Oh FFS

That’s it, really.

Still think it would have been better if it was a paternity thing.

:nauseated_face:

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Unanswered questions:

1] How did this childhood abuser find out about the party – I assume Jim wouldn’t have kept in touch, and I do not believe that the neighbours when Jim was eight are still batting about the country going to parties – or come to that still known to Jim.

2] How likely is it that a man of between eighteen and twenty-five in 1947 (Jim called him a “young man” not “older boy”) in would still be batting about the country, even in a wheelchair? Ninety at least.

3] What motive has he for turning up even if he heard about it and even if he was able to?

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I would be banned from lots of places for this, but heck

The One Ring?

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Tsk. Why would a kiddy-fiddler fancy a geriatric?

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Eludes me, certainly.

Ugh. Is his little bum having been breached meant to be an excuse for Jim’s manifold horriblenesses over the years? Does it explain his leaning for Classics?

What are tbtb trying to achieve?
And do we give a rusty wotsit?
Thought not

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To drive away the remaining 7½ listeners so that they can put the thing to rest at last?

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Ah. Sort of VAEM. Yeah, that fits with observed phenomena, imo.

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…I am deeply moved by your optimism! (…searches for a “bowing-down-in-deepest-reverence-emoooji-thingy” (…perhaps CorpulentPriest might be able to help?)

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Did anyone not predict this after his final, desperate attempt to audition as a keyboard player with The Who?

And Chris’s questions are spot on. In the unlikely event that he’d heard about the not-a-party-honest-gov why would he show up? Taking rather a risk, wasn’t he? Or are we going to get some ghastly scene where Jim, inspired by St Shula, forgives his erstwhile tormentor, renounces his atheism and becomes a regular churchgoer, no doubt to be appointed custodian of Philip Archer’s Mighty Organ.

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Plonk. Creak. Plonk. ‘Hurting’. ‘Giving some space’. ‘Closure’ (to be fair, not 100% sure we had that last). But - writing by numbers and infinitely tedious.
Spewk.

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Also, how was Alistair both cooking roast beef for Sunday lunch and trying to drag Jim out for walkies along the banks of their own lovely Am?
Either a rubbish walk, or shoeleather beef, or vegetables so al dente as to be inedible. If you are cooking lunch you boot the other buggers out. This is elementary.

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It is a terribly Relevant And Significant and very ill-thought-out plotline, in many respects.

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…ere, wotchit, Joe! Beware TheNortyStep! (…TheNortyStep has caught out many an unwary poster (…inc. yours truly!):face_with_raised_eyebrow:

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The Naughty Step is elsewhere.

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…sounds like writing by Roman Numerals, aksherly!

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Stop it. You are among friends. Ish.

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The American Kennel Club only allows 37 dogs with the same name. Because 38 would go beyond the six columns they allow for an index number, in Roman numerals.

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O Tempora! Not more of you!

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Congratulations, Shula. You have caused the destruction of a man who had done a pretty good job of coping for seventy years with something unpleasant which had happened to him well before most people actually remember, and he is now utterly miserable – as he was not before.

A good job well done? I think not.

(“well before most people actually remember” – well, how much about being eight years old do you remember?)

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Neither do I, but other views, including that she is some kind of Ministering Angel, as opposed to a pestilential nuisance, are available. In a pig’s eye. Somewhere.

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