It hasn’t been much of a summer so far, but a break is a break, even when outside is battleship grey and it’s raining sideways. Things have been a bit sideways inside, too, but in a good way. Family we haven’t seen since the pre-Covid olden days are here from Canada and the US to fill all the beds in the house and a camper van parked outside. The weather held for Christmas dinner for 25, rounded off by lighting the candles for the last night of Hanukkah. Chrismukkah was marked on the deck with such an eruption of pandemic-suppressed gusto – Put up more lights! Make mine a double! - that I expected a visit from noise control and/or the bad seasonal decorations police.
New Year’s Eve was a hat-themed party at our daughter’s flat. I complied with a medley of tatty fascinators from a two-dollar shop stuck to my head. They let us in anyway. We left them to it before we turned into pumpkins, brimming with sparkling wine and uncharacteristic optimism for a future that is clearly in good hands despite everything.
The best things in life, the song goes, are free. Everything else remains wretchedly expensive. Take what has reliably been one of the best things in my life: television. Once upon a time, its riches beamed into our living room gratis, if sometimes censored. The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, The Wire… Now we pay for five streaming services because each has offered something essential at some time or other amid the dross and because I have no choice. I watch, therefore I am.
It’s not sustainable. I did a thought experiment. What would happen if I only watched what is available for free? I didn’t actually do that. I’m not mad. But, at time of writing, on TVNZ+, we are watching a basic series of the British-thriller-starring-Keeley-Hawes genre, Crossfire: “A dream holiday turns to terror for Jo and her family” etc. It’s quite good. There is always something starring David Tennant. There’s a whole category devoted to “Lavish Period Dramas”. If it keeps raining, I might even watch one. Hey, it’s free.