Season Three has just come to a climactic conclusion. No more will Catherine Cawood's deadpan delivery cut other people's histrionics down to size with some withering observation leaving them gobsmacked. Even psychotic Tommy Lee Royce (always given his full monicker like a famed Western gunslinger) could only answer feebly "Hiya" when Catherine finally confronted him with a brutally flat "'Ello"...

     She had, against all likelihood, but then a few of those were already in question by now, crept into the house like a bulky Terminator with taser at the ready, realising that - 'ey up there's a broken window, no police surveillance and a crazed nutter bent on revenge killing  bound to be in 'ere, best get on wi' it on me lonesome as per bloody usual then?

     It wasn't the greeting you'd expect between these two dyed in the wool enemies, and could equally well have been followed up with "Can I 'ave some scraps with that" by one of them ordering fish and chips somewhere. Usually, Catherine ends one of her monotone perorations with "so..." and a shrug, leaving plenty caustically unsaid. In this case, though, she got on with it and let fly with Tommy Lee Royce's failings, which were legion. This came, rather oddly since he'd tried to kill her before and was personally responsible for many other 'orrible deaths, as a bit of a shock to him. He looked wounded. Well, he was already mortally wounded, obviously, or it would have taken more than a flick through a photograph album to turn him from psychopath to softy. But he'd had to pass the time somehow waiting for her to come back and the sight of young Ryan having all the things he'd never had gave him a new insight. Probably his first ever. 

     Catherine was so unimpressed he was left with no recourse but to finish off the job he'd started in season two, with a flighty bit of self-immolation to show her mutton from goat. If he'd just let the Knezevics get on with that in the first place with the petrol  can in the boot he could have saved himself the trouble.

     Once again, in this very Yorkshire series, I was struck by the weather. Or lack of it. I grew up in Calderdale. It rains. A lot. Especially on the hillsides where much of the action takes place. Beware trippers! You'll need a good mack for a start and it's too windy for brollies, so...