On the i-player this week I have mostly been watching ‘Orphan Black’. This is a Canadian/American TV series about cloning, featuring a tour-de-force by Tatiana Maslany, who plays six or seven of these clones.
The story begins with Sarah, a petty criminal from England, who sees a woman committing suicide by jumping in front of a train. She steals the woman’s bag in order to assume her identity and escape from the hopeless life she is leading; but this takes her into a web of increasingly bewildering events, as she gradually discovers that she is one of a series of clones – and worst of all, someone is killing them all one by one.
The annoying thing about this programme is that we all want to watch it. Now, you might thing that would make it a bonding family experience, but in fact it is the cause of a great deal of friction, partly because of the difficulty of getting everyone sat down for 45 minutes at the same time and in the same place!! – and partly because everyone else insists on talking ALL THE WAY THROUGH IT!!!!
I’m watching the next episode on my own. That way I’ll stand an even chance of hearing the dialogue – so long as the voices in my head keep quiet, that is…
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2234222/
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b03bltkq/Orphan_Black_Variation_under_Nature/
And finally – how did I not know it was National Poetry Day today? I have no idea how I escaped knowing that, especially as I realised everything else about Everybody’s Reading Week; however, here once again is my favourite poem of all time.
Death Be Not Proud
by John Donne
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
for those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
die not, poor death, nor yet cans’t thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be
much pleasure; then from thee, much more must flow
and soonest our best men with thee do go,
rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fortune, chance and desperate men,
and dost with poison, war and sickness dwell
and poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
and better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
and death shall be no more: death, thou shalt die.
Sarada Gray 