Oh good Lord, she's going on about that bloody Midsommer Murders again...

Last night I watched Silent Witness.  I've never seen an episode before, but following Kate Johnson's Wednesday Hottie post over at Choc Lit I thought I'd give it a shot, purely in the interests of research and not at all to do with men in HazMat suits and those rather dinky plastic overshoes, which surely I cannot be the only woman in the world to find the last word in sexually attractive... 

Come on, admit it... You're feeling just a touch warm, aren't you?

Ahem.  Silent Witness. Well, imagine my surprise when I tuned in, not to find the arched eyebrows and dramatic makeup that I was expecting, not one caption board, and absolutely NO tinkly piano music! I was horrified!  There wasn't even a small, cute dog!  And then it dawned, slowly and painfully, somewhere around the third corpse.  It was the witnesses who were silent, not the entire programme!

But, on the positive side, there were lots and lots of plastic overshoes, so that was all right.  Unlike Midsommer Murders, which rarely features plastic overshoes but, as previously mentioned on this blog, does have quite a lot of foxes and owls.  I live in the middle of the country...no, not Birmingham, the middle of the countryside.  And, yes, we do hear the odd owl (it's very odd, actually, name of Terrence, wears a cravat), and sometimes a fox will yip, but not every bloody time it gets dark. Midsommer must be crammed to the gunnels with wildlife (no, I don't know what a 'gunnel' is either. Something you can be crammed to though.  I once got crammed to the stairs during an exciting party when a game of Sardines got out of hand and the police were called.  We haven't found them either yet, even though we've gone right through the house shouting 'game's over, you can come out now!'  But I don't think gunnels are stairs.).   And what is it with all the 'Midsommers'?  Every week there's another one, Inspector Barnaby (there, I'm bandying names about like a regular fan!) has been to Midsommer Fishbucket, Midsommer Nappy, Midsommer Arrrgh, West Midsommer-in-the-Eyeball.... and not one of them has a tea-shop!  Whereas here in North Yorkshire, where we have sensible names like Wetwang and Wharram Percy, there are tea shops every hundred yards.

Sorry.  I'm sorry. It's just that I'm a writer and I don't get out much ('send help, they won't let me leave... they've locked all the doors and chained me to this laptop with the wonky keys and they're making me write books...').  But I do get to look at lots of pictures of plastic shoes, so that's all right, isn't it?

Just...phwooooarrrr.  Off for a little lie down, now...