Letter from Espargal: 11 January 2014

Our neighbours, Marie and Olly, have lent us a Danish crime series titled (in English) The Killing. This comprises 5 DVDs, each containing four one-hour episodes in which two Copenhagen detectives run around trying to discover who was responsible for the gruesome death of a young woman. The spotlight falls on one suspect after another, each of whom (so far, after 14 episodes) after further investigation is found not to be the culprit after all. The plot is as byzantine as it is gripping.

Having watched Borgen, another Danish series with English sub-titles, we had become accustomed to such foreign drama. But while Borgen is compelling, The Killing is addictive. Jones has twice sat up till midnight to watch episodes, a feat which no other drama has yet inspired. My advice is to steer clear of The Killing unless you have a lot of time to spare.

While we are hooked, we are none the wiser as to who dunnit. While researching the drama I discovered that the writer-director did not reveal the culprit to the cast themselves until the last moment. Before each shoot they received only the relevant script.

Also time-consuming has been the issue of a new bed. Let me explain. For most of our married life we have shared a double bed and found it adequate. But of late we have found ourselves sharing it with Ono, our old dog, which has made things a bit cramped - don't ask! - and occasionally with a cat as well. Since Ono tends to curl up behind Jones's knees and doesn't often snore - not true of all of us - I have borne with his presence.

Of even later, Prickles has got in on the act. He arrives in the bedroom in the early hours and whimpers until one or other of us gets out of bed either to cosy him up in a basket - or until he has hopped up on to the bed and made himself comfortable. When it comes to blackmail, Prickles is an artist. There is no ignoring his demands.

What to do? One option is to shut the bedroom door but he whimpers just as loudly and persistently from outside the door. And his fellows scratch to be allowed in or out.

Well then, shut him out of the house! That means closing the lounge sliding door that allows the beasts to go out for a pee. And since we are already trying to identify one floor puddler (active mainly on cold or wet nights) we are not keen to encourage any more. We have always left the back door open for them to come and go.

With no obvious solution in sight, I suggested to Jones that we at least upgrade ourselves from a double bed to a queen, an idea I've long promoted. She wasn't enthused, especially as we have recently invested in a mattress-topper. But with our nights increasingly disturbed and under growing pressure, she eventually succumbed, suggesting drily that I take the dogs along to be sure they approved the choice. The bottom line is that we have selected a wider new bed from an outfit in town, to be delivered some time next month.

Last Sunday we took ourselves to an evening performance of the Messiah at the public theatre in Faro. I had hoped that such a one-off event would fill the auditorium and was disappointed to see about a third of the seats empty. Of those that were filled, many were occupied by expats. Having performed in the Messiah herself as a teenager, Jones was familiar with much of it. I was acquainted only with the more popular parts.

We were impressed with the quality of the production, especially the small choir. Two of the soloists were a bit iffy on the lower notes. What didn't impress was the use of mobile phones around us by bored members of the audience. I blew a fuse when a woman ahead of me set about tapping out a lengthy message, leaping up to insist that she put it away (which she did in great surprise). The usherettes seem just to look the other way as if it's to be expected.

Sadly it is, at films as well, where mobile phones, conversations and crunching popcorn are part of the entertainment. I prefer to acquire DVDs for movie viewing at home. This disappoints Jones who is less bothered by such distractions and misses her film outings.

You may be aware that the Oxford Dictionary has nominated "selfie" as its word of the year. For my part, I have decided with Orwellian dictat to eradicate the words "fantastic"and "incredibly", both of which are abused endlessly on radio and TV. I squirm and cuss (irritating Jones in turn) with every "fantastic opportunity" and "incredibly clever" that soils the airwaves. "Awfully pretty" and "terribly nice" are bad enough for anyone with a pedantic streak.

Speaking of which, I am often impressed by the quality of the prose that I come up with in my dreams. During an argument with some dream character the other night, I declared with a flourish: "I grow bored with being right", a statement on which I complimented myself on waking. My brother, Kevin, likes to quote another: "I could agree with you but then we'd both be wrong". But then I doubt he dreamed it up.

Unlike frozen members of our families in North America and drenched members in the UK, we have survived the onset of the New Year in relative comfort - gathered around our delightful wood-fire. This isn't true, however, for many Portuguese who live near the sea.

Ten-metre high waves have pounded the coastline, flooding villages, sweeping away vehicles and undermining roads. Sight-seers in Porto learned the hard way the dangers of watching waves from the assumed safety of the road. http://uk.news.yahoo.com/portugese-spectators-forced-to-flee-to-safety-after-huge-wave-crashes-onto-porto-waterfront-165859254.html#r1a1vyh

You may admire the fine card that I received at Christmas, along with a distinguished bottle of whisky, from grateful members of the betting syndicate that I have chaired for some years. Members' sentiments speak for themselves.

As I frequently emphasise when reporting our weekly losses, we have a record of consistency that most companies would envy.

I sometimes wonder, if we do win any money, how it might change our lives, indeed whether any of us will still be alert enough to spend it. Well, we've time enough to worry about it.