Well, I've often thought that. I keep waiting for the Waking the Dead crew to open up one of Gene's old cases. Or the New Tricks lot. :)
Meanwhile, I was supposed to be reading my new(ish) book, but I ended up watching the clouds as we mounted the old Anzac bridge. What clouds. Piled high in boiling mountains up into a pale blue sly, darkly grey and hellish orange at the bottom but lit all fluffly white and pinky golden at the very top as dawn had just, that second, started to break. Full on Hollywood clouds. Constable would have creamed himself.
But I digress. Oh, I finished Emma. I was so bemused by that article yesterday about never remembering Mr Knightley's given name. I could never get that in a pub trivia game, either.
Anyway, as there's a decided dearth of D&P in this blighted town right now I've turned to Flashman (he of infamous school bully fame). It looks like a fun read, and will do until I can get my hands on something else.
Sam stood in the middle of the dusty, abandoned room, staring in a most accusing fashion at the fully pumped up and primed old airbed that had been carelessly thrown down in one corner, and the thermos and packet of biscuits beside it. It smacked of seduction, Seventies style.
"Is this really a surveilance job?" Sam began archly, his face prim and pinched. "Or do you have some ulterior motive?"
"It can't be both?" Gene threw back.
Boys! You're back! And just, ahem, in the nick of time. Ahem. Okay then, furious fic-ing it is. Which as just as well as reality sucks right now.
To recap: AP is poorly, washing machine is kaput and I'm redundant (well, we all knew that, but still) and yet still required to do the work of four people.
Oh well. To cheer myself up, I think it's time for some silly piccies. Now I know we're all over the hobbit boys (fek knows I am), but it's mighty hard to pass up something like this (click to make bigger, as the bishop said to the actress):
Then there's Sammy Boy. I know I haven't posted any Sam pics in ages, but I just couldn't resist this. I don't know what Sam has just said, but I bet you any money that it's not the sort of thing you could safely say at a Ladies Auxillary meeting. This is why my love for Sam has endured longer than wee Jonas has drawn breath: Sam is a damn wicked bastard, bless him.
PM edit: Ate too much. PMS + stress and unhappiness + redundancy + yum cha = total pork out. Ah well. And that was just farewell lunch #1. Oh well, having left the buying of easter eggies until after I lost my job (I was waiting for cooler weather because 30c days usually equals Dali bunnies), it's gonna be a lean easter anyway, and I'm working at the show (I love working at the show, so it's no hardship and it gets me out of the house).
Oh dear god, it's a farewell afternoon tea now. Thank frell I wore an elastic waisted Indian skirt today (I thought a bright cheery print my help).
These aren't my farewells, oh no. This is just the first round of rattus rattus jumping our torpedoed ship. The last time my job got abolished from underneath me I had three job offers lined up, but this time everyone said to stop being so bloody paranoid, it'll all be okay. Well, it's not and I've got nothing lined up. Note to self: don't listen to other people because they're morons. Of course, those other people do have jobs lined up. If I were paranoid, well, never mind. It's done now.
Meanwhile, more work to do. For a redundant person, I sure am busy.
Britain's dirty cities more dangerous than an A-bomb
Richards: I snorted dad's ashes