A sunny day with cloud dispersing in the northerly breeze. I got up at eight thirty, prepared breakfast and cooked garlic mushrooms to go with the buckwheat pancakes I made. Sir Tom Jones' gave a concert at the Cap Roig Festival near Girona on Thursday night. Veronica and John were there and sent photos, plus a set list of the twenty-one songs he sang, his voice still in fine form. She said that one of the stewards at the concert recognised her from her visit to Madremanya church when I took the service there! That prompted me to wonder if they might invite me for a return visit. She had a word with a friend who is a congregation member next morning, and unless they have a more convenient offer lined up already it could happen, but I'm not pinning my hopes on it.
We shared cooking a veggie pasta dish for lunch, then I went out for a walk with my Olympus PEN 8. I've not used it much recently, and was frustrated to find the battery was almost exhausted, so I returned home to put it on charge in my study, but before going out with another camera, made another effort to tidy the assortment of papers on my desk. I get distracted easily when I'm sorting out what to throw away and what to file. On this occasion, I got rid of several empty smartphone boxes that have taken up space for years, and then took out a boxed digital photo frame given me by the staff of Tredegarville school when I retired fifteen years ago. It still works perfectly, loaded with photos of children and grandchildren taken in 2010.
The pre-touchscreen user interface is ingenious if awkward to use, innovative in its day, interesting to play about with, but there was no suitable setting to display photos in our house, with its inconvenient power source a mains transformer, rather than battery. Prints of family photos adorn the fridge door as well as in frames on shelves and walls, lovingly updated by Clare. Before disposing of this device, I decided to remove all 250 photos from it. First I had to find a first generation mini USB-A to USB-B cable of that era. I knew I had one somewhere, but finding it among the many cables accumulated since 2015 took me a while. Eventually I connected it to my workstation and decanted the photos satisfactorily. Then I went out and completed my afternoon walk, arriving home in time for supper.
All series three episodes of 'The Sommerdahl Murders' have now been aired in the Friday evening prime time slot on Channel Four. Series four will follow after a few months break I guess. In the meanwhile a new Italian series 'Inspector Gerri' began yesterday and I watched it this evening. It's another series filmed in and around photogenic Bari in Apulia. The protagonist is of Romani origin, an outsider with his own unconventional way of investigating, providing a pretext to reveal racism among colleagues. He pursues a possible link between the current murder of a teenage girl and a similar cold case with a Romani victim. An unusual start.
Crime series touching upon racism within the police force that I've watched are few and far between. One was Finnish with a Sami detective, the other Belgian series with a black cop with Francophone African parents investigating smugglers in a Flemish coast area. I liked the description of crime movie fiction in an radio interview last week as being a way to visit a country, not as a tourist, but behind the scenes in the everyday world, portraying issues of social concern and crises people have to face when tragedy strikes.
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