It wasn't fair, yesterday. I drag myself into work, really unwell and miserable and all I wanted to do was to clear out my inbox in peace and go home again. I know what you're thinking, it can't be that bad, and maybe it isn't. It's not so much the intensity of the bullying, it's more the culmative effect. I've been bullied and monstered every day of my life and it's all getting a bit much, really. Everything I try to do to please them, it fails. I've rather had it. With all of it. I'm tired of it. I've had enough.
So I went home in tears and came to work in tears again today. Where else could I go? I know, no matter what I do, I'm going to get yelled and screamed at and belittled and told I'm ugly and fat and I might as well still be four years old. I feel four years old. This is not life. This is not the life I want.
But never mind. I promised myself some Tennant, and Tennant there was. I was going to just watch an episode of Blackpool, and I did, and he was lovely. I'm loving it even more this time around as I'm just in it for the moves. I meant to just stop at that, but I was doubled over with cramps (putting sleep or reading beyond me), so I just had to indulge in some Doctor Who. And I liked it. I think I've been a bit harsh. I liked The Idiot's Lantern much better on a second viewing, in my own room.
Okay, then. The Impossible Planet. In which RTD buys a box set of Firefly, but still loves the Buffy, or possibly it's a tie in to The Inferno dvd release. Who can say? It was certainly a lot more Pertwee or Tom Baker -ish in feel, and I liked the less than shiny claustrophobic rig set. Actually, the frontier comments made by RTD in Confidential definitely make me think he's been chowing down on some Firefly.
I also loved that, finally, we have a Who episode filmed in a quarry. It's tradition! Hee. I was also LOL over the initial Ood joke. Straight out of The Simpsons, but still funny, nevertheless. I was thinking they reminded me of the Sensorites, then RTD popped up saying he'd based them on the Sensorites. Argh! I'm an anorak. Kill me now.
After churning away on the whole 'hey, it's that guy' thing (Human Traffic, it finally came to me this morning over the sink), I didn't mind the plot at all. SFX or the Beeb have spoiled me on the whole plot, but I didn't mind it slowly unspooling by the numbers (and sadly it has been by the numbers of late) and I liked the more serious tone. At least the guest actors were playing it straight and not panto this time 'round, which I really, really appreciated. Some genuinely creepy moments, some nice claustrophic atmosphere (if that's not a mutually exclusive sentiment) and, well, they do like the whole zombie army thing on DW, but it's kind of tradition so I'll let it be (it does give the show the air of a game, though, and I don't mean that as a good thing).
I actually kinda found the Doctor/Rose shippiness very cute and touching this time round (rather than cringeworthy), and I'm know I'm being set up for a fall there. Okay, so the episode was cliche city, from the Alien like rig setting and cast, borrowing from a whole lot of sources (Event Horizon, Firefly, Alien, Buffy, etc), but as a bit of bubble and squeak, it weren't half bad. Even re-heated leftovers can still taste damn good late at night after a rough day. I liked.
Yesterday I feel I was a little too flip in dismissing John's foootball magic programme. Actually, as football doccos go, it was the most fascinating one I've ever seen, and, were I still studying anthropology, it'd make for a great paper. But I ain't, anthro having no practical application (aside from fighting aliens) and everything must have a practical application these days. But I was certainly interested and would follow it up if I had this earth thing you call free time.
I also neglected to mention last week that the wonderful print exhibition at the gallery was largely from a collection curated by Norman Lindsay's brother, which probably accounted for why it answered to so many of my tastes. I loved Norman Lindsay as a nipper, reading The Magic Pudding. As a teen, I liked the way he'd held two fingers up to the wowsers and I loved his baroque work. Later I learned he was as much a fascist as anyone else in his day and age, and actual exposure to the grand masters diminished my opinion of his artistry, but he still holds a spot in my heart, for nostlgia's sake as much as anything else. So much so that when I went to the Galleria Borghese it reminded me so much of Norman's house at Faulconbridge, only, to the power of ten, and I could see what he'd been aiming for. All I wanted wanted to do was wander in the gardens. Certainly not, said my travelling companion, as it did not fit into her schedule, and this is where we parted as friends, as I could not help but sulk, just a bit, at being dragged away. I just wanted to walk around in a Norman Lindsay painting. Is that so bad? (I should have known when she sent me a printed schedule, but I never in my life thought she was serious. Peanut Gallery calls it the Butlin's Mentality, a peculiar need for regimen and order that afflicts British holiday makers).
But anyway, I did love those drawings. I think a return visit might be in order, to cheer my soul.
Meanwhile, I'm counting down my last days in Life on Mars fandom. It's been a fun ride, and I hate to leave, but soon it'll screen in America and they will descend upon the forum, and, as they already hate me, I'll be driven out, and no amount of posting goodies will save me. It never does. I don't know what I did to make them hate me, but hate me they do.
It's like the other week when I wouldn't take a custard tart until everyone else had been offered one. Because I didn't want someone hatng me for taking a custard tart when they wanted one. Some people can hang onto petty gripes for years. Many is the time I've received such a violent and vicious email or rebuke and wondered what on earth I've done to deserve it, unable to bring up any worthy incident in the last week, and it'll be pinching that last tart six weeks ago that has now come home to bring me grief. So no. No to tarts and no to hanging around in the fandom after the Yanks have landed. It's just not worth the trouble. Sigh.
I'm going to miss it. It's been just about the only pleasure I've had these last six months. Still, six months is better than nowt. Already, I feel my welcome is long since over. Nobody likes my sense of humour. Pout.
Edit: H just tossed me a Mars bar and we're watching David Tennant via YouTube on the sly. It ain't all bad. Just some people, you know?
Chocolate, tea and David T. I can live with that.
These Boots Were Made For Walking
Bubble and squeak
BBC calls time on Top of the Pops
Is It Hot in Here...?
Public invited to list buildings they hate
Blunt song wakes girl from coma
Burning for the long haul
Is Superman the new Messiah?
List of winter festivals
How the fish on your plate makes you an accessory to crime at sea