Oh boy. That weekend was the fuzzy end of the lollipop (yes, I stole the quote). And then on Monday, they decided to stab me repeatedly in the eyes with the stick.
This is what happens when you take the Gene Genie away. Harsh reality intrudes. I wish that I could sick Gene onto certain people, though, just to offer them a little gentle persuasion in seeing things from my point of view.
What finally brought me to tears yesterday was the destruction of my bowl. I've had my breakfast bowl broken/stolen, well, on average, every six months, since I was born, and never by me, so I do try not to get attached, especially not since the dreadful loss of the bowl that had the too cool red and gold Chinese dragon slithering around the bottom. I loved that bowl. This one was just a cheap knock off of some medieval Italian ware I'd seen in museums, but I liked it, a lot, and it was rather the last straw as far as the rainstorm of merde I seemed to be enduring.
I mean, I never give credence to astrology apart from its entertainment value, but somedays it's just like really bad stars, Sod's law from midnight to midnight, you know?
Friday's highlight was Wire In The Blood, though it wasn't that highlighty, since I guessed the who, what, where, when and why before the opening credits. So it was pretty much an exercise in watching Robson. And I can't believe it took them so long to get the St Sebastian reference, but maybe they don't have a St Sebastian pin cushion like I do - grin. At least we got to see that evil twat Simmerson decapitated. That amused me, at least. And I suppose I can't really fault an episode that features evil Masons. :)
Saturday wasn't too bad. Didn't get to do anything I wanted to do, but I was dragged along to a fete at the town at the top of the hill, and ended up with a bright red camellia, purchased mainly because the stall holder chatted up my loud Indian skirt and entombed warrior t-shirt, and a pile of oh so 70s cups for the office, because we're always short spare cups. A shop opposite the cafe I collapsed into was having a 50% sale, and I picked up a week's worth of tops and skirts for under $100, which I consider nicely done, and now I can happily turf out some stuff I've really come to loathe.
So far so okay. I think the weekend really turned when the bad bus driver screeched to a halt at the stop so hard that I smashed back against the seat, bearing in mind my hands were full of shopping + camellia, and I cracked my bad knee so loudly the whole bus winced.
So I was sitting with my knee up when some friends kidnapped me and took me to a flower show. Not too bad, but not really my scene. Nevertheless, I came away with another camellia and three bright geraniums to replace those poor plants that carked it. Meant to pot them up on Sunday but never really got a chance. Was otherwise engaged, and being nitpicked to within an inch (2.54 cm) of my life.
At least telly offered me respite. Just can't beat that Saturday lineup: Doctor Who, Sharpe, The Professionals, The Sweeney and Minder. Doctor Who was the Gatiss episode, which, as always, I enjoyed much more this time around. I swear it's the soundtrack mix or something, because it helps when I can actually hear the characters, especially as DT has a habit of muttering the snarkiest lines under his breath. I'd also done a fair bit of googly/wiki research, the better to get all the references, so I understood it a bit more (can't help it, lots of UK refs go past my head, not that I mind, but I loathe missing the point).
So, again, I adored the quiff, the 50s domesticity, the very essence of Doctor Who in the old turning something everyday into a force of evil, and the saving the data with a Beta tape - snort! I also liked the Doctor getting somewhat peeved when his travelling companion was messed with. That was new, because in the old season he really didn't seemed to care that much, often treating them like a dime a dozen, which they were, but still. It's nice to see the ol' Doc a little more emotionally engaged, at least from my girly viewing perspective. And damn me if I didn't start to finally buy into a bit of the enforced shippiness, just towards the end.
But what I'd really like to see from Mr Gatiss is an Edwardian episode. Oh, yes, please. (And yes, I know he's all been there, done that - it doesn't stop me wanting).
The Professionals offered up a glimpse of Bodie's pink shirt again, but mainly it was the boys in tuxes, slurp, drool. And the double dating? Sorry, going to the 70s kinkiness place, just a bit, there. It was the old honey trap episode, the one that so bemused an American friend because the evil American car is apparently a suburban car over there, but whatever. I was just really watching the lads run around all 'day after the night before shabby chic' and the London locales. At least the plot made much more sense this time around, less cut than my earlier viewings. Ah, the Cold War. Good times, good times.
The Sweeney was all about bent coppers, and the brief mention of the Aussies gave me a fleeting moment of terror, but fortunately it was just a name check (as I can well do without those cringing imposters). There was some lovely saucy Carter/Regan interplay with this, as well as some nice hard man Regan undercover. Oh, yeah, that's the stuff. Morse never tried to glass anyone - at least not in any of the episodes I ever saw. THis was an episode where they nicked the bent coppers, purple handed. Another great episode.
Minder featured a still young Anthony Valentine as a card sharp. Which was enough to encourage me to watch. Basically, AV was trying to have his revenge on evil dodgy Greeks and their evil dodgy card game. And you know, it took me far more time than was seemly to realise the Greek chick was Marina Sirtis. Tsk.
Sunday finished off Bleak House (two funerals and a wedding) and Monday brought another dose of a very young Peter Pascoe.
And speaking of erractic timer functions, or at least, thinking about them, I'm going to have to get meself a name brand surge protector for yon machine because I saw it turn itself on and off this morning and this time there was no earthly possibility of an excuse for it as I'd moved it back and around so nothing could accidentally flutter against it. Hmph. It's possessed, I tell you.
Oh yeah, I also watched Batman Begins, which was on telly, when I was particularly distressed. It cheered me up. And how did I not notice Scott Tracy in it before? Because I suppose before I hadn't turned away when he said "it's going to blow!" and suddenly I was awash in TB1 nostalgia before I even consciously recognised the voice. (OMG, I loved The Thunderbirds when I was a tiny tot/kid/teen/adult/old hag). So Shane Rimmer got a bigger squeal than Chrissie Boy. Ah well, them's the breaks. I'm nothing if not loyal :)
Peanut Gallery was mercilessly dishing it though. When Bruce is picked up by Alfred in the Lear Jet, references to "Common People" were made (if he called his butler he could stop it all). And when BW had his iconic moment in the bat cave, PG declared "From henceforth I will be known as Guano Man - I mean Batman!"
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