Oh no, not Tosh!

I'd missed last Wednesday's episode of Shetland, the TV crime drama set in those far-north islands, so settled down last night to stream it onto my laptop, and watch it in catch-up mode on the BBC iPlayer. The current series - the seventh since the first one in 2013 - was proving well up to scratch, with an intricate plot and plenty of unexpected surprises. But I wasn't prepared for the surprise awaiting me in the closing scene: Detective Sergeant 'Tosh' McIntosh locked inside an isolated caravan far from immediate help, and in a desperate predicament. She has unwittingly broken a trip-wire and set off a bomb, and we see her frantic attempts to break out while she tells her boss, Detective Inspector Jimmy Perez, what's happening over the phone. All the while a timer counts down to zero. Next, a mighty explosion, with lots of flame, and clearly no survival for anyone still inside the caravan.

I couldn't believe it. What, Tosh killed? Almost the best character, certainly my favourite character. Here she is with Jimmy Perez in a scene from the last series:

It's a difficult interview. Jimmy Perez is leading, and Tosh, the very reliable and competent second-in-command watches him putting the questions. It's a complex murder investigation, of course. They get a lot of those up in Shetland, you know. The constant slaughter is almost as bad as in Midsomer Murders, and frankly it's just a bit off-putting - much as I would like to visit Shetland, and have done so for the last sixty years. The only hope is that the real-life Shetland is different. And I have some reason to suppose it is. I finally dared to visit Midsomer Norton in Somerset last autumn, and found it ordinary and unexciting. No killers on the prowl. No bodies. Nobody took me hostage. Maybe - just maybe - Shetland is also similarly quiet and humdrum, so that I could go there and not get dragged into some dangerous crime investigation that will threaten my very life. Nor get blown up, as I fear Tosh may have.

I'm really hoping that this is only another cliff-hanger, and that Tosh made it. After all, caravans are not built like tanks. They are relatively flimsy, with feeble locks, and I would have thought that any desperate person would be able to force the door with a good kick. But even if she got out, I don't see how she could have got far enough away before the bomb exploded. Not to merely dust herself off. She would probably have been caught in the blast. So a hospital case, but alive and hopefully not too damaged.

Besides, there was a developing sub-plot involving her. She had just had a baby with her live-in boyfriend. The wee bairn ought not to lose his mother when only a few months old. But in addition the boyfriend - lightweight and unreliable, I thought, when I had a good look at him in the last series - was not taking his fatherly duties seriously enough, and was becoming distracted by the attentions of an old female friend. Tosh was just beginning to see that she had a worrying problem on her hands, and I thought the remaining episodes would reveal how she coped. Why waste a story-line like that?

I have liked Tosh very much indeed, and her apparent death is really upsetting. She deserves better. She joined the series early on, as an officer from Glasgow hoping to make a fresh start in Shetland, and although a little wayward at first, she found her feet and was doing really well. A while back she had a dreadful experience, getting raped when back in the Sinful City during an investigation into a gangland boss. Gradually she had recovered from that. The baby was indeed strong evidence that she had at last felt ready to trust a man again.  

But now this. Surely, if she were going to leave the series, she would bow out in a nice way - on a well-deserved promotion perhaps - to live happily ever after. And not simply blown to bits. 

Of course, it's well-known that Jimmy Perez himself leaves after the present series ends. What then will be the manner of his departure? What beats a bomb?

Maybe the entire cast will be killed off. I'm reminded of the final episode of the late 1970s/early 1980s sci-fi TV series Blake's Seven, when in the course of five minutes or so everyone got zapped in a shoot-out - apart from the two main characters, who were left eyeing each other. But you guessed that mutual zapping would have taken place after a last cynical 'I-love-you-really' quip or two. Another surprise ending, anyway. One friend opined that the BBC had simply decided not to fund the series any longer, and the director, having only just got that message, had shouted out to the cast 'Money's run out! Kill yourselves!' It certainly looked like an unrehearsed, spur-of-the-moment, not-in-the-script finale.

So maybe the police station in Lerwick will be attacked by a giant kraken, its tentacles seizing every character. Or aliens will descend, and melt them. Or they all take early retirement in a cracking severance deal. Who can say?  

I am agog to see the next episode on Wednesday, two night ahead. I'll be in North Yorkshire by then. I hope that I can stream it using 4G. 

SEQUEL

Mobile Internet was good at Gilling West, just off the A66 in North Yorkshire. I tethered the laptop to my phone and watched the next episode. Phew! Tosh got out - just. Both hands hurt, and very traumatised, but still a going concern. I was extremely relieved.  It could have spoiled my holiday!

Interestingly, a clue as to Jimmy Perez's exit to come. He has a late-night discussion fuelled by bourbon whiskey with an artist who offers an analysis, and draws attention to how Jimmy's job - policing - is getting in the way of giving his all to the people he loves. He may well dwell on that, and eventually conclude that it's time to get out. Although how you can ever stop being a policeman eludes me. 

Where has all the deodorant gone?

I never seem to sweat, unless working hard on a hot day, which is not often: physical effort on a hot day is not my thing. Indeed, any effort that places a strain on my ageing carcass warrants careful consideration and probable avoidance.

In a nutshell, I don't get sticky and smelly. Even so, I like to use an underarm deodorant to stay fresh and fragrant, and always have. I wouldn't dream of going anywhere without first making myself sniff-proof. (I'm assuming, of course, that I don't reek from some body odour that I can't detect, the kind that even my best friends are too embarrassed to mention)

So it's concerning that some deodorants have disappeared from the supermarket shelves. At the moment you can still buy the roll-on sort, which apply a film of semi-liquid deodorant via a plastic ball at one end of the container. I used them in the distant past but was never convinced of their efficacy. For twenty years or longer I've preferred the stick sort, which involves rubbing on a waxy smear of semi-solid deodorant that you progressively feed using a knurled wheel at the base of the container. I never use anything fancy. Dove Original has served me well for donkey's years. 

That shot was taken nearly two months ago. You couldn't take it now. Dove Original stick deodorant has vanished from the shelves. Even in early July it was hard to find. Wondering why, I examined the container and discovered that it was manufactured in Russia, which was (and remains) locked in a senseless war with Ukraine, and so of course imports had stopped. 

Well, that explained why Dove Original wasn't available any more. But then it quickly became hard to find any other brand of stick deodorant. At the start of August I managed to find some Nivea Sensitive & Pure, which I'll resort to sometime in the next two or three weeks. That seems to be made in Germany. But lately even that has disappeared. 

So it seems that for the future I will have to put my trust in a roll-on deodorant. I have some Dove Advanced Care roll-on ready and waiting. And the way things are going, it might be wise to lay in a personal stock of roll-on products - and never mind the make - just in case it becomes impossible to buy any at all. 

There must be some horrendous supply problem, connected either with the Russia-Ukraine conflict, or with complex EU shipment rules. Either way, it's going to get difficult to go about smelling like a flower. 

My beautiful new washing machine

I'd really looked after it, but after twelve years my Hotpoint washing machine, hitherto trouble-free, had started to malfunction. It would get so far into a wash and then stop dead with an error code showing in the display - one that suggested either a pump or drainage problem. But there had been no funny noises hitherto, nor any reluctance to gush water into the drainage pipe. Something of a mystery then. 

I couldn't proceed with any kind of wash cycle. So I called in the local man. He had a good look at my machine. He couldn't find anything amiss mechanically, and suspected a circuit board issue. If it was that, then my machine was probably beyond economic repair. Well, it had been a good washing machine; I had no complaints at all; but I wasn't sentimental about it (not how I would be with my car, or my camera) and the notion of a new machine was appealing, despite having to fork out another £500+. What did he recommend? Oh, any mid-range Bosch. Fair enough.

I moved fast. My 36-night Scottish holiday was only two weeks away. I had to have a functioning washing machine installed several days before I departed, to give myself ample time for The Last Wash and The Final Ironing. I bought a Bosch machine online from John Lewis, for delivery today. The cost was £479. Delivery was free, but I paid extra to have the old Hotpoint machine taken away for recycling, and to have the new Bosch machine installed for me. So £524 in the end. About what I thought it would be.

Here's a last look at my kitchen before the Hotpoint was taken away:

And the same scene a few hours later, with the Bosch slotted in, connected up, and running:

The Hotpoint's control panel had been part of the door, and I suppose that over the years the small shock it got every time the door was closed might well have stressed the electronics. The Bosch's control panel was not part of the door; it was at the top of the machine, static, well away from the door, and the electronics ought therefore to live a quieter life. 

Both machines had similar capabilities, including a 9 kg load capacity if needed, and a range of spin speeds. I could have had a fancier Bosch machine, but saw no need. Certainly not one that can be controlled remotely - that might be a boon for the super-busy working woman, but that's not me. 

The control panel buttons are touch-operated, and the figures and symbols are actually redder than the picture shows. The Bosch has had two cycles under its belt already: the initial very hot wash, set in motion by the John Lewis man, to flush out the system; and then an ordinary economy wash of my own, with some clothes and towels I had ready. That second wash went without a hitch, and the washing is presently drying, pending any ironing needed. I am well satisfied.

I've now switched my new washing machine off, leaving the door wide open for the time being:

I've set up a new task on my phone, to run a hot 'maintenance wash' every two months, starting 3rd January. That sounds a long way ahead, but it's almost the end of August, and I'm not at home during September, nor the very start of October, nor the end, nor the start of November. The Bosch won't have had two months' proper regular usage until the beginning of January.

If you're wondering why it's not pushed fully under the worktop, that's because the stopcock for my domestic water supply is in the way. It sticks out from the wall:

It needs to be repositioned by 90 degrees, to face sideways. That done, there would then be space to push the machine closer to the wall. I'm guessing the job isn't as straightforward as it looks. The water supply would have to be first cut off at the roadside. And no doubt the plumber would need mighty spanners, and a lot of penetrating oil, to shift those nuts!

Frolics in a Ladies' Loo

The Ivy chain of upmarket restaurants seems to be doing well. There's the original concept; then a lighter bistro experience; and lately an Asian Fusion version. Brighton, my nearest big city, has two of the three, the original and the Asian, next door to each other in The Lanes. A prime position then. 

In the last four years I've been to the 'original' Ivy three times in the company of my Shoreham Beach and Rottingdean friends. We go there for an occasion, such as Christmas. 

But three weeks ago on the 30th July it was the venue for a joint celebration of our July birthdays. Five of the six of us had a birthday in July, though not actually on the day we went. And the sixth has now had her August birthday. All of us are summer-born at any rate; and so far as I know, nobody quibbled about going to The Ivy to celebrate.

Why might you demur? Chiefly because of what they charge. No meal there will be cheap. You will be prepared for purse-busting news at the end of the evening, but it will still come as a nasty surprise. On that occasion three weeks ago, my one-sixth share of the total bill was £73. Ouch! 

I admit I have paid more in the past for an evening meal. In October 2013 I dined on my own at The George Hotel in Stamford and paid £90, although I was deliberately treating myself, and was very willing to pay for it. Then in July 2016, as something of a posh birthday treat, again on my own, I lunched at The Randolph Hotel in Oxford and paid £68. In the evening I could have expected to pay half as much again. 

These instances tend to prove that if one is seeking a special experience, and can afford it, then one will happily pay a special price. But those two hotels were both unique, and both famous, and I certainly appreciated their atmosphere and the personal attention I got. The Ivy in Brighton isn't unique: there are now similar Ivy restaurants in several places around the country. So what is one paying for? The food is good, but no better in kind and presentation than a good dining pub can provide, and the portions are not generous. No, it's the sense of occasion: one is sharing a posh evening with lots of other customers in a big restaurant, all intent on having a really nice time. If it's an important birthday, The Ivy is the place to go. Promotion at work? The Ivy. Just graduated? The Ivy. First date, and want to impress? The Ivy. Going to propose (if one ever does that nowadays)? The Ivy. 

Who goes there? It's for all ages - if you have the cash - but I would say that under-35s predominate. Oldies like me aren't out of place though; not at all. 

One thing that strikes you about The Ivy is the decor. It's gorgeous, at least if you like rich strong colours, and a certain style that recalls Art-Deco. It helps that The Ivy in Brighton was formerly a large bank, and therefore the exterior is suitably formal, and the high-ceilinged interior lends itself to the kind of fittings and decoration that induce the required ambience. I'm not sure it would work the same in a modern building, although The Ivy at Victoria in London, which I passed last February, was in a modern building, with an artwork outside.

No, the artwork didn't really do that when I touched it. But no doubt the interior decoration was as unusual.

Inside The Ivy at Brighton, if one glances up from one's plate, are lots of mirrors and pictures and panels of this type:

But the lushest, most colourful decoration is in the Ladies' Loo. In 2018 through to 2021 it looked like this:

The above shots were taken with my previous phone (Tigerlily, a Samsung Galaxy S8+), which made a pretty good job of it. The next shots were taken last Christmas with my previous Leica camera (Lili, a Leica X-U):

Personally, I think the phone did better. The trouble with the Leica X-U was that I'd naturally used its fast f/1.7 lens at full aperture, and so only part of the picture - the bit I focussed on - was in sharp focus. Things closer or further away were progressively less in focus. The phone didn't have this issue. My latest Leica, LXV (a Leica X Vario) has a slow f/3.5 lens, but with that comes the advantage that most things in a scene are in sharp focus. Give me crisp rendering every time!

Well, three weeks ago I discovered that the Ladies' Loo had been given a makeover. It was even more gorgeous. The theme was Underwater. So there were fronds of seaweed and octopus arms and other submarine things. Pictures courtesy of LXV.

Of course, it was just the place to take a selfie or two.

Uh-oh. A bit of my slip is showing. Shhhh!

As you see, this is a place one can take a camera, and nothing will be thought of it. Why wouldn't anyone not take pictures of this sensationally-decorated subterranean palace? It's one of the reasons to dine at The Ivy. I don't know how the boys fare, but no doubt they do their stuff in correspondingly amazing surroundings, but slanted towards to masculine tastes. I don't know. Boxing scenes? Football? Who knows. But right here, we ladies get treated to flowers and fronds of waving seaweed in sumptuous red and gold. Maybe some women will tut-tut. And some might say it's way too gaudy. But I like it very much. And I certainly wasn't alone in that, nor the only one taking pictures. 

There's a great atmosphere in the Ladies Loo. And if one of the individual room-sized cubicles isn't free (and they really are room-sized), then it's a great place to hang about, or sit down on that circular central seat, or tweak the make-up or hair in those mirrors. 

And the frolics? I encountered Laura and Jennifer. They were two young mums on a night out together, their husbands looking after the babies at home. They were not going to go over the top, but they were in very high spirits, and we soon ended up posing for each other. As these pictures reveal. This is Laura.

Damn. That slip again. Jennifer is in the following pictures.

That lady in the background really makes those last two shots. You must understand that we had taken over half the loo for our shoot, and off to the left were several girls looking on. 

I was still having to get up steps one at a time, because of my bad knee. And so, having said our farewells, Laura and Jennifer caught up with me again while I was still negotiating the stairway. All part of the fun, of course. 

They were in the mood for dancing. Unhappily I couldn't join them. Hey ho. 

Are they joking?

I get my electricity and gas from SSE. I've been on their standard variable tariff since my last fixed deal ran out in December 2021, and of course like most other people I've had to accommodate rapidly rising domestic fuel charges. So far I've coped easily enough by simply cutting back on my regular monthly savings. It helps that I live alone - I can finely control my use of electricity and gas. I have smart meters installed. Although my home isn't insulated to the latest standard, it's a small bungalow with double glazing, and it's easy to keep warm. I don't have a lot of appliances anyway, nor do I use them as much as a family would have to. Recently I had a new gas boiler installed, which is distinctly more efficient than the very old one it replaced, and will save me a little money in heating costs. 

I have started to have fewer lights on in the evening, and for months now the central heating thermostat has been turned down by a degree or so. Undoubtedly these things help. I haven't yet had to resort to truly parsimonious measures - but that may come, of course! 

Presently I pay SSE £56 a month for my electricity, and £157 a month for my gas, on their standard variable rate. A total of £213 a month, which is £2,556 for a year. I have planned ahead to the end of 2023, and anticipate my domestic fuel charges rising in stages to £340 a month, or £4,080 a year. This is below the latest dire forecasts for families in family-sized houses, but then my needs are less, and certainly not typical. Besides, the governmental measures in the pipeline will clip a bit off my costs this coming winter; and I am currently in credit with SSE by £871, which will also blunt the impact of the October and January price increases. 

All this means that despite being on a fixed income, I should manage to keep going financially for some time yet. But my long-term savings plans are already in tatters, not helped by all the unexpected maintenance costs on car, caravan and house in the last few months. The latest news is that my twelve-year-old washing machine has packed in. I've bought a replacement, but that's yet another £500+ gone. The total sucked out of my savings accounts since November last year is around £11,000. With something to show for it, of course; but nevertheless I am that much more exposed. And I am sure this run of costs - one damn thing after another - isn't over yet. I'll be taking fewer holidays in 2023 for sure.

It's not quite 'I'm all right, Jack' but I count myself fortunate compared to families around the country, who are getting very squeezed indeed, and will be looking for big changes in the way electricity and gas prices are controlled. I think that is coming, and it will have to, but meanwhile the supply companies need to be extra-careful, extra-sensitive, where customer relations are concerned. 

Yesterday, after a long day out, I came home to find a letter for me from SSE. The heading? Say goodbye to energy price uncertainty with a fixed tariff. Was this SSE throwing its customers a lifeline? 

Not a bit of it. They made out a case for all the price rises so far, and those likely to come, and how the existing price capping arrangements will push the cap up to an annual payment limit of £3,244 this October. That's the equivalent of £270 a month - 65% more than its present level. With of course further increases piling on the pressure every three months thereafter. Scary!  

They then went on to extol the advantages of fixing the monthly cost. Their actual fixed deal offer? I looked it up on their website. I took a screenprint. Here it is.

So they are telling me that although my current direct debits total £213 a month, my average annual usage of electricity and gas, even at the present inflated prices, works out at only £179 a month. Which is why I've been accumulating a fat credit balance. And yet they are urging me to switch to a fixed deal under which my monthly fuel cost would be £390. The actual direct debits would be at least that, possibly more. And the deal lasts only one year - once it ends, I'd be bounced back to the standard variable tariff. 

I have no quarrel with their forecast usage figures of 1,580 kWh for electricity and 19,655 kWh for gas. I could quibble a bit - bearing in mind my forthcoming absence on a particularly long Scottish holiday, I may very well use less in the coming year than they think; but an especially cold winter might cancel that out.

Still, why would I agree to buy electricity and gas for £390 a month in the year ahead, when on the standard tariff the price to me will be a lot less, and almost certainly stay that way throughout 2023?

No thank you. 

But the decision might not be so easy for households with mortgage, childcare and commuting costs to consider. The psychological comfort of fixing at least one major bill, even for just a year, might make a deal like this more attractive.  

But I still think it's a very poor deal. And I can't believe its purpose is to help customers get through a difficult time. Rather, to persuade them to sign up for an even more expensive tariff, and thereby increase SSE's revenue, or at least maintain it if the new Regulator introduces tough new capping arrangements. I can't blame a trading company for seeking profit, but I don't think this is a well-judged and sincere attempt to ease the anxieties of their customers. 

But some will go for it. Not me though.

The Ooser Mask

While in the Dorset Museum at Dorchester on 21st July - already mentioned in my recent post Mary Anning - I saw the Ooser Mask again. This is a large wooden affair decked out with a bull's horns, with snapping jaws worked with a string, that a man can put on as a kind of hat. Although the head is hollow, it's not really a mask, as there are no eye-holes for seeing through, and I'm thinking he must be able to see through the hinged jaws. I fancy it's rather heavy and awkward to wear. Here it is. It was in a spot-lit glass cabinet - hence the reflections. 

You might well ask why anybody would be scared of this grotesque and obviously 'unrealistic' object. But it was used in special circumstances on cold winter nights lit only by firelight, when superstitious villagers were keyed-up in anticipation of something other-worldly. I should think its sudden appearance, darting out of the black night with its jaws loudly snapping, would surprise and possibly terrify children, and at least startle grown adults. 

I have earlier pictures from previous visits to the museum. These perhaps give useful alternative views of this mask, which is in fact a modern replica of a much older version now lost. Thus from 2011:

As you can see, the half-human, half-bull face with its 'third eye' was only part of the full costume. A full-length cattle skin was attached to it, which completely concealed the wearer. The entire ensemble stood taller than the average undernourished adult person of the past, towering over them. This is clearer in some of these pictures from 2015, which show the ooser figure standing by, while Morris Men dance in the twilight at prehistoric Maiden Castle.

Besides this modern replica, I also saw in 2015 another version, which was a lot less human:

This one looks properly bestial - even more likely to frighten people. It's easy to see why theorists in folklore were inclined to think these horned masks were representations of the Devil, and that the term ooser was derived from one of the Devil's names in West Country tradition, with probable links to witchcraft and black magic. Strange how the folklore expert quoted on the 2015 museum information card was himself reluctant to speak directly of 'the devil', instead calling him the 'arch-fiend'. He felt the power of superstition without doubt.

So far as research, history and scholarship goes, these three links, taken together, will explain further:

https://www.wessexmuseums.org.uk/collections-showcase/dorset-ooser/

https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100250874

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorset_Ooser

This lengthy pdf is especially worth a look, if you have the leisure to wade through it:

http://www.wessexmorrismen.co.uk/docs/TheDorsetOoser.pdf

The Wikipedia article mentions the pagan Horned God, and this points at the Wiccan 'religion', but I think the weight of evidence, such as it is, suggests that ooser masks were simply old, crude, country-village props brought out at various times of the year for ritual purposes, their original function long forgotten. I dare say that way back in long-past centuries they could have evoked the darker gods. No doubt the fearsome ooser could be a useful instrument of warning or control, a way of coercing or terrifying juvenile, ignorant or weak-headed villagers. Devilish rituals have always been employed to strengthen the hand of a select group, and keep the rest in line.

For myself, I'd hate to be confronted by an ooser on a dark night, and would probably scream. And all that says is that deep down I am as open to being frightened as anyone else.