The first few times I saw the last eppy I hated it, but I quite like it now, not for the resolution but for the wonderful Sam moments and Sam and Gene moments. Unconvincing shippiness aside (that uncomfortable kiss betwixt Wesley and Cordelia in season three Buffy contained more heat) I do love that Sam wouldn't be anywhere else but in the passenger seat of the Cortina. Awww.
A sweetly happy ending for a man who has just killed himself in an act of nilhistic desperation (mind you, having sat through two meetings and a presentation yesterday I could entirely understand Sam's motivation, yeah verily, I damn nearly applauded his conviction and smiled as he soared into the wide blue yonder, instead of gulping in horror as per the first uncomfortable viewing).
Anyway, Sam & Gene 4 eva 2 gether, well, at least until 1980. What a fun cop team they made, despite Sam's hot and cold running feelings for Gene (one minute quite happy to destroy him, the next tying himself in knots because he believes in Gene more than life itself - quite literally). Putting the love and hate into love/hate in 1973. Sort of like the prickly yet affectionate friendship of Lewis and Hathaway, only with far more swearing and punching. (And bless you, John Thaw, for inspiring two brilliant new-ish cop shows).
Btw, Lewis is back on Saturday - squee! Hell will hath no fury compared to what will be unlashed on any fool who tries to come between me and my tv screen on Saturday night. Consider yourselves duly warned.
Anyway, I could write more, but I fully intend to piss off early today. The Great Handbrake is off so what needed to be done was done all before morning tea time. Alas, though there's a great many jobs I could be doing, I either have no access and/or software to do so, nor can I write as my desk is now in the corridor, as opposed to a dark corner of a dark room with a sign on the door that said beware of the leopard.
I mean, I've know folks with the gonads to type pr0n while on a reception desk, and it might work for mechanically executed pieces, but I tend to dash off my stuff (if I ever get to again) for good or ill like Isaac in Heroes, with no idea what I'm spilling forth until I read it back later. I'm in the moment, thus I need quiet, I need privacy, I need a desk in the corner. Sigh.
So I peruse what little isn't firewalled - yet, and chatter away, but the bulk of what I want to do, well, it will never get done. Sigh.
Of course back when I had the desk in the corner I never had a chance, having a workload more than I could manage (I lost two parents and several friends to neglect because of it). So now I'm bored and can't type. Arrgh.
Mind you, I still get nostalgic for those times, even yesterday, a pile of dead moths on the carpet evoked memories of the old building, and the necessity of shaking out dead fauna from ever folder. Memories....
Not that I'm about to leap off this building. (But if I could have time to write, and broadband, I might).
The making of 'Flying Penguins'
Penguins take flight
Iconic photographs recreated in Lego
Morrissey wins court apology for 'racist' slur
Dickens' treasures up for auction
The Tudors deserve more than sex with a bit of ruff
Heath Ledger: yet another casualty of celebrity healthcare
Turning the tabloids
Drink-drive shame of tycoon
Are these Britain's worst-dressed men?
Drinking eight glasses of water a day is healthy, right? Wrong.
Bush's border fence destroys wilderness
Priest 'made £3m from fake exorcisms'
Walking on thin ice... p-p-pick out the penguin
Fashionable Food: Seven Decades of Food Fads
Mark Hix: Coronation chicken and egg sandwich
Old Fashioned Cooking
The plane truth: The secret life of luggage