ah.  Yes.  I see why this might be so.

     Well, time to be off, chin chin Aladdin!

*  The surviving ones.