Oh well. Four bookcases down, two to go (yup, every wall be bookcase, well, sorta, it's an odd atticy room that means half cases, alas, hence the mega culling of both crap and cool stuff).
Right now though, I'd kill for a wee radio that works. Mine has just decided to turn mute, and, of course, today's the day the co-worker who can't type without sounding out the words is driving me to near homicidal distraction. Argh. Need music to soothe the savage beast. Either that or a 2 by 4.
So, to tv.
Watched Blue Murder on Friday, just for my Ian Kelsey fix. Aside from being bemused at the odd Life on Mars location (the block of flats from #7), it offered little in the way of gee whizz entertainment, but it was a plodding, dependable little plod piece, I suppose. Like New Tricks the week before, it had something to say about the way Brits value a dog's life over a person's (something in the air, or that writer's particular theme?) and a load of crims not seen since the Sweeney drove off into the sunset. The actor playing the drunk though deserves a special commendation. He'll never get mentioned in a British awards show (nothing of quality ever does), but, having had to deal with such folks once upon a time, I can tell you he had it down just perfectly. Every slur and slouch was spot on. That, at least, impressed me.
Saturday brought the Dennis fest. Sadly, I was too busy working to pay attention to New Tricks, other than to note a new entry in the gay gangster list. The Professionals brought Look After Annie, which was never a fave (and, worse, another high rotation episode back in the days when I had no control whatsoever over what I got to watch, oh, happy dvd box set freedom). Bemused at the attempts to include a scripted riot on the cheap: stock footage, sounds of rioting off stage, tight shots of a knot of extras and my fave, strewn wreckage.
There was some nice Bodie/Doyle moments though, especially the guiding hand on Doyle's back as they exited Cowley's hospital room. Lookit: boy touching. I'm sure it was all meant in a manly fashion. It just kinda looked sweet.
The Sweeney was half excellent lorry load stealing plot, half pointless sassy WPC pilot. Please, LOM, no pointless WPC B plots, 'kay? Anyways, Regan was debauched, George racked up some serious sexual harrassment demerits (his performance in the file room would have him up on charges these days) but there was some nice car work, though it looks like there was an unscripted prang or near miss in one scene, the camera cuts too soon, alas.
Minder had little by the way of interest other than a boat ride down the Thames past the docklands that would become the Canary Wharf redevelopment.
Sunday was a repeat of same, with a couple of hours of The Goodies thrown in for good measure. It's scary how topical The Goodies still are. They shouldn't be, but they are. Plus ça change, I suppose. Sadly, I didn't have to watch, just listen, as I worked. Not even for my favourite bits, nor for the fact that the UKTV versions contain many, many scenes cut by the ABC. The episode where they tried to put a positive PR spin on the police force was particularly amusing (and proves that a great deal of Sam's new fangled ideas were not unheard of in Gene's time).
Still working, I missed a Pertwee narrated nature doco (pout), but caught repeats of Doctor Who and Spooks - the one where they have a drill that might not be a drill. Very much the 'we've blown our location budget' bottle episode - grin. It was all very Lifeboat/Das Boot, in lighting especially, and with allegedly trained professionals cracking left, right and centre. Except Tom, whose clinical coolness becomes almost chilling and sinister by comparison. I'm not sure if that's the effect they were going for, but it's the way it comes across. Tom follows up his fearless leader performance by coldly dumping the bunny boiler. Not his smartest move, it will prove, but Tom seems to fancy needy psychobitches, the poor bastard. His ultimate undoing. In fact, heroic men are often undercut by duplicitous wenches in Spooks. There's a lot of Sampson and Delilah going on in there, in the undercurrents.
Meanwhile, I should be working on promised fic, but my brain feels like scrunched up notepaper. I suspect the hayfever tablet I took last night to combat the extreme dust is the cause, and not extreme PMS. Or, maybe, unhappily, both. Or maybe that itchy dust got under my skin. Either way, I just feel way too jagged and prickly to write. And that co-worker won't stop mumbling - arrrgh. Wail, now they're drumming their fingers. Okay, I give up, I'll confess. Just make it stop.
Forgot to mention the Chinese water torture on the bus. It was raining and there was only one seat left, and that was under the leak, as I quickly discovered, but it was either that or stand up for two hours. Fortunately I had my D&P book with me, so I could just about cope with the constant drip. I'd pay good money for a dry pair of undies, though (the seat was more than a little damp, from rain, I do hope).
Ah, mercy. There's a loud protest going on outside, with whistles etc, thus momentarily drowning out all the sighing and muttering over clattering keyboards. Ah, blessed background noise.
Back to the room tidy, I've been taking down all my old posters (one of many childish things put away), and looking to replace them. Alas, what pecious few prints of lesser works by my favourite artists are available for purchase (never the ones I really like) do not come cheap. The National Gallery of London offers up a print of a Caravaggio, but for a price that, if I were to order one or two more, would make the plane fare to view them in person the cheaper option. Le sigh.
Okay, protest hooters and sirens a little less amusing now. I know, I'm never satisfied, but think of my nerves, she says, in full Mrs Bennet flight.
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