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The Crown

Last night this old bag officially entered the 21st century – I spent the snowy evening sitting in my living room with the computer on my lap, watching Netflix. For the first time. My kids have been watching Netflix most of their lives, it seems to me, and I’m just getting to it now. And even so, it took me an hour on the phone with Rogers and then with Netflix itself before I could access anything.

But what a treat when it finally worked – two episodes of “The Crown,” on my lap. This is so great, I thought, I may never read again. It was a joke, but it did scare me to realize how easy it is to be entertained that way. Reading is harder. Will we lose all readers and writers? Eli loves to look at books, but after a bit, he asks to see “a show.” I usually say no, except if he has worn me out and I need a break. So at four, he knows what’s easy and what’s harder, and he likes easy. Can’t blame him.

“The Crown” is exceptional – the one disadvantage of seeing it on such a small screen is that the sets are glorious, much more spectacular than “Downton.” Amazing script, acting, everything, such a moving evocation of the youth of the world’s most famous woman, an imagining of her vulnerability and learning curve, her struggle, as she says in Episode Four, to be a woman, a wife and mother, as well as a queen. That episode was centered around the deadly London Fog of 1952, which killed thousands of people. I wondered about my grandparents Percy and Marion in their little flat in Baron’s Court, how they got through, stumbling to the high street in the murk to do the shopping. Wish I could ask.

A long quiet day punctuated by the Y, Doubletake, shopping on Cabbagetown’s high street. Editing a student’s manuscript, poking disconsolately at my own – I’m still stuck but will be back in the saddle soon, I’m sure. Tomorrow. Get to work, slug. Apparently another big storm is on its way – a great opportunity to sit your @#$#@ down and start again. @#$#@ Facebook!

I can feel a big pimple bursting out on my chin. How is it possible to be 66 years old with wrinkles and also pimples? Where is justice?

Most importantly, the day brought me this stellar bit of truth, and I share it with you. Happy weekend, everyone.



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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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