Yesterday a friend and I took an entire carload of our most cherished treasures to an inner city charity shop. The chap too them off our hands with the kindest of bedside manners, but I still grieve. Curse the church of minimalism and my limited storage space.
Then we went off to Cabramatta (see Little Fish) for exotic treats, lunch and, alas, a few more bits of tat, in my case a tea pot and an exoticly old school looking tin of tea, a fish shaped dish and various groceries (Including a bag of enormous mangoes), oh, and some proper jasmine.
Meanwhile a spider as large as my hand, possibly larger, just strolled across the ceiling to hide amongst the boxes atop my wardrobe. So much for sleeping tonight.
Also so much for writing as next door have decided to embark upon a course of home improvements and as such I've been subjected to an industrial concerto for days now, though the ill-timed hamering yesterday had me just about ready to confess to anything.
Oh yeah, faintly grumpy about the whole Xmas thing. I realise how materialistic it sounds but all I wanted was the Minette Walters box set, feat. Mr Craig and Mr Owen, and a bag of Haigh milk choc frogs. What I got was two books by authors I loathe, one of whom I've even exchanged hate mail with. After all the blood I sweated getting everyone elses' presents, such callous disregard has left me feeling a little, well, unloved. Which is true enough, but nevertheless confronting and unkind.
Off to amazon to treat myself, I should think, just to soothe my poor wrecked feelings.
So we've spent a great deal off the irst Xmas I haven't worked in over a decade sulking. Oh dear.
Fortunately help was to hand with the post finally arriving including three missives from my dear Uk correspondent, one over a month old. So I watched The State Within. Very Spooks in style, very state of Play and Sex Traffic in plot, and starring the ever so sexy Jason Isaacs and Neil Pearson and, good grief, Sharon Gless and Lacroix himself, Nigel Bennet. The reviews called it silly, but like pooks I found it just this side of plausible, and I loved how the women were the strong ones and more often than not the movers and shakers where the men were merely reactive. The FBI chick totally rocked, and was smart in a clever attention to detail way, not a Mary Sue I just happen to be an expert way.
Meanwhile Robin Hood, as always, breaks another cardinal rule of story telling: never name check a pub you've never sunk a pint in, or risk sounding like a right pillock. "Meet up behind the Trip to Jerusalem?" For fek's sake. It's moment's like these I wish I had my old telly so I could throw things at it.
Marian seems to have swung her favours toward Robin this week (last week it was Sir Guy, oh fickle child) and everyone is still picking on Much. At least Will and Alan had a few moments of screen time, and Robin played second fiddle to a tapestry. Oh, and the Sheriff ended up in thhis week's homage to bondage.
I've also been watching repeats of Buffy on cable, and enjoying it far more than I should. It's s2, my fave. It's all downhill from there as far I'm concerned, alas.
Longmire does Romance Novels
Saying Yes to Mess