That would be the Terry Pratchett style creature, then. And above him a community much like the Glasgow in Julie Bertagna’s Exodus, except this one was the whole country. England, not Scotland, obviously. They do their own thing these days. And could the scriptwriters really have known that this would screen just at the time a new election has been announced?
When you see the Demon Headmaster, you know what he’s going to be like. Every time I tell myself he’s a vegetarian, so must really be quite nice… And speaking of schools; do school children of all centuries have to be dressed in our style of school uniform? It’s just not likely. Is it?
I do hope nobody with a lift phobia was watching this evening’s Doctor Who. It’s your worst nightmare, or pretty close. Though I suppose that was the intention. Queen Liz appears to have been informed of every detail about the Doctor, down to a quote about his hair, which I’ve already managed to forget, but it was apt.
Personally I enjoyed this episode, but having looked at Facebook very briefly it seems it didn’t meet with everyone’s approval. When will people realise it’s a children’s programme?
(Photos © BBC)
Culture has been thin on the ground for the last week. Yesterday we had the rock star style event of cult author Neil Gaiman wowing his Edinburgh fans. I’m sure that if he gave up writing books, he could just tour anyway, chatting to his fans.
On the way to the Neil Gaiman venue, the witch passed Edinburgh Castle, fully floodlit and looking magnificent, rising up out of the dark. And before this, Julie Bertagna and I had dined at Centotre, which is an Italian restaurant housed in a former bank. So far I’ve escaped old banks, but I can see now that they make for a really impressive setting for a meal out. The food was good, and so was the service. And it’s the first restaurant I’ve been to with Italian language lessons in the toilet.
Tonight it was the turn of Stirling Castle, and while it wasn’t quite so brightly lit up, it’s a rather nicer castle. It, too, floated about somewhere high up in the dark, on my way out to dinner, again. It’s tough with all this eating out, but I can handle it. My Glaswegian author dinner companion was replaced by nine family members and at long last I was taken to the Sheriffmuir Inn, up in the wilds above Dunblane. I’d heard of it before, but had never been. Lots of tartan, but nicely done, and very good food and service. And their toilets offered individual towelling hand towels.
It’ll be back to tins of baked beans tomorrow. And no castles.