But, alas, no. The calendar today says no white dresses, thank you, and on top of that it looks like somebody had a bicycle pump up my arse all night because I've swollen up several dress sizes overnight (though the enormously diuretic chai tea I have has at least bounced me back down one dress size). Oh yeah, and it's not like I can wear the dress out for dinner on my birthday, either. Twenty eight days from now? Yeah, right.
Fortunately, I had a second little black dress ready to go in cases of emergency (why do you need another dress, asked parsinomious AP, obviously not a student of my calamitous life). I don't love it, but it'll do. It's very 1971. Fortunately, too, I picked up some very 1971 so fake it hurts silver bling to go with it last night, because the necklace I really wanted to wear came apart in my hands as I was putting it on this morning.
Of course, having changed from You Only Live Twice to Diamonds Are Forever, dress wise, I had to dig out my vaguely 1971 shoes, which had an enormous spider living in one. Cue the scene from Dr No.
And let's not forget that my hair is red, instead of dark brown, and now frizzy on top of that. Gah.
Sometimes a girl just shouldn't bother getting up in the mornings.
Also, I gotta stop reading/watching Robin Hood spoilers. Can't help myself, though. It doesn't really matter though, as the reviews are so negative I often end up liking the episode more, rather than being oddly disappointed, but usually only because I liked Robin being winsome in one scene or Guy glowering.
I know, I know, enough with the Robin Hood. I know it's rubbish, badly acted, badly written, excruciatingly costumed tosh, but I just adore it. What other show, currently, is offering such solid gold slashiness? Not even the hideous Torchwood snogfests come close to the hormones running rampant over in the East Midlands. Does Jack keep wandering in while Ianto is in the bath? No, he does not. QED. (And I couldn't even begin to describe the seething pit of angry despair in black leather that is Guy).
Last night I didn't get anything I'd planned to done at all as I lounged too long over dinner (Himself is away so I could actually take my time over fish and wine, like a grown up) and then, just before I started into the never ending cleanup project, I had to retire from the field of battle, accidentally rediscovering the box of pens, pencils, scissors etc I'd quickly kicked under the bed earlier with my bare foot in the semi-darkness (I'm a comedy sidekick in need of a hero, so I am). Pratfalls aside, it effing hurt and drew blood (but my yelp and crash brought no assistance).
Sulking, and deciding I was my own worst enemy, I limped off and settled down to some Ultimate Force (finally excavated). Or would have, but my dvd player, which had no probs with it at all in the before time, no longer wanted to have any track with the disks. I guess there's only so much Ross Kemp the poor wee beastie can take.
Ever so slightly miffed and deprived my Armitage fix (looks like I'll have to tape 'em off the telly afterall), I played back last week's Teachers and lusted after that floppy haired young man with the winsome grin like the lecherous old crone I am. Bad enough he's playing a toy boy in Teachers, being reminded he was still crapping in nappies when Robin of Sherwood was screening really, really burns. Ack. Arrest me now. I am a dirty, dirty old woman.
Still, he was sweet (and pretty), and now I know what his invitation to sex in the stationery cupboard face looks like. Heh.
Meanwhile everyone is giving me these 'you poor, stupid bitch' looks, so I guess the 1971 LBD ain't going down so well. Sigh. I tried. My last forlorne hope at a Xmas party dress.
Won't be wearing one to any rellie do. For starters, they're nearly all OS, and the ones that are here can't stand me. And I have no achievements worthy of reporting, since I can't manage that most basic of achievements: still can't find a man willing to have sex with me? No, as it happens, I cannot. Maybe I should drag along one of those derros from the station who demand 50c for sex, and that's me paying on account of being so fat and ugly. Sigh.
No that I ever get invited any more (to derro sex or xmas dinners). I didn't get an invite last year and I was really burned bacause after The Trip From Hell I'd lost half my weight, from not having money left to feed myself (fortunately my Good Uncle took me straight to the nearest all you can eat buffet on my return to the UK, and I will forever love him for that). I not only had to buy a belt to hold up my jeans, I ran out of holes and had to buy a smaller belt.
When I got back I was wearing little summmer dresses I'd not worn since I was nineteen. Which proves, at least, I can be the size I was then, I just have to do exactly the same thing: be too poor to be able to afford food or buses. And next year, with the threat of sacking one in three public servants, it just might become my reality again. Of course, the cruel irony is that when I am not fat on account of extreme poverty, I can't afford nice clothes anyway, hence all the op shop ensembles of my youth (lots of Sam Tyler men's 70s shirts over 60s pencil skirts).
Ah well. Survived the rigmarole at the post office to get stuff sent off to the States 9apparently I must have been the most suspicious person in the PO because I had the full invasion of privacy this time) and now I'm just looking forward to a quiet weekend of murder and terrorism, dvd player willing.
Hepburn's magic gown builds schools
Ben Affleck Participates in an Onstage Discussion at the Walter Reade Theater
"Casino Royale" World Premiere - Outside Arrivals (Jonas)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer Is Back: The Complete Joss Whedon Q&A
Faulty online mapping linked to wrong turn disaster
An unlikely movie star takes the throne
Tornado tears through London
St Paul's tomb found under altar
Plastics 'poisoning world's seas'
Thomas Hardy 'infected wife with syphilis'
Eastwood win begins award season
My Week In Media: Burn Gorman
A manned moon base within 20 years - Nasa's bold plan
Oh, what a world!
The phoney war on Christmas