So Luke and I went to see War Of The Worlds last night. Gwil said it had a terrible script but it was a brilliant Spielberg movie. Gwil's eyeballs have been replaced with nuggest of SHIT, it transpires, as the movie is AWFUL, and removes everything good about the Wells and Wayne versions I love so well. For a start, Tom Cruise as bad Dad is insanely dire, his family a cacophony of irritance and grotesquity, the whole thing a bore. The Heat Rays turn everybody into chalk, which neatly removes any idea of actual consequence from what should have been SLAUGHTER, as is the POINT, and the tripods themselves have all the menace of that orrible blue bastard from those Shreddies adverts. And the aliens themselves are awful, rubbery silliness. And you get no context - save a few screens, there is no indication of the scale on which this is happening worldwide - just some expensive looking shots of New Jersey getting blown up.

And oh! What a dreadful end! Why did they have to Live?

No, War Of The Worlds is a travesty of a film, a cheap, idiot, treacherous exercise in shoddy chicanery. Avoid like the plague.

I do hope Charlie And The Chocolate Factory is good. I am still holding onto that hope. With white knuckles.

A poem for you.

If Petals Fell From the Sky

If petals fell from the sky And bluebirds sang aloft Then where would you be? Would you feel lost? When petals fall from the sky You know you're in luck, It's a sign of the times Progressing, not stuck. When truth is revealed, Enjoy the surprise. When petals fall, Open your eyes. By Charlotte Whewell

And another

Three Hills There is a hill in England, Green fields and a school I know, Where the balls fly fast in summer, And the whispering elm-trees grow, A little hill, a dear hill, And the playing fields below.

There is a hill in Flanders, Heaped with a thousand slain, Where the shells fly night and noontide And the ghosts that died in vain, -- A little hill, a hard hill To the souls that died in pain.

There is a hill in Jewry, Three crosses pierce the sky, On the midmost He is dying To save all those who die, -- A little hill, a kind hill, To souls in jeopardy.

Everard Owen Harrow, December, 1915