I am insane. I mean, you knew that already, but I now present you with new evidence: I did the sculpture walk from Bondi to Bronte, with a spained ankle. Not that I'm saying it wasn't entirely doable, it was just rough going in some parts, and not made any easier by joggers shouldering me out of the way. I mean, you don't want to be pushed off the path when the path drops down onto the rocks and surging waves below, beneath the cliffs.
It was an early dawn start and a bus, train and a bus to get out to Bondi, the sort of commute that'd carry you across three countries in Europe, maybe four. By the time we got to Bondi it was still misty and spitting rain and I refused to let mother offer up Maccas as a breakfast venue. Nope, I wanted to do the posh cafe dining, so we did.
Alas, Bondi food isn't quite what I can get way out west, if I really look, but don't tell those eastern suburbs snobs that, they'll deny it vehemently. Anyway, we started off on a grey day, which is how I ended up alarmingly sunburnt, as I was thinking raincoat, not hat, the whole day, and entirely forgot that a complete lack of ozone meant my poor pale Scottish skin can fry and peel even on a cloudy day. I am absolutely lobster red and not happy about it. That'll learn me not to slip, slop, slap.
The first piece of art we stumbled across were some plastic hedgehogs scattered about on some rocks. Cute, but not a patch on the penguins from last year. In fact the whole thing lacked the whimsey of last year. Everyone was making big poltical statements, which is fine and dandy, but rather boring for this onlooker, because I like penguins made out of old kettles, quite frankly. They were cute, and clever, and you had to get close up to see what they were made from because from a distance they were very penguin like indeed. There was a lot of same old, same old as repeat offenders churned out variations upon a theme. Yawn. Only in fine arts are you allowed to repeat yourself and get away with it. Anywhere else and you'd be hauled up for being dreadfully uninspired.
We also went on a weekend this time, which meant we missed the school groups but had to rub up with joggers and utter wankers and the children and dogs of said wankers. I didn't mind the dogs, they being much more pleasant and well behaved than the wankers or their dreadful brats. The human race is doomed if those spoilt illdisciplined creatures are anything to go by.
Nevertheless the novelty of salty sea air and a good brisk walk made for a good day out. Caught the bus back to the city, had yet another coffee and then picked up bags of books from the extremely posh school's fete. Discovered "You look like you've been having adventures" is the polite way the truly well heeled tell you that you look like you've been dragged through brambles backwards. Actually, I enjoyed myself. The mothers manning these stalls were so secure in their place in society they were very nice and not the least bit nasty or condescending (unlike some other middleclass and lower middle class folks I could mention).
I picked up some required reading books that I'll probably never read, 'The Lost World' for cheap (just for the sake of research, you understand, the Jurassic Park version, not the AC Doyle classic) and a darling little tome entitled 'The Great Victorians'. It just amused me, as the Victorians have been reverred, reviled and revisted, reappraised and reconsidered in my lifetime. As Simon says, at least they knew how to run an Empire, for good or bad.
It was amusing to tick off the sins of the great men (yes, men, for this book predates PC history by many a decade, and I don't care) as adulterer, thief, addict, etc. I wish I'd grown up in the 30s because obviously they were far less prudish about such things then - grin. Minor flaws did not detract from one's achievements then, as they do now. It is a great pity to have to live in such mean and prudish times.
Finished off my day with Streets. Ah, the 70s. Another less scandalised age, and what fun it looks. Damn, I miss all the good stuff.
Sunday was supposed to involve a social engagement and a film I don't really care for, so while I'm desperate for social engagements, I chose to stay home and celebrated Bro's b-day instead (and sunstroke, extreme sunburn and a swollen ankle had nothing to do with it).
Actually, I really enjoyed myself, sitting in the dark, foot up, watching yet more 60s spies. I'd given Himself the deluxe box set of Department S and let me tell you, that's the gift that keeps on giving. We immediately put on the episode with the naughty men in silver spacesuits, as well as The Last Train to Redbridge. Oh, cheesy 60s tv happiness.
I just love Jason King. We've decided he's the missing link between dandys and metros, though, if an 18thC journal that describes "tinsel boy" in disparaging terms is anything to go by, metros have been around for a long, looooong time.
Anyways, Dept. S, glorious 60s tv spy frippery, and at some point in some episode a white jag is going to go over a cliff and I'll be in ITV tv cliche heaven. Seriously, the cheap cost cutting between all the ITV shows adds to their many charms, imho. God bless Dennis Spooner, too, my hero, my idol, my inspiration.
That's it. Work still sucks at a level beyond my ability to endure it with any sort of dignity or grace.