HOME Saturday, 1 December 2001

I was in the Mercy Hospital from Wednedsay to Friday having some tests done and they put me in St Oliver's Ward, which is in the older part of the hospital. To reach it, you go down a narrow corridor which has private bedrooms and facilities on either side and after you cross a frail-looking bridge between two buildings, you find yourself in the Mercy slums.   I was helpfully told that the bathroom was at the end of the corridor, first door on the left and what I found there was what appeared to be a storeroom, so I had to ask again. Yes, I was told, in there, the door at the back. It was only then that I looked at the open door for the first time and, yes, it had 'Gent's Toilet' printed on it. I threaded myself between rows of medical machines and boxes of ditto supplies, and through the door on the left at the back, I found a toilet and a washbasin but no bath. Over the tiny raditor was draped a large pair of ladies knickers. On my way back out, just inside the door of the "bathroom" I spotted another cuibcle, appearing to be half the size of the one I had left.   The bedroom I was in, although originally designed for six beds, now had only three beds in it, all at the same side. At the other side of the room and along the right hand wall, were about six armchairs and seated in them, at various times throughout my stay, were men and women awaiting examination and entry. Up in the left far corner of the room was a chair and a trolly, which did duty as a examation couch. While examinations were in progress, they were partially concealed by a mobile screen.   There was a telephone on a locker on the inside of my bedscreen, which rang fairly frequently throughout the day (although, thankfully not at night) and was answered by whatever nurse or doctor happened to be passing by, and was also used to ring up various departments to verify the meaning of the scribbled medications to be used by their patients. This helped to aliviate the mind-numbing boredom that can often be part of an hospital stay, so I was glad of its presence rather than otherwise.

Monday, 10 December 2001

I watched Barney the Dionasuar for about ten minutes this morning. (The reasons I should find myself reduced to watching Barney, even for a few minutes, are too sad to explain.) What struck me most about it, was the pure unnaturalness of the children. Animated cartoonists have laboured for a hundred years to make their characters act like real people and now we have children acting like cartoons. Or, to be fair to cartoons, more like badly-programmed robots. It is frightning and sinister.   One can almost visualise the school of acting from which they came: "Always open your mouth wide and show your teeth (if you have any); speak your words clearly and precisely, so the audience can understand what you are saying. Leave emotive acting to the mumbling Marlon Brandos. Use gestures to express the emotions."   Of course I understand the dilemma facing the makers of childrens' programmes that have children in them. They cannot have their characters acting in any way that might generate affection - or those even more diabolical passions that might rage in the breasts of paedophiles. Instead they must act like animated plastic dolls, the shining skin, hair and teeth, emphasising this.   Or else they must dress up as bears, rabbits and - yes! dinosaurs. Anything that will remove the sight of sinful human flesh.   It is a sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad world.

Thursday, 13 December 2001

I see advertisements on the TV for the "live" version of the first part of The Lord Of The Rings. I seem to remember a cartoon version made many years ago, and although I never saw it or heard much mention of it again, cartoons, somehow, did not seem the proper vehicle for Tolkien's dark epic.   I came to The Lord Of the Rings through The Hobbit, which is an excellent and complete book. The same cannot be said of the Rings. Parts of it are atmospheric and suspenseful - the word 'exciting' would be the wrong one to apply here - but large parts of it are downright boring, especially the battle descriptions which go on far too long and are confusing.   I never became addicted to Tolkien, in the manner of some people of the sixties, particularly in America, but I did read some of his other books, including Farmer Giles Of Ham, which was obviously meant to be a childrens' story, his Essay plus Story, Tree And Leaf, and, God help me!, his last book, The Simarillon, which was a Middle Earth version of the Creation.   The characters in the excerpts from the film that I see on TV, do not seem to have that differentness - "feyness" if you will - that the characters in the book had, so if I ever get to see it, I am prepared to be disappointed.   I'll wait and see, but I fear Hollywood has got it wrong again.