For helvede, that was no shipmate. Ship’s mate, unless he was the first mate, which he could have been on the grounds of being the only one. But that might make him mate only. It’s just a space and an apostrophe, but we need to raise the poor man from shipmate status.
Sorry for being picky, but it grated.
The country has been on tenterhooks for The Killing, the final outing for Sarah Lund. The Guardian gave lessons in Danish. Sort of. Facebook friends foamed at the mouth. Daughter fumed more than foamed, because BBC4 fell short of her northern outpost, and there will have to be complaints.
The long wait was just about worth it. Nice to settle in to a surly and confused detective again, and because Sarah has a tendency to lose her partners, there is a certain freshness in having a new one each season. Two new men, actually. The younger one, Asbjørn, looked a lot like poor Meyer, I thought. Borch, on the other hand, seems quite bossy.
We got so much politics that every once in a while I thought I was watching Borgen, while having trouble deciding which party is which. If I was Prime Minister, which I’m not, I’d be more wary of her in the Centre party.*
Everyone ought to have a bike parked in their posh hallways. And you would have thought they thought they were in Switzerland, displaying such expectations of trains and buses running on time.
And Sarah’s mother… She’s so very Danish.
Here’s to next week! (Please let it be a shorter week, this time.)
*My money is on the chap on the far right of the photo. Far too many fingers in too many pies.