I took it easy last night after an unbroken spell of dissipation that lasted from last Friday's party to meeting up with James (who I haven't seen since Wales v Australia in November and now lives in Ironbridge) in the Standard on Wednesday.
The stand down evening's entertainment consisted of part one of George Clooney's Catch-22 TV series on catch up TV then episode two on Channel 4 at nine o'clock.
All these decades later, I can't remember if I read Catch-22 when I was pretending to study for my O levels or two years later when I was pretending to study for my A levels*. Read it I did though, with the fervid attention that only a displacement activity can summon from me, so I know it well.
I must say that I think Clooney and co have done a great job, especially with untangling and straitening out the kaleidoscopic, achronological structure of the original.
We do miss one of my favourite jokes though; that Major Major bore a sickly resemblance to Henry Fonda and that "long before he even suspected who Henry Fonda was, he found himself the subject of unflattering comparisons everywhere he went."
Great job though, and four more episodes to go.
*It emerged in conversation years later that my mother was entirely aware that there was a paper back novel nestled in the chemistry textbook I was pretending to read and idly wondered "who I thought I was kidding.".
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