We here in the Bay Area were entranced with the idea of possible snowfall, but the actual snow never materialized, as I had predicted. Though I scoffed, secretly I was hoping to see the white stuff. Instead, we're back to rain. We should be grateful after years of drought and I am grateful, somewhat, but this closed-in lifestyle is becoming a bit cloying.
That's where Netflix comes in handy. Over the years, I've learned to love Midsomer Murders, the British mystery series starring John Nettles. One of the series writers referred to it as "Agatha Christie on acid," an apt description for the surreal pile-up of corpses in the small Midsomer villages that seem like "The Village" in the old 1960's Prisoner series, what with their continual fetes upon the lawn under eternally sunny skies. The victims are murdered in various inventive ways, so many of them that you lose track after a while, but it doesn't matter as you curl up in front of the fireplace in mid-winter, lulled into a midsummer dream.
I started to worry, though, when I saw that John Nettles (Inspector Barnaby's) hair was going gray. What if he died and then no more series? Like John Thaw in Inspector Morse and Leo McKern in Rumpole of the Bailey? That would be a tragedy. So I went online to investigate and found out that he's retiring. Someone else will take his place as "his cousin" or some such nonsense. Sigh. I'm willing to accept it as long as my addiction can continue, even if the whiskey (changing metaphors here) has been watered down.
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