The Killing

We started to watch The Killing last week, about 12 years after the rest of the country. On Monday morning, after 11 episodes over five nights, Rich realised he could do cracking impressions of the main characters.  Given that he only does two other impressions (Mick Jagger and Jeff Goldblum in The Fly) badly, it was very funny.

That evening, I was in the kitchen when I could hear some distant shouting outside. We live in a lively area at times, so I didn’t pay much attention to it.

Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway, hovering nervously.

“What is it?” I said.
“I think there’s someone at the door.”

I went into the hall and could see a very short figure shouting something through the letterbox in a very deep voice.

“EEEEEEK…” I thought, “Maybe someone’s been stabbed or something.”

I quickly shut the dogs and Tom in the living room and opened the front door.

It was Richy, bending over.

“Shouting “Troels!”* through the letterbox,”
“I thought you’d find it funny,” he said. “You laughed this morning.”

Shrek modelling my Sarasiobhan Lund Christmas jumper

*Troels Hartmann is the key murder suspect at the moment (no spoilers please).

The language of life

This story will, eventually, evolve into a flight nightmare post but before then, other stuff happened. I flew to Copenhagen two years ago to go to a conference somewhere by the sea in Denmark. Not a good trip.

I caught the train from the airport into Copenhagen. It was like the London underground with seats long ways on each side. A gang of kids got on at the same time. One of the boys sat next to me, while the rest performed some elaborate, loud distraction routine at the end of the carriage, trying to engage with other passengers.  I don’t speak Danish but I do speak the language of life. My suspicions were aroused. I looked down and saw the little bastard had his hand in my coat pocket, millimetres from my purse.   Continue reading