Real shame the markets at Hyde Park Barracks were rained out last night. I'd been looking forward to that all year, because last year was so unexpectedly fun and I'd run into some dear friends. This year it was sitting on a bench under a tree, mostly sheltered from the wall of rain, eating oysters and drinking gin. Oh yeah, that East Ender ancestry is showing its petticoats again.
So it was fun, but not super amazing fun, though the desperate store holders were all chatty and sweet, and I did come home loaded with pies, chutney and cordials. Now I'll have to cook a dinosaur-sized turkey as I seem to be anticipating an unhealthy amount of leftover sandwiches.
This year, thanks to be hit by that 4WD, I've successfully pleaded my case for not working over the break (I have a note) so I'm looking forward to leftovers, gin cocktails, and good books.
Which is why I've had to go buy a couple of new editions of old beloved books because they're so damn old (35+) that they're almost too fragile to open, let alone bouncing around on the commute or whatever. Ouch.
And, thinking upon beloved old books, are there any other favourite characters of my youth and childhood young Mr Pine would like to hoover up, because he has quite the track record so far. I think he's done most of the Americans (I can only think of a couple he's missed, or has missed out on).
The rest are all British, and currently occupied, unless some casting agent decided to be really foolish (and I adore Chris to absolute bits, but his 'British' accent, no just, please, no) or re-jig the whole thing as American (love that post-colonial imperialism).
Why, just the other day, walking down to the shops on a violet and brassy yellow morning (it never did storm, but it sure looked it) I was thinking upon Eagle of the Ninth for some reason (need my boys, I guess) and how I'll curse Hollywood with my last breath for casting Channing Tatum as Marcus. Not that I dislike Channing, far from it, but no Marcus he, sir. So very badly cast, and demonstrable utter contempt from the makers, since they'd clearly never read the bloody book, let alone understood it.
The whole point of Marcus, and the story, is that he's not supposed to look like Channing 'built like a brick shithouse' Tatum. Marcus is supposed to be the least likely guy you'd ever look at, which is why no one thinks much of him, his career, his chances of pulling off anything remotely heroic. It's why he can travel north - he doesn't look like a soldier, or threatening, and he'd be no great loss. He's not meant to look like a hero, but do great deeds - a very British hero (for a non-Brit). That's why he needs his boofy Brit bro as his partner in crime.
Gah. It's like US and UK 60s Sci-Fi TV, based on WWII experiences. The US gives us James Kirk, dashing captain, loosely inspired by JFK and his war. The Brits give us a wildly eccentric and somewhat callous tweedy bow-tie wearing boffin, in the mould of Alan Turing and all the chaps at Bletchley (Doctor Who, in case you need telling).
So, no, Hollywood just doesn't get it, but then they never will and they don't have to, because they write the cheques and set the agenda. But, sigh.
Still, trying to think of any other favourite characters Chris could latch onto, because it's fun to watch him bring them to life (even if, like Kirk, he clearly doesn't give two flying figs about).
Ah, there was supposed to be a lot of Chris watching right now, mainly because it's something that cheers me up, but also because, walking back from work late one night, the Lowes holiday banner had twisted in the wind and it loudly proclaimed 'The Twelve Days of Chris' and I thought, well, if that isn't a dare, I don't know what is, so I managed to get my 12 fillums lined up, but, alas, deadlines, deadlines, not to mention heatwaves and concussion (yes, still, though all my scans came back as ok as they could be, I've got at least another month of walking around like I'm still drunk and suffering the worst hangover ever).
I haven't done anything of the things I'm supposed to be doing, not even the cards, but, well, shrug. I have a note.
And the weather? Stifling 38C one day, 21C and lashing down the next (which is proper winter weather here). Those northern hemisphere types might seasonally change their wardrobes but I need all the wardrobe, all the time. Back into winter shirts and coats, for at least a couple of days, until it decides it's summer again.
I did get the tree up, though. Not my best tree, and I dropped half a dozen ornaments (fortunately the universe was kind and they all bounced), but that's done - a sop to the season.
But no, it hasn't been real happy sailing for me of late. I've been shocked and scared at how badly hurt I was, and how long it's taking to get over it (yes, I know, I'm old). One the plus side, I did get up and walk away from being struck by a 4WD - that's pretty damn tough.
I do wish folks would cut me some slack though. Several have, and have been so amazing and helpful and kind and supportive and politely overlooking of me dropping the ball (which I have done, just because I'm too sick to do otherwise, it just happens, to my great distress), both at work and locally. Others though, at home and at work, have been quite the opposite, and, if anything, have been quite vicious while I've been very much unwell - and that's not very nice. Not very nice at all. So that's hurt (though, on the plus side, I know now who I can count on and who are complete and utter cunts).
So it's not been a happy time. Throw in the fact that we're an island of construction sites at home (now you know why the neighbours were so aggressively nasty, but I was too stubborn to sell because their first pitch was intimidation and it got my back up, I am part Scottish, after all), which is why I've been watching noisy American films (hello, Chris) over my usual quieter British ones (more tea, Vicar), to the distress of my anglophile-raised possum who throws violent tantrums at the sound of valley boy, oh dear (It must drive poor possum nuts when I watch Into Darkness, with Sherlock and Not Sherlock in the same film).
So that's December. No plays alas (missed three I really wanted to see) because of the not well, no fillums (ditto), no nothing really, can't even manage my TV viewing of late. It's probably why I've been hitting my very old books of late. The kiddie books have large type (thank you) and they're nostalgic and kind of comfy blanket. That's what I want and need right now. (well, that and most adored actor delivered with a bow, but that's not happening, so favourite old books it is).