Blaming Alan Bennet

1980s Talking Heads was a trip through England as a wallpapered purgatory, where like a fool I went courting the ghost of Thoreau. (https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episodes/b00pdxxm/talking-heads) How I managed to get through any of these back in the day is a mystery. I only ever saw some, perhaps all, I'm not sure, of the original six. Went back to check on Bed among the Lentils just to see Maggie Smith taking time in the breaking of a heart. Then I watched Soldiering On with Patricia Cole, and it just broke me. The feeling of that one stayed and hurt and hurt again. I don't care how extraordinary these are, I simply refuse and now run away to the circus.

The one I always remembered was Her Big Chance with Julie Walters, and Alan Bennet struck me then as awfully clever and a bit supercilious. It felt like he was laughing at the silly woman more than other characters, when in fact it was just the underlying viciousness that pricks so much of his pathos. Do these date well? He has written many more monologues now, and I bet they're fabulous decade snaps, 'uplifting' and funny as the Beeb promises. But I refuse any further attempt. No, Alan, that really is quite enough.

Today was not a good day. Nothing bad happened, I met friends, but while it was all good,I was awkward and discordant in a quiet nothing way. Why does everything feel terrible? The obvious answer seems insufficient. I've decided to blame Alan Bennet. It may not be fair but he'd understand.