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But I was away, in a strange land where wild cursors make posting anything longer than a Facebook status a bit of a trial. The train to the West spends much of its route running alongside streams, and uneven, overgrown waste ground, and hills, and woods, and all the best sorts of terrain for dens and playing soldiers and general mucking about. And alongside that route during August - admittedly not a summery August yet, but not a foul one either - I didn't see a single gagle of kids taking advantage of that. Terribly sad. Though I did see a steam train on an adjacent track, and while I was in the West I saw a badger (as I may have mentioned elsewhere), and an awful lot of butterflies (some of whose names I can even remember), and a properly old-school fete, and [livejournal.com profile] oneofthose, and the Dark Morris, and a country band playing gloriously inappropriate songs about incest to an afternoon family audience.

In my bag for the trip: two books, which I knew wouldn't be enough but there was stuff to be borrowed at the other end. Finished the first, Arthur C Clarke's Imperial Earth, and found the afterword defending the plot's use of coincidence (which I hadn't even registered as a major factor) with reference to The Roots of Coincidence by Arthur Koestler. The other book I'd taken was, inevitably, by Koestler, whom I had never previously read.

Anyway! There are various other odds and sods about which I shall likely post tomorrow, but meanwhile, how good was the concluding Sherlock? The second episode, aside from its opening fight, I found so dull that I ended up fast-forwarding some of it, which I almost never do (even during the longeurs of, say, Notorious* yesterday, I only skimmed the paper. But then, that was also showing live). Last night, though, I was rushing home from the pub because I knew I wanted to see this one as soon as possible. And oh, Gatiss did not disappoint. Maybe he just needs to concentrate on writing more Holmes, because I certainly don't see any case for letting him loose on Who again, and we do need more Holmes. All the lovely little nods both to what Doyle did (Bruce-Partington) and what he didn't (I'm unaware of a story which addresses the implicit existence of 221A Baker Street). The modernisation worked so well, bringing home the unpalatability of Holmes by showing such modern manifestations of his monstrous solipsism, and if I thought the emphasis on boredom as a shared motive for the two consultants was a little 'Killing Joke', well, I couldn't call it implausible. My only quibble was with two of the 'facts'; varicose veins are genetic, and Titan is not the largest of moons.
Also, where he tells the imprisoned man that of course he won't be hung? I have always lamented missing my chance to do that.

*North by North West excepted, I don't think Hitchcock brings out the best in Cary Grant; I didn't get on with Suspicion either. Hitchcock often seems to need a cruelty in his male leads, and as much as I love him, Grant just can't project that. Claude Rains was excellent, though.
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