Meanwhile others are still going crook that the sheriff said "tick tock" six hundred years before clocks were about. Well, it's that kind of show (ie, crap). Mind you, The Robin Hood myth itself has always been wildly anachronistic with each re-telling, which is why it's been impossible to pin down the orgins of said hero archetype, so at least one could say the current version is in keeping with the tradition by playing fast and loose with with the historical, political, social and geographical settings.
Arrrgh. There's a guy below our window playing Xmas tunes on a sax - badly. Okay, I give up. I'm coming out slowly with my hands up.
Not much news, alas. Easily won an arument last night as to why I was fetching down the tree from the attic when I said I wasn't putting it up until 1 Dec. A quick point at the calendar sorted that one. The trick of the attic is to not look up (spider city).
Last night it was actually cold, and just perfect to crack open my ten dollar tinned haggis. It came out like dog food, but it was quite lovely once warmed in a saucepan (AP opted for cheap nasty Woolies sausages because haggis had icky bits in it, the flaws in this argument resulting merely in arched eyebrows amongst the rest of us). That was my bit for Scottish week (somebody demanded to know what I'd done for Scottish week, and left gobsmacked when I replied that I'd had haggis for tea). It wasn't quite as wonderful as the haggis my Uncle served, but one can't have everything. I was surprised that Peanut Gallery, a fussy eater at the best of times, not only partook but licked the plate clean. Well, I never.
After that there was taping of Brit boys and then I meant to watch the Jericho finale, but the cool weather and a belly full of haggis and I was out like a light for the first time in months. Ah well.
No time for fic today, alas. It's going to be like that. It's a crazy month and I suppose I'm not the only one as the Herald ran an article on organising Xmas from your desk yesterday. Inspired, I asked folks to give me their want lists so I could order online this week. One bugger gave me a list of books not in any search engine bar one that'll take 15 weeks to arrive from the publishers. WTF?
Yes, please send me on wild goose chases. I'll have to give 'em the old King Lear speech: "Nothing comes of nothing, speak again", but right now I'm leaning more towards putting a lump of ecosystem imperiling fossil fuel in their stocking.
Meanwhile I'm bemused by a lively may/december friendship that has lit up the bus these last few weeks. They don't live together because she gets on three suburbs earlier, and they don't work together because he gets off two stops later. He loooks like Gene circa 2006 and she looks like Rose Tyler, but they delight in each other's company and it's a joy to behold. We need some life on the bus: after bragging of two years of being clean and sober, M has disappeared and we fear he's fallen off the wagon again, and Majorie died of cancer. I know it's selfish and all, but can my friends not die at Xmas? It just makes it so much worse. I was shocked, too. I mean, I knew she was ill, but to be blunt, she looked like an animated corpse, Harryhausen style, but since she was working and on meds I thought she had it at an impasse. Alas, no.
So it's December as usual then: must smile at xmas - must smile at xmas - friend dead - must smile at xmas - house looks like a crime scene - must smile at xmas - everyone is playing sillybuggers - must smile at xmas - my leave has been cancelled - must smile at xmas - work is insane - must smile at xmas - one of my colleagues enjoys nasty office games as a hobby - must smile at xmas - work demands leave no time for cleaning and shopping but no one else will do it - must smile at xmas - must finish fics - must smile at xmas - must go to parties with people I'd rather spit on - must smile at xmas - must smile at xmas - must smile at xmas...
Yeah, that's a rictus grin all right. Oh yeah, and yesterday while running for the bus my travel passes fell out of my bag, lost forever, about $120 worth. I was spewin', as we used to say in my archaic vernacular.
Sigh. Don't mind me. It's all the worse for feeling like I'm being judged with how well I do. and I am. They'll come round with their white gloves and clipboards and I'll end up spending Boxing Day locked in a cupboard with a bottle of something alcoholic and sobbing my eyes out. Must smile at xmas.
Last year at least, that was Xmassy.
'Life on Mars' indie up for sale
Writers put brave face on bad sex awards
On TV: Not all the turkeys get the ax
Scientists decode ancient astral computer
Pope makes Turkish mosque visit
More radiation found in planes
BBC damaging music industry: Report