Great Expectations

Waiting for a tram in Manchester the other day I snapped this strange building in progress. 

Now, at every bus/tram stop or railway station platform there is bound to be a know-it-all and this was true on that occasion. A gentleman, who had already informed me that my tram would certainly be along in a moment (as if I had some doubt about this), told me that this was going to be another multi-story office block or possibly residential block – clearly he didn’t really know everything after all. What we could see was the central lift shafts. And once he said that you could see that this was so. They were working from the inner core to the outside skin. But in the meantime it looked rather like some strange fortified tower. 

 It was a beautiful day when I admired the lift-shafts-in-progress and I hoped the same would be true of the following day. We had planned a walk over the hill with my brother in law. We do this several times a year, walking, as I said, over a local hill and paying a ritual visit to Diggle chippie. This could possibly be the best fish and chip shop in the world or maybe it’s just that whenever you eat fish and chips in the open air they always taste good. Anyway, the day started fine and bright and rapidly grew greyer and greyer. 

By the time my brother in law arrived, almost lunchtime, it was very dull indeed. Nothing daunted, we set off, in rather a hurry as we only just had time to get there before the chippie closed. As it was, they had run out of fish by the time we got there and we had to make do with pies. Not quite what we had planned but the chips were as good as ever. So we ate al fresco, beside the duck pond, and then headed for home along the canal. And the rain kept off until later in the day so we avoided a wetting. All’s well that ends well!! 
 
I’ve been reading about a chap who believes he is the illegitimate son of Princess Margaret. Apparently he always felt that his parents were much more affectionate towards his younger siblings and so convinced himself that he was adopted. Finding no evidence of adoption certificates around he convinced himself that his mother, who worked in some capacity for Princess Margaret’s household, had been persuaded to register him as her own child, thus saving royal face. As might be expected, the royal family is not very forthcoming with DNA samples to allow him to prove (or not) that he is somewhere inline for the throne. Lots of people persuade themselves that they are adopted but most usually grow out of it. This sounds like delusions of grandeur to me. 

And we’ve just started watching the third and final series of the Scandinavian police drama “The Killing”. Ten minutes in and we were already on tenterhooks. The tension mounts with every new scene. I’m surprised we can sit still while we watch. Anyway, at one point a local bigwig industrialist’s child is kidnapped and the head honcho policeman warns our heroine, Sarah Lund (wearing this season’s must-have fluffy sweater), not to mess up because this family is on a par with royalty. Uh oh! I could feel my hackles rising. Does this mean that the child of some less wealthy family, from some family of lower social standing, would not be such a priority case? 

Maybe that’s why the other chappie wants to be part of the royal family: extra special treatment!