The laptop is going into the shop tomorrow...one of those gormless boys can play about with it.
Please don't think I'm ignoring your blogs because I'm not...but I still can't post comments nor can I answer any comments you've made on my blogs...
Don't expect the gormless ones to fix that problem but they ought to be able to restore Google properly...that keeps telling me it has a problem which is plainly obvious...and I know I ought to be able to do that sort of thing on my own but I get in a muddle...
I'll struggle with the desk top for a while...at least I'll be able to put some photographs on from there without going all round the houses...
Kevin is coming on Monday morning...suits us...Paddy the farrier is due tomorrow morning to trim the boys hooves...and I'll have to grit my teeth and go back to the Doctor because I'm wheezing like crazy...
We watched an excellent, but truly heartbreaking programme last night about the Yorkshire Rippers victims who were attacked by him but lived...as luck would have it someone came along and frightened him off...though one survivor was a man who had been a taxi driver at the time he was attacked and he managed to drive himself to safety...another victim was the son of one of the women who were killed...he was only just a little boy at the time and it's affected his entire life since.
There was a policeman as well...he'd actually interviewed Peter Sutcliffe and told his superiors he thought he was worth further investigation but they pooh-poohed the idea...he was treated' like a pariah' was the way he described it...that was at the time of those letters and tape recordings purporting to be the Ripper and they were actually a cruel hoax.
It's the knock on effect which I suppose few of us think about
normally...we think about the victims...those who lost their lives, but it's rarely, if ever, that I've spared a thought for the children and brothers and sisters left behind.
He's in Broadmoor for the rest of his life and is old and a bit doddery I expect.
I went to Broadmoor years ago with a friend from the hospital...he went for an interview for a post there and I went as moral support and because I wanted to see what it was like. And it wasn't a place I'd choose to spend time in whether as a patient or a member of the staff...it smelt of despair and bleach and faeces...the sort of smell you'd need to wash away in hot baths and still have it linger in your nostrils long afterwards...
Long corridors with the walls painted pale green...a few of the more trustworthy patients standing there staring as we walked briskly past...hands down their trousers of course because constant masturbation is one of the many side effects of being locked away for year upon year...Colin and I were so used to that we paid no heed at all...and we were so afraid of losing our escort we had to keep up a fast trot...not that we would ever have been left on our own for even a second.
We were shown a couple of day rooms...ranks of easy chairs and side tables bolted to the floor...jigsaws and paperback books were allowed and there was a television on the wall way out of reach. There was a snooker room...only ever used under heavy supervision...and some workshops, but they were all empty of staff and patients.
They were heavily into art therapy when we went there...Colin muttered that is because it was relatively safe and our escort whipped round quick as you like and said they were in a difficult place and finding occupations which didn't involve sharp objects was hard enough...even art was not without its risks...one patient had drunk all the red poster paint.
Every now and then a harassed and anxious looking bloke in a suit would hurry past us...jangling his keys in readiness for the next door to be unlocked so he could venture further into the bowels of the hospital...
The staff wore their keys on thick leather belts around their waists...less chance of them being snatched that way...for some reason we both kept saying 'it looks nice'...the art therapy rooms...'it looks nice' we'd say in chorus until we shut up and reached the small office where Colins interview was to take place...I sat outside in a waiting room beside the bloke who'd escorted us and whose name I'd failed to catch on introduction...we sat in silence for twenty minutes or so and then he lumbered off and brought back two cold cups of strong coffee and a Kit-Kat to share.
The faint sound of screams and shouts came from somewhere in the distance and there was a constant thrum from the heating and that jingle of keys and the squeak every time one of the doors opened...
Colin emerged from the office and we retraced our route back to the visitors entrance...once we emerged into the outside and could see the car and remembered a 'pub we'd passed on the way and imagined hot food and a stiff drink we were fine...more or less.
A few weeks afterwards Colin received a letter of acceptance...he dithered and asked everyone's opinion and dithered some more...he was anxious for the experience and in the end he went and worked there for three months on one of the acute wards until he'd simply had enough and left.
I've told you this for a reason...if you ever think, even briefly ,that being sent to a hospital like Broadmoor is the easy way out for a serial killer or a murderer...think again.
A prison sentence would be a blessed relief.