Do you ever get the feeling that the Universe is conspiring against you? I mean, I have that most days to begin with (it’s obvious!) but there are times when the sense is particularly acute. I have spent much of the last three months transcribing an old and autobiographical novel about unrequited feelings, and no sooner do I finish than the very next episode of Deep Space Nine throws the very same story in my face. It made for some unwelcome viewing.
After the scope and significance of the previous two-parter, I knew better than to expect anything of similar depth. In fact, I would have bet cash money on the next episode being a character story of no serious importance, and I would have been right (though I doubt I would have got good odds on it).
The story was simple: First Minister Shakaar Edon (Duncan Regehr in a role that requires him to do little more than be a clothes horse) is on DS9 for negotiations with the Federation over reducing the admissions process for Bajor. There is an assassination threat from Cardassian terrorists, over which Odo and Worf share responsibility for security.
But Shakaar is also there because he’s falling in love with Major Kira, which he confides in Odo, completely unaware (as is everybody else except Lwaxana Troi) that Odo secretly loves Kira himself. Odo is forced to watch their courtship, becoming distracted to the point that his carelessness almost enables an assassination attempt, and to the point that the terrorist is apprehended by Worf without Odo’s involvement.
Distraught after Shakaar has spent the night in Kira’s quarters, undoubtedly bumping Bajoran uglies, or whatever the young people call it these days, Odo smashes up his quarters, attracting sympathy, of a kind, from the only person to understand his secret: Quark. Whose advice is that Odo must either put up or shut up.
So Odo shuts up. He closes down the weekly meetings he has with Kira over the crime reports, he retreats further into cold efficiency, he grinds down upon the hope that she will think of him the way he thinks of her.
And I watch and compare this forty five minutes of TV with three months of writing that essentially adds up to the same thing, and I don’t really have much to say about it.
This is the halfway point now. The middle series, the middle episode: three series and thirteen episodes that I’ve blogged, week in, week out, and three series, thirteen episodes left. Whatever follows is on the downhill slope now, to an end.
And I still haven’t seen a single episode that I watched, all those years ago, getting home from work and curling up in front of early-evening BBC2 in those days before I acquired a family.