Minnie’s Musings

Random ramblings of a middle aged, middle class, middle income woman

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  • Time to Get Up

    Or not?

    I am minded to rise and do something useful.

    I am also minded to stay in bed and listen to Broadcasting House.

    Informative discussion on Ukraine. Do like Steve Rosenberg. He plays the piano rather well.
    Jeremy Bowen is also there, selecting his clip of seminal moments. In this war of existential aggression. Was that meeting in the Oval Office really back in February?!

    I think I hear the faint clink of a spoon against a tea cup. Does this mean a cup of tea is in the offing?

    Here it is. Must go!

  • Two Tits for One Tat

    So says one’s Best Beloved (BB).

    We have been debating the implications of America’s big idea for ending the war in Ukraine. Which has been set according to an American deadline governed by an American holiday, brokered by an American posse with no regard for anyone’s opinion who is not American or America’s new best friend.

    While there is some merit in the argument that Russia gets spooked by any former Soviet Bloc country who wants to join NATO (without stopping to wonder why any ex chattel state might think joining said defensive alliance might possibly be a good idea), it did not and never would give it a legitimate excuse to invade a sovereign nation.

    My worry is that the European Coalition of the Willing is not yet in a position to go it alone against Russia. We are still too reliant on the USA for our continental security. And America clearly doesn’t see us being ready any time soon.

    As the current administration indulges in more and abusive swagger and frankly ill thought out acts of violence at home and abroad (somehow convincing itself that it has ended seven or eight wars) there is the tiniest glimmer of hope.

    The Republican Party, or at least 100 members of it, were prepared to support the bill to release the Epstein Files. Could they be scenting an opportunity to get rid of the orange bacon…? One can but hope.is

  • And the Earth Moved

    Apparently. As some Scottish bloke lobbed the Danish goal keeper securing a spot in the World Cup for our kilted cousins. Yay!

    The British Geological Survey has announced that the celebrations rocked the ground to the extent that a very small earthquake ensued. Heaven knows what seismic event would ensue were they to get beyond the first round.

    Because we regard winning a World Cup as a right that we have long been deprived of, would we – down South – greet such an achievement with such earth shattering ecstasy. Hmmmm…

    Scotland has not got itself into the World Cup finals since Blue Peter ran a competition to design a mascot badge thing several decades ago. I think I might have entered. Along with thousands of other children who diligently coloured in their pictures of Nessie inevitably adorned with a tartan tamershanto (?!). I didn’t win. I am still bitter. I think.

    Anyway, we shall look forward to the invasion of the Tartan Army across The Pond who will no doubt drink several bars dry and sing Flower of Scotland into the wee small hours. As long as they don’t beat us and deprive God’s own country of our God given right to win the bl*%dy thing. Where are the women when you need them…?

  • Damp Squib

    Teachers and school children across the South East got terribly excited for roughly one hour yesterday morning as a blizzard engulfed the Home Counties and telephone trees got ready to ring into action.

    And then the fat, fluffy flakes (alliteration there) turned to half hearted rain and hope faded. Not a snowball in sight by break time.

    One snow day is fun. The covering is crisp and the hillsides are ready for trammelling by sleds. Snowmen benefit from a carrot nose and an old scarf, happily hosting a robin on their bonnets (better a red breast than a crow). Warm clothes and boots are largely holding back the chill. And the fridge still has food.

    Day Two and things go rapidly downhill. Snow is is pockmarked and increasingly grubby. The radiators are festooned with soggy gloves and coats. The milk has run out and the snowman is looking suspiciously at the sky. Teachers are beginning to plan for squishing two hours of learning into one and school children are glued to Netflix (blithely pretending they don’t know Snow Day resources are on the website).

    By Day Three we silently debate whether slush covered pavements are better than treacherous ice just waiting for a pensioner to break a hip. The street starts to resemble a post apocalyptic bomb site with dirty boulders of snow and shovelled piles littering gardens.

    Teachers are now panicking that mocks are in the offing and valuable learning time is evaporating. Children have been forcefully reminded that there is online material to be getting on with as the smart TV is turned off and phones confiscated (I wish).

    Return to school is welcomed by Day Four. But not the grey, half melted snow that finds its way into classrooms. Students sigh with resignation as pens and exercise books are dug out of bags and attention swings to the white board. It was nice while it lasted.

  • Theory Two: Trusted Outlet

    Whatever happened over the Panorama programme, the BBC will remain (probably) the most trusted news outlet globally. The World Service and the 24 hour news service are two of our most valuable soft diplomacy assets..

    Attacking it – and drawing everyone’s attention back to just how close you came to inciting insurrection on January 6th – is a bit of an own goal.

    But is he acting like this because Americans can access the World Service and 24 hour BBC News channel? Methinks he has done his level best to bring CNN etc to heal and has discovered that viewers who are interested in truth and balance will seek it out. And that does him no favours.

  • Theory One: Ick Sticks

    Donald Trump (DT) loves to distract attention from negative news stories.

    The current hop-hah over BBC splicing is a neat distraction on this side of The Pond from guess what? The Epstein Files.

    If there was anything good in those files about DT, he and his people would not have spent so much time and effort trying to keep them under wraps. And the time and effort spent in stopping the release only exacerbates the suspicion that there is something explosive within those pages.

    However, this won’t work with the US public – who probably don’t give that much of a hoot about a half forgotten news documentary shown over a year ago on a Monday evening when everyone was still at work in the US, even on the West Coast. And they couldn’t watch it anyway because BBC iPlayer is blocked overseas – as I discovered earlier this summer in Holland.

    The “ick” will stick. As “ick” does. Even if it can’t be proved that you had sex with a minor and/or committed statutory or actual rape. Look at Andrew Windsor. He hasn’t actually been committed of a crime and said crime would not be a crime in the UK anyway. But he has been tried the court of public opinion and lost everything. Lying did not help his case, but he was toast before that particular nugget popped up.

    You can run but you can’t hide, DT. Even if you cower in your marble bath tub with its gold taps and top of the range bubble bath in you not so discrete Florida getaway.

  • All American Boy

    Glen Powell in Running Man. My new not-so-secret thumping crush.

    Well not that new. Thumping crush developed in Guernsey Literary Potato Peal thing (though leading man gave him run for money). And got a big boost the Maverick. Bad haircut in Hitman was a blip, but nope, he is here to stay.

    He has the chiseled jaw and physicality of a boy brought up on the football field (though mildly obliterated by a strange rolling gate and then funny short, constipated steps as he gains momentum in his running about).

    I do like an American boy. The bloke Siorsha Ronan marries in Brooklyn is a case in point. Just lovely. Charm, manners, loves his Ma. Would that one of my girls would bring him home for Sunday lunch.

    Anyway, Running Man itself is another state of the nation peaon (sp?) imagining the US descent into existential nihilism (or something along those lines in lots of these things ). And there are lots of these films coming out at the moment.

    Hollywood’s liberal elite is sending out their best guns to try and drum some sense into the US electorate on such a regular basis Netflix is starting to resemble a school hall when someone has set off the fire alarm more than once in a week.

    And Powell is achingly good and wholesome as a working man who stands up for his team and for whom family is everything (wife and kid are equally beautiful and wholesome). He saves lives and then sets about killing lots of nasty men with big knives.

    Anyway, I recommend it as long as you remember that I got there first on the whole Glen crush thing. Rather like I had a Wee Pash for Hamish before everyone else jumped on the Robert Carlisle bandwagon 30 years ago. Finders keepers.

  • Historical Sub-Category

    Feminist ire has been piqued by FB post on the origins of the term “mansplaining” (after a seminal author had her own book explained to her by a man who continued to pontificate after being advised that he was lecturing the author herself).

    I am starting a campaign to term any historical account or discussion that looks at any event entirely or largely through a male lens as men’s history.

    This is as opposed to “history” which has been doing this for millennia.

    In this way we can clearly flag to the reader and/or viewer that the account has been created from a particular viewpoint. As do the widely accepted andused terms “Women’s History” and “Black History “.

    This should be common practice as a matter of course, as it is the next step in equitable representation. After all we do talk about “Men’s Health” in relation to prostate cancer etc.

  • Get On With It

    And govern, please.

    The latest bout of infighting, briefing, rumour mongering etc etc that has yet again engulfed the Labour Party is way too reminiscent of the Tories during the Cameron, May, Johnson, Truss, Sunak years.

    Heads need to be cracked together at Millbank (Labour Party HQ). And in Downing Street, knuckles wrapped, send to bed without supper, the naughty step if necessary .

    As they so often like to tell us, MPs work very hard on our behalf. For a healthy pay packet. So it would be really nice if they did just that.

    Starmer has a personality bypass. So what? Steering probably does have closet ambitions. Let him wait. Burned has out and proud ambitions. And shot his bolt way too soon. Corbyn is showing his complete inability to organise a p*ss up in a brewery stage left. So blo*dy what???!

    Add to that newbies on the block who have failed to navigate the complexities of the tax system, property legislation, trusts and any manner of complex legal systems which the world and his mother stumble through on a daily basis. They have rectified their mistakes so should be allowed to move on. Would that we could give someone, somewhere, the benefit of the doubt.


    Personally, I am way more interested in whether my new knee will float into view sometime in the next year as I inch my way up a waiting list (once they have put me on it, which is dependent on whether I lose another couple of pounds, which is dependent on me avoiding the crisp aisle), whether useful action on getting young people out of bed and into school/training/work is taken, whether a tiny smidgeon of my disposable income will be redirected into essential funding for social care.

    With important debates happening on the sidelines, we seem to be having our attention directed to political shenanigans rather than progress in any direction. I think progress is happening. It is slow and bumpy. But I think it is happening.

    If attention is focused on said progress, we might trundle down that road a bit quicker. Because it would be really great to see the light at the end of a tunnel. Any tunnel. Don’t mind which.

  • Radio Silence

    The fizzing wrath of BBC News bods continues apace as Justin Webb positively spits out a request for someone senior to come out and defend the corporation on the Today programme. (Spot the person having a cup of tea while playing Spider Solitaire, in bed, with the cat).

    Meanwhile DT is now declaring that he simply has to sue because – apparently – he is doing this on our behalf. We have been defrauded by the butchering of his beautiful calming” speech, apparently. And suing for a billion dollars (a marginally less frightening figure if converted to our stronger pound) of our money is the way to de-defraud us, apparently.

    Can’t quite see how a line like “fight, fight, fight”, in whatever context, is remotely calming, but then perhaps DT has a better grasp of English than a native speaker (of English as opposed to American English) with an A’level in it and a PG Diploma in writing for newspapers.

    Apparently we need the great orange saviour to come to our rescue. I think not. We – the GBP – collectively probably think not. Please refer to previous pontificating on defence of our Sceptred Isle.

    Speaking of which, I think WordPress, on which I pontificate, needs to digest some Shakespeare for breakfast. It keeps underlining Sceptred as though I have misspelt it.

    Have I? Am now going to fish out copy of Henry V to check. When the cat and I have gotten up and had some breakfast. And hung up the washing. And thought about what to do this morning. Beyond trying to remember where my collected works are stashed (I have a set, don’t ya know, on a bookshelf, probably behind the telly).

    Now I have vexed my Yankee grannies in their graves with a slightly xenophobic rant and had a good boast I about my accumulated bits of paper that validate my progress through life, I am returning to my game of Spider. Ta-ta!