Quantum physics that is so far out there that it zaps past philosophy or religion I sometimes find interesting, but cold hard technology leaves me, frankly, cold. (Though it was amusing, on discovering a colleague's daughter is heavily into nanotechnology, and crying with alarm had she not read any SF novel, he replied in his soft muted way that he's be 'disappointed' if she destroyed the world). But seriously, save your cyberpunks and nanobytes for someone who cares.
So it's annoying to be painted with the geek brush, and for folks to envince surpise if I profess a liking for Sharpe or The Sweeney. I don't mind if my tv is straight up or with a twist.
Besides, most American stuff flying under SF colours are usually just morality tales as jaw droppeningly sickening as any episode of Touched By an Angel. Sad, but true. I do prefer the way the Brits can pull off a really good brain fuck in their telefantasy, every once in a while. Here's hoping the new DW success inspires more moves in that direction, and I don't mean just DW stuff, I mean bringing us stuff like Ultraviolet. Oooh, I loved that.
I'm still on saints, but this time I'm going to talk about Simon. Simon who, you ask. Well, Simon Templar, of course. Cue halo and incredibly snazzy theme music, which was shamefully used for ads on a crap local station. How giddy am I that UKTV is running The Saint? Lots and lots. Massive amounts of squeeing. I've been a Saint fan girl since I was at least eight (earliest written record of Saint drool in my diary, from memory).
I'm also talking about Return of the Saint. The episode with The Saints. The one I saw, knew I saw, but when I asked Chris about it (ages ago, when I was young and cute and size twelve) he denied all knowledge and totally gaslighted me on it. So when I picked up the box set last year, the first thing I did was feverishly click through all the chapters looking for The Saints. Found 'em. So not my imagination afterall. Heh. I'd meant to confront Chris over this, especially with a new book on The Saints out, finally acknowledging that yes, they were in an episode of Return of The Saint, but, to my eternal distress, I missed Homebake, and Chris was spared a good slapping. Not that he would have minded too much, methinks, but that's another story - smirk. Serenaded by a rock god in my youth? Oh yeah. Happy times.
Meanwhile, it's hot, sticky, steamy and muggy and the sky was weirdly purple this morning. I thought I'd get scowled at for wearing a semi-tropical holiday top into work, but so is everyone else. I just couldn't come at a crisp white shirt this morning, and neither could anyone else, apparently. Besides, we're having yum cha today, fingers crossed, and loud cheery patterns will hide the stains - grin.
The birds are in my shitbooks. There was a stray sunflower seed dropped in my garden that sprouted and I nursed and tended it through the most inclement weather, and finally began opening up, a brilliant yellow. So yesterday I skipped home to see it...and found what was left of it in torn pieces scattered around the yard. Wail! Utterly devestating. Them birds showed up expecting biscuits and treaties, and all they got was stale crusts and yelling. Bad birds. No biscuits. They all gave me that 'the bitch is on the rag again look', the very same look I get from my co-workers, exactly, but I didn't care. Dammit, enough is enough.
And it is hot waterbottle time again, alas. I was going to run about the shops this evening, as I've done that and worse, even travelling to the other side of the planet, with banging cramps trying to split me in two like a wishbone, but it's raining now, and there will be Jeremy Northam on the telly if I leave early, and I'm thinking maybe cushy option B might be the answer. Though I was looking forward to dropping my birthday cash bonus in JB.
The other week, I was taken to task for being spiteful towards the 80% of the population who were swanning about the city flaunting their holidays at me. Why do I hate them? Because they're on holiday and I'm not, for starters. They hang about, slowing up buses, taking seats and blocking footpaths and hogging cafes, making it so difficult to get from A to B or dash about in my lunch hour. Keyword = hour, people. Well, it seems I'm not the only cranky pants in town, as today's rant in the Herald proves: Obey these rules and you needn't put a foot wrong
Oh, the unspeakable carnal delights of a hot waterbottle. Excuse me while I wallow for a few minutes.
Word of the day: Pajamahadeen
Update: yum cha satisfying but not as much fun as my preferred crowd of ne'er do wells deferred, the folks that went were, well, a bit up themselves, really. Being hormonal, and my father's daughter, I just kept poking holes in their hot air balloon. Couldn't help myself and had no inclination of doing so.
Now Word keeps reverting back to American no matter how many times I set the default to Strine. Arrrgh. I remarked to H how I annoyed I used to get when foreign folk dared to correct my spelling, etc. She could see the folly of that endeavour from the outset. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, as been said about many a folk about to push one of my big red shiny buttons.
Oh, so that's what happened: Teen joyriders plough car into church. The whole front was flattened, and it was a brick church, too.
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