Ira follows up from Saturday’s Post with his own take on “Under the Radar”  Make of it what you will.   Perhaps he could realign the Solar Array pictured above.

From his private journal.

Despite our elevation, Soggy Bottom is noticeably miles under the TV radar. In times past, in order to preserve the delicately poised, smooth running equilibrium of Chez Nous, I would take it upon myself to venture forth in the thunder and lightning dark to make complex micro-adjustments to our aerial array. Whilst these realignments were being effected, the Light of My Life, through the open window, would advise me as to the effectiveness or otherwise of my  tweaking of the cat’s whiskers.

Bafflingly, these complex aerial fine tunings, together with the trans-casement exchange of essential bulletins, were only ever required directly after the rain came bucketing down,never before, and not until I was settled comfortably in a semi- comatose reverie. (which brings me abruptly to another flaw in the ointment) Outside, in the howling maelstrom, clad in my waterproof Thos. Cook, I discover that raising my arms in order to grasp the aerial adjustment wand has immediate and dire consequences. A huge part of this is the instant shocking ingress of about a gallon of freezing water straight down the back of my neck courtesy of my newly acquired sea going sou’wester.  At these moments it is impossible to hold back.  An involuntary scream alerts the entire household to my predicament and brings hordes of hooting, convulsed kids to the window.  Even the adults are driven to tear-stained  paroxysms of uncontrolled laughter at the sight of this shocked, drenched and  freezing scarecrow, rooted to the spot as his nether regions are infamously and aqueously outraged.

Out there on the edge, on the brink of triple pneumonia, soaked and battling yet another thunderous downpour, I make the final crucial adjustments. When I stump steaming back in, trailing clouds of umbrage, every one of the boding tremblers has found urgent employment elsewhere.

The Light Of My Life, insistent, rids me of every soaked stitch.

What? Here?, in the porch? Now?

 Peremptorily she ushers me off, barely decent, in the direction of the bathroom.  By the time I’ve showered, changed and re-entered the fray the entire family is deeply absorbed in the latest, picture perfect episode of Pride and Prejudice.

Ignored, I move unnoticed through the throng, a consoling measure of red wine my only thought.. I am  keenly aware that although I had, against impossible odds, provided the family with this latest Jane Austen extravaganza, no single member of this  family (except Herself, albeit giggling helplessly), touched as much as a thankful forelock. Crisis averted, it was now crystal clear that this entire ungrateful lot expected me to quietly resume my memorable, long-time role as The Forgotten Man of Soggy Bottom.

Like Mr.Darcy before me, perhaps one day my good points, my skills, my astonishing aerial abilities, not to mention my remarkable capacity to survive repeated doses of triple pneumonia, will be publicly acknowledged. Until that time, we quiet achievers, we true battlers must gird our loins, get a grip and soldier on, buoyed only by the hope that perhaps one day credit will finally be given where credit is due.