The strange case of the vanishing town

I have been listening to the news since 6.00am this morning, and it has - for once - thrown out quite a few things of interest.

The last snippet was about how they have just exhumed the body of Salvador Dali to take a DNA sample to compare with a woman who claims to be his only daughter.

They said that the body was in remarkably good condition. Even his trade-mark waxed moustache was still pointing upwards. Why would this little observation be so interesting?

The latest blow in the downfall of Trump (main legal advisor resigns, reputedly because of being asked to dig up dirt  on the panel who are looking into his son's dealings with Russia prior to the election) was just ticked-off with quiet approval, but the Dali's moustache fact will stay with me for a long time.

O J Simpson begs to be let out of jail before he has done his 33 years.

They are scrapping the toll charges for crossing the Severn Bridges. No more 'Get out of Wales free'.

The police are interviewing more and more children for possessing knives. The youngest so far is 4 years old.

Then there was the earthquake in Kos - birthplace of the lettuce. Yes, two people did die when the ceiling of a bar came down late at night, but - to my shame - I find myself dwelling on the resulting little tsunami which washed the harbour-side restaurants in Bodrum, Turkey. I have been to those restaurants and tried to imagine the sight of the inconvenient 12 inch wave arriving from out to sea and washing the pavements in old Halicarnassus. As earthquakes go, it could have been worse.

A couple of years ago, there was a small earthquake with its epicentre in Bristol, 12 miles from Bath. I have friends who felt it here, but I slept right through. There were many reports of broken crockery as china slid of mantlepieces in Bristol, and the worst event was a large wardrobe which fell over. It must have been unstable to begin with I think.

When I looked at my phone this morning, I found two emails - one from Weave who confirmed that the antique print of Guildford which I posted to her days - if not weeks - ago has still not arrived.

The other was from a friend in Somerset who I sent the DVD of 'The Searchers' to (it being her favourite film) months ago, and she never seemed to have received it.

I was beginning to have real doubts about Royal Mail when I read that one of her office workers had put the DVD on her untidy desk, where it has been buried for months until its discovery today.

Maybe there is hope for Weave's print after all.