More Enemy Within

I can get on Photobucket today, so I thought I'd add a few bonus pictures from this episode, in the size (!) to which we have become accustomed.

If you click on one and go to the album, you will see what a total mess the computer made of the order. I have no idea how it can have done that, just because I renamed the pictures.

The understandably amorous phone glues itself to Bobby's ear.


How can stupid Irene resist?


Look at the little duck's tail!


Those eyes melt me. As for the curls...


The chair is me, and Bobby's hands are where mine want to be :)


I wouldn't mind being that pill bottle either.


I love the expression, the stance - and the little hint of a tum to come.


Wag that finger at me and I'll - suck it!


Nearly there, perp. The look says it all.


Three families. That's how many Bobby said Zaner brought down. I can only make it two.Any suggestions?

The Little Blue Pill Episode

This is the first time I've capped Enemy Within. It cannot be the last. When I renamed the pictures, Windows completely randomized the order.

I managed to upload them to Photobucket, but it won't let me in to get at them, so here they are straight from my machine, so they will be smaller than usual.

Just look at those lovely brown eyes.

Not to mention those wonderful knees and thighs.
Ah, and the little blue pills, of course.
Then we have the arms, with the jacket stretched over the back.
Oh, and how the Big Boy dwarfs the little twit nurse.

Even his head looks massive in comparison.

The Good Detective vs The Bad Doctor

Handsomely perfect and perfectly handsome.


Bobby encounters the annoying shrink.


"That's very nice." You want naked, Bobby, you don't have to make do with a painting.


You could use those hands much more productively over here, Bobby.


The doctor consents to an examination of his apartment. Another Goren triumph.


Only Bobby could concentrate so hard on footage of DRAINS!


Ooh, yes, using his size again!


Clever Bobby gets the doctor on the stand.


Can I warm up your red nose, please? And anything else that needs warming up...

Urban Adventurer

A few days ago I noticed someone (a stranger) was wearing sandals that would just suit my needs. She told me where she found them, and I went online to see if I could order them without the tricky journey going to the shop would entail.

I found that they had a store near my childhood stomping ground, and I decided to combine a visit to the store with a little exploration.

I was too late in the summer to find the sandals. But I managed to pass one of the few bits left of the naval history of Deptford, which is on the Thames. These are the gates of the old Royal Naval Victualling Yard.

St Nicholas' Church is a really ugly late 19th Century brick building, but the old tower remains. The top was apparently destroyed by a gale in 1901 and rebuilt in 1903 (only the old base is visible in this picture).


The only other thing of note is this marble plaque in the churchyard. It's as close as I can get to my current literary hero. I couldn't help thinking that a quote from Dr Faustus was not necessarily very apt in a churchyard!

I couldn't find a way to get down to where the statue of Peter The Great of Russia is. So many streets are dead ends now, or the way to the river bank is blocked by building works. But the thing that upset me most was the fact that they are building new flats by what they are calling Greenwich Creek. IT'S DEPTFORD CREEK! Bad enough that part of Deptford got transferred across into Greenwich, but to rename this historic waterway (OK, so most of it is really yucky) so that it might sound more appealing to Yuppies is a step too far. I hope they all get stuck behind the opening of the swing bridge across the Creek every day of their lives.

Pardon my over-zealousness because...

...this was the watermark that came up too big, so:

Bobby's beautiful butt got covered up.


But we still have the shirtsleeves, vest and gun.


Empathy.


Here's my badge, little boy.


"Highlighting isn't stipulated in the warrant." Nor are hunky shoulders, Bobby.

Neither is that place on your neck that I HAVE to kiss before I die.


Astride the chair.


An expression to melt the eyeballs.

Sweet Poison

Hand-to-mouth.


Forget the sniff - he has his hand on her chest!


The ankle :) But Bobby - black shoes and socks with navy trousers?


We do NOT need the tie to point the way!


Trying to explain to the thicko Brass.


Look at those biceps...


A glimpse of groin.


Don't argue with the hand, lift door.


Even more groin.


Woof, woof, roll over and beg - please prise MY hands apart.

Great Day Out

Today I visited my cousin June and her husband Mick in the Kent countryside. It was windy and threatened rain, so we couldn't do much except chat, something we all enjoy. We did pop out for a couple of hours in the afternoon, however, and ended up at Dungeness, one of the strangest places in the country.

The people who live on this gravelly stretch of coast have unusual dwellings with desert-like gardens. The film director Derek Jarman had a house here with a poem on the side and a garden filled with maritime "found" artefacts. The houses go for a bomb, but I wouldn't live there if you gave one to me.

There is a bird reserve at Dungeness, so obviously it is a site that is good for nature.

This is one of the lighthouses on the site. It is now inland, as a storm altered the coastline. This has happened more than once in recorded history. So why live in such a dodgy place?

Could it be because of the nuclear power station? Who wouldn't love to live near one of these, especially when it's built on such an unstable piece of the landscape? Every day of the year, a non-stop convoy of trucks full of gravel brings back the stuff that has washed away with the tides. It's so attractive a proposition that they are thinking of building a new one there now that the old one has outlived its useful life. Well, there are all those giant electricity pylons marching their way across the countryside, may as well continue to put them to good use.



The power station and pylons the locals are prepared to tolerate. Also the upgrading of the local 2-bit airport to international status.

But they mounted a massive protest about the new wind turbines that decorate the landscape with gentle white whirry blades. Much better to live with the possibility of nuclear meltdown.

During the journey (UK Vixens ought to get this) I only saw 2 Eddie Stobarts and 2 Norbert Dentressangles. The M20 motorway was very quiet, far fewer lorries than previous years, probably because Ashford International Station is no longer the embarkation point for the Channel Tunnel. After spending millions on making it state-of-the-art, the high speed rail link has moved elsewhere, though to add insult to injury, the line runs alongside the motorway for several miles, reminding the locals of what they've lost.

Funny old country. No extra money for the 2012 Olympics but we can throw good money away reinventing what we had that was already working fine.

O. Henry - The Green Door

After reading in the credits that The Investigator was based on this story I googled it, and found it is freely available to read online here.

It's quite short.

Extra Man? ONLY Man!

I still think Goren and Rodgers would make a good couple. Going out with Ross must have been an aberration.


Exquisite.


Butt shot.


Me want kissy finger better!


Nearly gotcha.


Slurp!

Gotcha!

Happy Birthday Eliza

And Happy Bobby, too, from Vanishing Act.

The Investigator

This copy of The Investigator came to me courtesy of VivB, and if anyone had told me I could make over 300 caps out of a film less than 30 minutes long, I would not have believed them!

The story is obscure, but Vincent's character is sweet, rather timid, and when he picks up the girl who (strangely!) faints at his feet, he makes it look as if no effort at all is involved.

My Late Dad

It's 20 years ago today that my father died. He was 46 when I was born, so he'd actually made it to 81 when a final stroke killed him.

He was born in 1906, to a German family, and though they were not interned during WW1, he was held back in school for four years, so although he was bright, he had no real chance of an education. Not that many working class children did then.

He learnt his father's trade of baker, though the shop was passed down to the eldest son, and dad was only ever employed by others. He joined the Merchant Navy as a cook and sailed around the world, visiting Australia, Argentina and the far east.

My mum's brother was my dad's best friend, which is how they met, but mum was 12 years younger. He was sure of his choice, however, and when she was 20 they married - just months before the Second World War. They decided not to start a family till the war had ended, which is why he was an older parent.

Being a baker, dad was in a reserved occupation, and did not have to join the forces. As dockers, my mum's brothers were in the same situation. My immediate family was unaffected by deaths in the conflict, though they did spend months on end sleeping in the air raid shelter in the garden. Dad was an air-raid patrol warden, however, so not only did he have to start work very early in the mornings to bet the bread baked in time for people's breakfast, he was also on patrol for many hours a night, checking that people applied the blackout properly.

In 1946 my parents produced a baby boy, but he was stillborn. The next year, my sister was born, then five years later I came along.

Bakers' pay was low in the small local shops dad preferred to work in (he hated the big factories and shift work) and he worked very hard to support his family, six days a week getting up at 2am, working till midday, going home to lunch, an afternoon nap, evening with the family, then bed at 9.30 to be ready to rise early again the next day. Even at Christmas he was in bed early to be up in time to make the early morning dough.

I've always felt that dad didn't really have a life. He never complained. He handed his pay straight over to mum each week, and she budgeted every penny to make sure we could afford the necessities, and a few modest luxuries. I owe them both so much.

This Christmas photo was taken in my aunt's living room. It must have been about 1979 or 1980, judging from my curly hairstyle (I'm on the left, with my parents next to me).

This photo was taken in the back garden of the house where I was raised (I was actually born in my aunt's house next door to the right). I seem to be about 5 or 6, so it must be the late 1950s.


This is dad's entry in the Book of Remembrance at the crematorium. The badge is the emblem of the Bakers' Union. Dad was a lifelong union man, not that it did him the slightest bit of good.


On the outside wall of the crematorium is a place for plaques, and I added mum's name to dad's.


I wish dad had lived to see me contact his family in Canada. I wish I could ask him about the ones he'd known but never mentioned. I don't believe he and mum are up there looking down but sometimes I wish they were.