* Spoilers, I got spoilers *

Niamh has had her check-up with the vets. She’s started eating again, so she’s through the worst of the recovery.

Having turned the corner, she shouldn’t need any more medication, and she can go back to sleeping on hay in a couple of days, so we can dispose of the incontinence pads.

Thankfully, they’ve known me for a long time at the chemist’s, so I don’t think they wonder too much about me any more. I have bought haemorrhoid cream to treat tattoos, pregnancy tests for other shop girls, nail files and other accoutrements of workaday grooming for Aimée, so a few bed-width incontinence pads for a two year old rabbit had no chance of raising eyebrows.

After a lousy night’s sleep, which primarily featured dreams and associated terrors about Doobie eating the snake, I found as I walked into the veterinary surgery that there was a beetle in my right trainer. There have been a lot of them around this year, tough little guys, mostly black with a petrol-gloss tinge in red: he survived a close encounter with my foot and is safely back in the garden.

Aimée is at work and I have Movie Night this evening.

One of the best things about the Legion is that we don’t deal with religion or politics. In this way, we only fall out with each other for reasons of personality. This seems the better way. I generally believe that, much as most people have the capacity to improve, we usually just become more entrenched in our beliefs until we are caricatures of our younger selves.

I know people are supposed to mellow as they get older, but I’ve seen no evidence of that on Sunday lunchtimes. Maybe the mellow older chaps don’t venture barwards.

Now, as much as we don’t do religion, nor politics, sometimes a film crops up at Movie Night which can’t be separated from either of these, let’s face it, trigger-subjects. Tonight’s is one such film.

Oh, but it’s a cracker and I do adore Octavia Spencer. Frankly, if I am obliged to picture an all-powerful deity, I’m happy for them to share a face with Octavia Spencer. However, it’s a difficult film.

There’s a chap, a nice enough chap, who goes to church but doesn’t really feel anything when he’s there. There’s a decent amount of flashback and flash-forward, but we come to realise that he has grown up in a home with a lot of domestic violence from his closet-alcoholic father. As a boy, he adds strychnine to his father’s whisky bottle, and that’s the end of that.

As an adult, he has a wonderful wife, who refers to God as ‘papa’, and he’s going to take the children camping. His older children are in a canoe, while the father and his youngest daughter are on the shore. His older daughter stands up in the canoe to wave to her father, loses her balance and the craft capsizes. The father dashes into the water and gets his children to the beach. He administers CPR to his son. It’s all very tense. His son spits up water and recovers and we are all relieved. When the father makes the journey of but-a-few-feet back to the campsite, his little girl isn’t there.

Just appalling.

And it gets worse. She has been abducted and murdered.

Some time later, the family is fractured. The older daughter blames herself, the father blames himself, hardly anyone is speaking. The father receives a hand-delivered letter, apparently from God, asking for a meeting at the cabin in the woods where his daughter was killed.

He wonders if someone is trying to cause him pain. Surely, nobody he knows could be so cruel. Perhaps despite himself, he heads out for the shack. There, he meets with God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost, and after some bonding and general enquiry, God encourages him to forgive the murderer.

And all I can think is: thank Octavia Spencer that I’m going to be serving drinks all night.