Sorry. It's been stuck in my head since we started devouring The Protectors (it's the theme song, doncha know).
And should I worry that three clicks later I was looking at The Master?
Meanwhile, the cooking websites of the world are conspiring to drive me NUTS. Here's just one example (among many): Teriyaki Tenderloins Recipe. It has my old favourite, the claim of ten minutes preparation time, but wait, what's that down in step #2, why it's my old friend "Overnight". Excuse me but how does "overnight" equal ten minutes? Not even in washing machine time (where a two hour cycle can end up as four in AEST) does overnight equal ten minutes. Gah!
Meanwhile I had a friend pretty much on the floors in tears as I described my romantic misfortunes. Oh well, at least they serve as cautionary tales for the unwary. And where did all that patience I had as a teen go? Because I tell ya, the stamina to sit through interminable conversations about football/babylon 5/plankton just isn't there any more.
Never mind. Got not time for that. Have caved to pressure and am spending what little free time I have to updating the Sharpe site. Don't hold yer breath because I'm barely through the files that start with 'a' and there are at least 300 fics in the Daventry series alone. Also, I don't have the will to make them all nice and neat and compliant and validated, just so long as the new style sheet works. I wouldn't do it at all but having just paid $600 to keep it ticking over for another coupla months, I might as well. I hate it though, nothing but trouble.
You know I'd worry about the whole not bothering to validate thing but as I'm hardly likely to put Peninsular War pr0n on my cv, I don't think it really matters.
I'd really much rather be writing my Robin Hood saga/epic/dross though. It burns.
Now we're falling about making some very unkind comments about a load of staff photos. Wheeze. The words mug and shot wouldn't be too far off the mark. Spot on in fact. Oh dear.
You'll have to excuse me, over tired, sleep deprived hungover and hormonal. I am reducing everyone to tears with my caustic comments, but sadly none can be repeated here on account of our libel laws. At least I'm a funny grumpy old woman.
Went out last night, you see. Had the tickets bought, well, last year. First time I'd ever been inside the Opera House, too. Very cool, but I felt so unwelcome and unwanted and intimidated and so white trash (which I am but since I learnt a commute counts as door to door time that's six hours and you'd be a bit worn and scruffy if you spent six hours commuting every day). Tried having a beer to relax into it but that was a mistake. First I became inordinantly annoyed at the late-coming folks in front who texted and talked loudly and carried on, and when they finally left, well, that's when the beer kicked in and I was fiercely cross legged for the rest of the show.
So it crimped my style, somewhat. I tink, I know I crawled over middle class martrons to get to the loo on time. It was all very Austin Powers, which was strangely appropriate as it was Burt Bacharach I was seeing. Yes, cheesy as but I was kinda going ironically, only the whole thing was kinda irony deprived. Ah well.
Better go or I'll not have tea ready. No, I'm not doing the teriyaki. The peanut gallery reckons that's one for those folks with the posh time-vortex fridges.
Long Way Down (Ewan does silly voices)
Baby mammoth discovery unveiled
Dag-ometer proves it: schmaltz is out
Applauding as Paris burns
Giant squid washes up in Tasmania
Giant lobster caught in pincer movement as it attacks diver