Well, that was weird. I thought I'd missed the bus, being all of two minutes late, bearing in mind that unwritten law which states that on the one day you're the tiniest bit tardy, that'll be the one day the bus is early or on time.
Not quite. He was so late (really quite late) and in such a flap he wasn't picking up anyone but a few women who were gesturing emphatically from the footpath, myself included.
Got in early enough to dash off a couple of scans, but little else I'm afraid. Besides, I felt like crud. Sure, I did get my birthday off, afterall, only to suffer the usual nonsense, and my flu's turned into pneumonia (time to take me up the back paddock, methinks).
Not that I get any sympathy. Thanks to my Dad, I, a non smoker, have lungs that speak of a long and heavy habit, you know, like that ad where they serve up a lung that looks like burnt toast, like that, and no Doc will ever believe me that no ciggie has ever passed my lips (well, not until after Dad died which says everything that needs to be said about my need for a nic fix post Dad's second hand smoke).
Add to that truly tropical heat and humidty which did for my B-Day choccies (help, I'm melting...) and precluded dvd or pc entertainments and you have one unhappy lump. Being Twelth Night, it also meant the day of taking down the deccies. Yeppers, every b-day involves me tearing down tinsel, which is always so depressing and ordinary.
Scuse the self pitying whining but when no one shows up for your b-day dinner and you're laid up with a menu of ailments, well, I feel that some moping is called for. It's one thing, I suppose, to feel one's age. Quite another to feel at death's door. Oh alright, not quite, but miserable enough to feel quite stroppy about the whole thing. Perchance the reason why I'm persona non grata? (though the e-cards cheered me up greatly, thanks)
I suppose I did get to watch some I-Man (not the least bit slashy, alas) and Dawson's Creek (lucked into a Halloween episode, which are fun, as they always poke fun at the teen slasher flick cvs of the cast in some post modern irony, or a severe case of pop eating itself, or both).
I did get to watch Knight's Tale, several times, which was good because, sad to say, I love that fillum and it cheers me up when little else can. It has the requisite number of Brit boys, inluding Paul Bettany and James Purefoy, and it has a witty script, including so many actual nods to Chaucer and texts that may or may not be attributed to Chaucer but are of a similiar style and era, and, well, for a supposed teen flick it's surprisingly clever and could pass as better literary adaptation that some purported (and pretentious) literary adaptations (you know the type).
As the essay on Chaucer in Greatest Brits says, he obviously wrote to an audience and not to effect, ie a populist writer. The characters are not so effectively or viciously observed as in Chaucer, having been dumbed down a tad in the US teen movie tradition, but it means well. At least it tried. Besides, I've read descriptions ye old tournaments and if you do you'll realise English soccer hooliganism is by no means a recent invention. Gracious, no. I'm amused that someone else read the same bits and also saw the same old games being played the same old ways. Boys will be boys. Ad infinitum, it appears.
And yes, the only reason I'm such a Chaucer or Shakespeare fan is because they're not adverse to a good fart joke. I am so irredeemably common.
I'm currently reading the Jeeves omnibus I was given for my b-day. Or, more to the point, about a dozen or so pages in before I was interrupted, as it always the case (when I die there'll be a tottering bookshelf full of books with a forlorne marker a dozen or so pages in, every time). I'd read a few before back in high school, but as always, I can't remember a blessed one, though I'm dreading finding those several pages I'll have lifted verbatim for some fic or other. I'm always doing that. At least it means the books are still there, buried somewhere in this increasingly dispeptic grey matter o'mine.
I just like the cleverness of the language. Not clever as in an impenetrable blitz of big words Booker prize look at me look at me clever for the sake of being obscure so called style of writing, which I loathe, but just clever as in words deftly arranged for humerous effect, ie, words composed solely to make an audience laugh. That sort of thing I love. I prefer books written for common folks, not for committees of sour people who think they know better. Guess which ones will be being read a century hence.
And yes, I like Dickens too, for the same reason.
Discovered several others friends are also Enigma fans. Yes, I noticed the scene where Jeremy lounges about on Dougray's bed. One wonders if the original script wasn't defaggoted, and remants survived in certain scenes. Or maybe I'm just watching it wrong. Still, considering the real chaps at Bletchley...
Normally I'm not happy to have folks in @ work, especially when I was trying to perve at LOTR pics on the sly during my tea break, but it's D, back from outer space, and we slip back into our comfortable routines as though nothing had happened. Except I'm pissing him off something rotten with my constant coughing and hacking. Well, I didn't say bickering and squabbling wasn't part of our routine. :D This means, hopefully, no double shift. Whoo hoo.