Penguins, death and really naff clothes.

So, two weeks into 2009 and it's already looking like just an extension of 2008, with bells! And perhaps whistles. A friend's mother died last week and such things always bring back the fear you have that your only surviving parent is not going to make it through tomorrow. It is inevitable, perhaps the only sure, true thing; that one day they won't but nonetheless........."To lose one parent may be considered a misfortune, to lose two sounds like carelessness." The two current cases of the 'Big C' seem to be going well but it is early days. While we hope, and if truth be told we pray (to a nameless, faceless, uncaring and indifferent God), nothing is certain. But then, as the Penguin has been heard to say, and who better to know, life is littered with these tiny hopes!

I have spent the last two weeks 'chilling out', as they say. Catching up on lost sleep; drinking champagne, fine brandy; dining on Gressigham duck, smoked salmon, venison; lying on the wooden floor stroking Mugwump's cheek while he wraps his forelegs around my arm and, seemingly almost orgasmic, drives his claws, like daggers, into my skin, drawing blood; burning cinnamon and nutmeg candles until they died; listening to long unheard vinyl; watching trout rise in the little stream (it's called a river but the Thames is a river not this streamlet!) that flows at speed not 100 metres from my door. (Nice, I think, to live in London and yet have a trout stream so close!)

I, without shame, watched the first two seasons of Hill Street Blues which was deemed, at the time, to be the best 'cop show' of the eighties. No! The best cop show EVER! What I cannot understand is whoever is sitting on seasons 3 - 8, why no DVDs? Who's got them and why won't they let me watch again the wonderful episode of "Belker's birthday"? Detective Belker's a bit of a misfit and has got a few problems with his partner, Robyn; they're not getting along too well and, if memory serves, they haven't seen each other socially for a while. The whole episode centres around what a 'shite' day he has and how he goes home, alone, to his trailer, around midnight. The last shot of the episode is Robyn, sitting behind a little birthday cake with candles aflame in the corner of the trailer, singing: "Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you.........". I WANT the lump in my throat, the tear in my eye. Just like the first time! Why won't they give it to me? I'll pay, I promise! In cash!

I also watched, with some shame, the first two seasons of 'Miami Vice'. Now for those of you too young to remember, this was truly a televisual triumph of (naff) style over substance; ridiculous plots and even more ridiculous acting, especially from Phillip Michael Thomas - the name says it all! - and yet it's oddly engaging to me. I well remember how Don Johnson's clothes style affected every male Brit holidaymaker, off to the sun for two weeks. Sleeves on our pale coloured jackets rolled up, halfway to the elbow. T-shirts under 'dress' jackets. No socks. All we were missing were the Ferrari and the powerboat, and those could be hired! Well, the powerboat at least!

It's a little strange how comments made on the last post I did touched on coincidence. Long before my penpenguin-in-arms/wings started this blog, I was known in my (work) local hostelry as the 'Penguin'. Not because of the way I walk or because I always wear a black suit and white shirt (I don't, I'm in IT. The uniform's jeans and t-shirt - or sweatshirt if it's winter) but because of what I eat. I only eat meat occasionally and generally eat the fish or their fingers*. So birthday cards would have a penguin on the front, a mug as a present with a penguin for a handle, that kind of thing.

About 18 months ago, on a Saturday, I went into my local bookshop and saw a little book, one of those 'novelty' books you often see around Christmas, although this was late Spring. It was a poem, a stanza every second page interspersed with simple child-like drawings. The book was called 'The penguin of death' and was quite a sweet little poem about how the penguin makes death into a somehow magical experience for the recently departed so that, in one way, those left behind, knowing this, need not feel so sad for the deceased. I bought it. I went into the aforementioned hostelry the following Monday for lunch intending to amuse the manageress with my purchase. She was not there. I learned from her stand-in that her mother had died the previous Friday evening and she had gone home to be with her family. Spooky, no?

Well, on the Saturday immediately following new year 2009 I went to my local bookstore and bought a couple of books. The following Tuesday I received an email from a friend saying that her mother had died that morning. One of the aforementioned books I bought was a novel about a writer, unwittingly caught up in a bizarre situation, which is set in post Soviet Union Ukraine; it's by Andrey Kurkov and is called 'Death and the Penguin'.

Now, 'spooky' I don't do but I have made a belated New Year's Resolution; I will never, never, never again buy a book with 'penguin' AND 'death' in the title.

* Fish fingers - a peculiarly British gastronomic delight. Bits of cod about half an inch thick, one inch wide and about four inches long. Covered in breadcrumbs and deep fried. Primary ingredient in 'Fish Finger Sarnie' . Very thick slices of white, crusty bread, butter, tomato ketchup and said fish fingers.

I once cut a discount deal over said sarnies. I think the fish fingers did it! Everyone was transported back to their childhood. Made signing away profits a piece of cake. Perhaps I should suggest they add sugar sandwiches to the menu!