mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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dusting and decking the halls

Friday: Last night I was busy polishing me buddha and buffing me candlesticks, ooo er, vicar. No, it's not a code for anything filthy and fun, just filthy Dickensian char woman stuff. The usual. Also, Inspector Rex not so good to do housework to as me German ain't what it used to be.

Also scrubbed down the stairs, bannister and railings. The state of the stairs and bannister I get, but who swings from the railings like a grubby pawed gibbon, is what I want to know? Also, shoulda done this before I started decking the halls, unless you want to consider the dead roaches hanging from the tinsel as avant garde, in a Mortica Addams kinda way. Goes well with the Xmas floral arrangement I found all broken and snapped off, I suppose (who were the mad monkeys who packed away the Xmas decs last year?).

Oh, and they're taking away Heroes and my Euro cops. Wail! Okay, so they're putting Bones on next week (S2 looks like), but still.

Anyway, it was fairly grim over in Denmark and Fischer cheated on both his wife and his slash buddy. Tsk. And apparently it doesn't take much encouragement re the wooing of the Fischer either. Tsk. But sexy, sexy Mads, so I was happy. (Must race to Dymocks to buy vols 3 and 4).

Heroes finally picked up the pace, which was just dandy on the last episode to be screened here, and way to leave us hanging. I gotta say, I was sucked right into the episode, even sans the Petrelli Brothers (or maybe because of it). Hiro got to be heartbreaking, Matt and Mohinder got to go darkside and Bennet...I was all no! no! no! until the last minutes. Phew! They would have lost me if they'd lost Jack. Because, damn, I'm finding him a sexy bugger. Maybe it's my need for a protective daddy figure, but whatever, when he was standing by the beach, all sex on a stick while interrogating oh so wet West about his suitability to pitch woo at Claire and then, bamm! Bad Mohinder. No biscuit. (I'd rather they'd have shot Claire, not that it would have mattered, but her whiny 'me' issues are driving me up the wall).

At least we'd left behind Los Blunder Twins and that whole New Orleans dead end and focused on the cool stuff, like twisted Adam and the Company that seems to corrupt all it touches. Okay, could have done without Hiro reiterating Spidey's bushido code, but the scenes with his dad were just so heartbreaking I could forgive the occasional stumble into syrupy.

If the Industrial Revolution started in Britain, can we sue them for climate change? Or at least get a "sorry, really sorry" out of them? I mean, if they're going to apologise for other past misdemeanors and atrocities like slavery, why not? (so where are the apologies for transportation, the clearances and the '45, she says, afixing the old white cockade firmly to her cap, it being St Andrews Day 'n' all).

Not to mention 70s British sitcoms. I'd really like a formal, belly scraping apology from Mr Brown for those. Start with the Black and White Minstrel Show and On The Buses and work your way up/down from there.

Also, and I'll assume that if you're on t'internet you'll know by now, three 'companions' in the Tardis? Heh. If the Doc thinks the Daleks are bad, wait until the girls synch up.

Tuesday: Just call me Freudian Girl, cause I just wrote the command [lust] instead of [list]. Already there, as I was thinking upon some recent screencaps of Allan (and Will, and Guy and oh my). Okay, mind on the job, mind on the job mind on the job.

Unless of course I was just pucking ep the eksent from my Kiwi pal over at the next desk.

Where should I start? Well, yesterday is as good a place as any. It was supposed to be my day off but I had to come in because I left all the probate docs I was working on my desk. Nobody was happy about that but Friday, well, lawks a'mercy!

At least I know what it'd be like to run the Sheriff of Nottingham's web page:
"Put up an announcement that we've caught Hood! Now!"

"Take it down! Take it down!" "Who told you to put that up!" .

And so on and so forth. That I did not spend Saturday in bed in a darkened room with a damp towel over my eyes is mere testimony to my masochism. No, I was up in full scullery maid mode. Poor old Combat, though (the new vac). It sounded like a jet engine when it revved up but was still vanquished by my dust bunnies of unusual size. Still, it nearly ate one rug, so that's something. Dammit, though. I want a vacuum cleaner powerful enough to collapse the universe into a singularity. Only them will I feel I have the machine I need to tackle the dust bunnies and cobwebs. If only the good Doctor could pop over for a cuppa and sonic it up a bit for me, you know, since he was there. Sigh.

Okay, you know you're getting stressed by the whole IT'S XMAS ALREADY AND LOOK AT THE BLOODY STATE OF THE PLACE thang if the only use one can think of for the Doctor is a bit of the old home handy man, and not in a pool cleaner way at all. Sigh.

Oh, I'm too old to have any use for the Doc other than handing him a feather duster, for the cobwebs and nowt else, these days. Last Xmas I coulda scrubbed and polished six staircases and been ready for more, this time just a third of a one had me nearly in tears. I got old this year, real old.

Watched: Life on Mars.

Sunday I put the tree up. Well, most of the tree. Well, some of it. Okay, a bit. And I even managed to stuff that up as well, as I seem to have managed to get it all back to front. I never even knew it had a front, or a back, but it's all uneven and lists to one side in a most nervous making fashion. I've shored it up by hanging all the heaviest ornaments on the other side as a counterweight, but it's hardly my best tree now is it, especially when engineering overtook aesthetics by necessity. Sigh. And I usually love putting up the tree, though I did enjoy the music I put on to get me up and doing. First time I've been able to listen to my music loud and sans headphones ever. Whee!

And as I was playing set of cds of cheesy old ancient 12" remixes that I'd got as a set several birthdays ago, I was having a blast. Oh, it was so bad, but so good to do housework to. And now I know why I can never remember my mobile number: no room. My poor old head is all filled up with daft 80s lyrics. I mean some of these songs I'd not heard since school and yet I knew all the words. Every last one. So much fun. And had I the time, talent and technology, several of them would so be songvids right now, especially one I just can't get out of my head. It's perfect.

You know, somebody really ought to set themselves up as a vidder for hire. You know, like you can hire folks to put together photo albums and stuff. This fandom, this pairing, this song, thanks. It'd certainly free up my brain for more important tasks, rather than idly selecting clips to match lyrics (it so works, wish you could see it).

Anyhoo, was supposed to go for a pool party on Sunday but it was cancelled (with half an hour to spare, I might add, so it was all very pack the umbrella and floaties away now) on account of Winter. The bright pure blue sunny morning had vanished into bleakness, which meant no cocktails by the pool, and I had to get the washing in. Sigh.

So we thought we'd cheer ourselves with the free gorgeous old Rankin Bass Xmas special dvd that came with the paper, but no, it was effed and just wouldn't play. Weep. Et tu, dvd?

Watched: Doctor Who, Who Do You Think You Are, Jane Eyre. Those dastardly UKTV folks have left us with a bit of a cliffhanger re Who, but it's not like I can't resort to dvds. Never mind, David pretty (and surprisingly freckly on the lounge room telly, my telly is too crap for freckles). Those dastardly SBS folks cut up the Stephen Fry episode to pieces, removing some of our favourite lines, boo, hiss. Still, it was lovely to watch again. I wonder if the shares in a sugar beet factory a great uncle bought were that sugar beet factory. Wouldn't that be a hoot.

Meanwhiles, Toby was busy sexing up Rochester, being the least gloomy bastard of the lot of them, and it was a noice, different and unusual interpretation of a role that usually gives over to a little too much glowering and stumping about. Loved this, again, and it's funny how different it was watching it again now. I saw things I never saw before and things that had caught me up and near moved me to tears I was now so over, or at least largely unaffected by. Funny, the way these things change. And people wonder why I watch and rewatch favourite old films and shows. Because they're like old books: different every time, especially if you come back to them after a year like I've had. I'm not who I was, so in some respects, I've not seen/read it before. Not with December 07's sensibilities, at any rate.

Also caught the end of something Holmesian with Douglas Henshall scowling about as Doyle. I'd not seen it before, and hopefully I recorded the midnight to dawn screening (it's been blackout city lately and I've already lost Ewan and more).

Hee. A co-worker just snarked: "Oh, thank god, I thought they'd stopped" re the heavy industrial soundtrack across the road that's been a part of our lives for weeks now. Oh yeah, gimme me that screaming, grinding machinery, all day long.

So, back to Monday. Picked up the papers I had forgots, plus the morning papers, emptied inboxes and then set off again, only as we crested the bridge I saw such incredible OTT cgi-like storm clouds I knew there wasn't much hope for my second attempt at washing (I'd meant to hang it out at 4am but had slept right through to my alarm, fer once). Never mind, it did get three hours of hot sun, which had to be enough, though you should have seen it when I took some boxes out to the recycling bin and I saw it was dark, darkest violet over the back fence. Ooops. Got it all in with minutes to spare (where was my ten minute warning, Mr Currawong? - I'm so used to the birds warning of rain that I never bother to look myself, but they kept rudely silent this time 'round, perhaps they'd already battened down the hatches).

Batten down the hatches indeed. The first storm signified nothing (big build up, tiny little show), though it was still raining when we set off for the solicitors, and it was sunny when we arrived home (with takeway for tea, a rare treat though it wasn't much of a treat as the Thai place has gone off loads). Then, in the middle of ironing and watching back Monarchy (and I think Hello and Woman's Day would be much enlivened by the odd beheading) the second storm struck. Eeep. Real cower behind the couch stuff with furious tree branch lopping winds and hail smacking against the windows and house shaking thunder and lightning. A hibiscus keeled over, but other than that we wore it well. Well, there was the drip I've yet to fix, and the crappy windows that have always leaked and...well, the usual.

The storm also knocked out Foxtel (again!) but it didn't matter because I was catching up on a week's worth of documentaries: played Two Men In A Trench (or what Foxtel deigned to record on Friday), too, which was also about the Wars of the Roses. I now know far more about the Wars of The Roses than I did a week ago. Somebody should make a series about it. It's like the Sopranos, with armour. That sounds like TV win to me.

Of course, knowing my luck I'd get the Basil Brush version. No wait, that's...heh. No, it's actually improved and I've not seen any new episodes for ages, so I'll leave off bagging it, just this once.

I did, however, sate my need for chaps clanking (or rather flapping) about in medieval garb, or large baggy badly knitted jumpers pretending it's chain mail because it always looks so convincing. And my, dosn't "Shrewsbury" look like "Nottingham", or is it just me? (But isn't that the tree Will was tied to, aren't those the steps where young Robin brashly made his stand, etc, etc - compare and contrast screencaps would follow but it was near midnight when the credits rolled, so forgive me, I like to try and least get a coupla hours kip).

Yeah, I was watching Cadfael, with the One True Hugh (accept no substitues). And how much fun it was, especially as it's been an absolute age. I love Cadfael. It pretty much counts as patient zero re my obession with all things British and actorly. I just love it to bits. And it was all comfortingly familiar. And I'd forgotten just how flirty flirty Hugh #1 was. Ooh, you wicked boy, you. I was a bit disconcerted with Sheila running about in a wimple, though. That was a bit hard to take seriously (some roles just overwrite everything, don't they?).

Never mind. Sean Pertwee....sigh.
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Tags: david tennant, doctor who, jane eyre, mads mikkelsen, rejseholdet, richard armitage, robin hood, sean pertwee, sherlock holmes, stephen fry, toby stephens

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