Christmas Week! Daughter is home. We went, as is the new Tradition, to the British Arrow awards, the best TV adverts from England. Some particularly gruesome entries on behalf of climate-change. We'll deal with those eventually.

I have been remiss: forgot last week to link to my monthly Discourse column.

It turned out to be particularly pertinent. As we will see.

And then there's the Christmas Diner, which was interrupted by a phone call. Which was also pertinent.

It was inevitable, of course, at some point. I'm happy for my brother-in-law and sister, who can step away and relax. It put food on the table for our family and it put food on the table for hers and it put food on the table for all the weary people who stopped off on the way home to see what the steam table had tonight.

And so.

It will be holiday rules for the next fornight. What? There are holiday rules? I guess. It means most of everything but maybe not everything of everything. Loosey-goosey attitude towards obligations. Lots of stuff that's just been hanging around forever.

Such as some photos I found at an antique store with "Xmas 1962" written on the back.

Someone was going through the folks' stuff, looked at this, thought "I don't know any of these people" and put it in the discard pile.

No great loss to the family archives, maybe. If the family had any archives.

This one, however, haunts me:

I wonder how old Grandma was.

Where did all those white-haired old ladies go? Is it just my imagination, or did that stout dress-wearing white-haired matron just . . . vanish?

Counting down the last of the 1934 trademark applications. It's been interesting, no? Don't answer that.

Let's do two today. What . . . is this?

Ah. Conserved fruits. There was a ship bearing the name Francis H. Leggett.

 The disaster killed 35 of the 37 passengers aboard and all 25 crewmen. It was the worst maritime accident in the history of Oregon and was attributed to the ship being overloaded with railroad ties.

It was named after a business associate of its owner, who was a successful fellow in his own right.

Another: the Salt of the Covenant.

Chippewa Kosher.

Almost done. Almost.

Isn’t this every ep, since the Ghost goes all clauderains in each entry?

The penultimate ep, which means it’s the last cliffhanger.

Sux to be him I guess

When last we saw Dick, he was hanging off a sign a few stories above the street, and fell to his death when the sign disengaged from the wall. Ha! Faked you out!

It takes him a minute to get back up, and I’ll spare you. Back to the hotel where they stowed the last two Industrialist Plutocrats. We’re supposed to think one of them is the Ghost.

Maybe the guy on the left?

Neither looks the part. Well, the Ghost is looking for Brewster, who’s in a private sanitarium. Really? I’ve been following this weekly and I can’t tell why the hell they want him, aside from the usual reasons. He has PLANS for some weapon or something. The mission of the Ghost - revenge for his brother’s death - seems indistinct at this point too.

Ah: Brewster’s in an oxygen tent! High tech.

One of the Ghost’s henches busts into the room and turns off Brewster’s O2, which will kill him; guess that tent’s airtight. Dick arrives shortly thereafter to turn on the 02, and sees the hence escaping. What to do?

Why, of course:

YOWSAH

He nailed the gas tank, so they can follow the trail. Goes right to the lair.

A big ah-hah moment for Dick, who doesn’t seem to regard this as remarkable or baffling, and then some quality hence-work with the gats:

Defeated, the henchmen flee in a car, Dick pursues. So, off the cliff? Off a bridge? No, did that. What’s left?

OH

Actually, no! Fake out! Dick avoids death by train. The fleeing hench gets into a plane that’s just sitting out in the desert, and tries to get away.

Doesn’t look that bad for Dick, if you ask me.