mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

the sex lives of possums

Tales of balloon animals, sex fiend possums, cupcakes, platform shoes, hero worship, Danish coppers and gladiator fillums within...(it's been a rough two weeks)

TUESDAY: Yesterday was my first day up out of bed, though I didn't get much further than the couch or thereabouts, ironing while running through a bulk of docos on IQ. Naughty IQ had deleted several shows I'd wanted to watch. I wish it'd tell me first. It was delightfully sunny so I tempted fate and hung out the washing, did a spot of weeding and settled into a seat in the sun saying how lovely...sure enough, insta-sleet. So I hoped online and rattled through a few more docos.

Three days in bed wasn't so bad. Okay, I was raving with fever on Saturday/Sunday and not at all coping with the whole broken door (fixed now), rodent infestation (they gnawed through all the filler we'd filled up their holes with) and so on and so forth. All a bit much. Can't even tell I scrubbed the kitchen down last week.

But I did get to watch Cranford, which was just the ticket as I was very much in the mood for something BBC and bonnety. It was rather good, though they roared through three books and I missed the detail. No sooner had I been introduced to a character than they were turning up their toes. It's hardly like Brideshead that devoted an entire episode to Rex and his conversion to Catholicism, which I also sat through. Something paced inbetween the two would be a perfect medium, I think.

I also watched some more black and white Avengers, 1963 series this time. Steed was being a triple agent, or a single agent pretending to be a double to sniff out the other doubles, I confess I lost track, but while interrogated he ordered a rather fancy lunch and I thought he was taking the piss but no, in comes a lackey with a silver service (this led to much ado about it being not a very civil silver service) but I couldn't help but think that Harry never offered anyone a wine list (in my mind, Harry was recruited by J Steed, esq). Couldn't help but makes the Spooks comparisons, as ealy Avengers is very, very Spooks (which is why one always fears/hopes that robots, re-animated Nazis and giant rats are but a heartbeat away from Spooks, and there was even a recent article in the SF press stating what a fine line Spooks treads at times). Anyway, I love Steed, he brings the steely suave and Cathy brings the snark. I grew up with Emma but I must say, I'm learning a deep admiration for Cathy and her willingness to call a spade a bloody shovel.

THURSDAY: Stay away from the seafood canapes. It's a piece of advice I feel confident in giving, the sort of advice worth abiding, but alas, I didn't stick to it myself. In my defence it was dark, I was tired and it was during a much needed "happy hour" in the bar after a day of one of those idiotic team building activities and I didn't much care what I snaffled until it was too late.

Oh yeah, I wasted the flower of my youth shivering in rain soaked bus stops after night classes just so I could make balloon animals with people I wouldn't spit on if they were on fire. Just when I think I've suffered humliations enough, oh no, here's one more. Oh, the humanity. The indignity.

Anyway, the seafood canape did for me. Barely touched the sides. Good thing I fluked the express train out and the express bus back in (alas, no direct route to my abode, one must twist about in spirals).

That was Tuesday. Wednesday was no better, only there were no horses doovers, but I had a very expensive trip home as this time the shops were open at the station/mall (as it is now) and the ABC shop lured me in with its siren call. Dammit. I do not have money for dvds but I was miserable and it was shiny and promising happiness.

Not that I got to watch it. I didn't even get online because by the time I'd done the washing up I was beyond caring of anything and then Rome lost sound for a goodly part of it (and I was taping it for a friend). The only thing that did cheer me up was watching the latter half of Raiders (since possums, garbage games and the seafood canape made it impossible to sleep). I wuv Indy. It's still my fave fillum of all time.

Oh yeah, the garbage games. Here I am, wasting precious hours of my life washing and/or sorting the recycling and then fiends creep crash about at midnight stuffing fek knows what crap into our bins. If we get fined, well, it'll be just something else, won't it.

TUESDAY: Okay, where was I? Sorry, it's been a week. And a week of trials at that. Bad enough I get sent on daft team building courses, but then I had to follow it up with some intensive SQL training. Ow, my brain hurts (and worse, they no longer offer hot meals, it was back to the cold egg sandwiches, which is beyond cruel, imho).

So all I wanted was to watch two televeision programmes in my off hours. Just two. Well, the sound went out during Rome (well, all but the fifth track of background noise, so it was kind of weird) but poor old Unit One was the kicker. It was all my fault, because just as I began to think "Wow, Mads is looking mighty fine tonight" the picture goes zap and I get to watch Foxtel slowly install software for the next half hour. Gah. No, really, they decided to do an update in prime time. So, no Mads.

Well, okay, I got the picture back in time to see Ulf handbag the suspect (and I think Fischer trousered the bribe, acting out boy that he is at the moment) but that was it. Sigh.

So no Fischer nor Titus (if only I could enjoy them in a film together - one that didn't suck. You know I often think RH looks to that so called Arthurian travesty for inspiration, in other words, too lazy to invent anything themselves so they'll just trash an established brand, offering nothing of outstanding legacy to the story, harumph, and, even as shallow as I am, men in leather just aren't enough to entirely carry a pissweak story line, especially that Arthur fillum which seems to owe more to Sandman panels than any sort of tradition, harumph, but I severely digress).

So that was Thursday. Oh, yeah, there was an expensive detour as this time round the shops were open in the station/mall as it is now and I'm afraid I could not pass the ABC shop. Not that I can afford dvds at all at the moment and buying stuff just cause I'm miserable is no excuse, but there it is. Not that I've even had a chance to get the plastic wrapper off, but it's there as a promise, and that's something I suppose.

Friday was with the SQL and apparently my code was so sideways the teacher had to get a copy, just to show the boys down the pub. Well, at least I'm a legend at something, even if it's only arsebackwards SQL queries.

I suppose at least it was out of the office, so I felt vaguely human, and in Newtown, which was as foreign a country to me as any actual foreign country. I even bought some free trade organic coffee as a souvenier, because they do things differently there (I live out in the instant coffee wastelands).

I also found a store of hemp clothing that was having a sale. Score, because while hemp fashions are still unlovely at least it doesn't irritate my poor skin more than it already is and I picked up a few bits and bobs. I has a hoodie, too. Okay, so it's a gentleman's hoodie so there is some cross dressing going on, but the girl stuff was all SAB sizes only and bright candy pink at that, and as I am of neither the age nor girth for tiny candy pink tops, it was into the boy tops alas (you know you've given up when). I don't care, it's warm at 5am at the bus stop in the dead of winter and that's all that matters. I didn't buy it to be seen wearing it in daylight. And it was cheap. Really cheap. Like going out of business cheap (they really need better designs).

The cold egg sangers shrivelled my soul somewhat, though. And I had to go back to work afterwards for emergency uploads that no longer neded uploading once I'd got there. Extreme exhaustion rather than restraint is the only thing that prevented a minor outbreak of homicide, I can tell you. Staggered home (four hours later) too tired to eat or sleep, let alone clean or compute.

Saturday dawned bright and quite lovely. I was supposed to be going out for lunch to see long lost folks and was desperately bunging out the washing when said folks rang and said they'd take one for the team by dining out with other folks invited to the do that I didn't particularly like (they know me so well) and they'd drop past later to hang out. And I had just four hours to excavate the table, clean up and cater.

If you've seen the old Spray and Wipe ad, that's pretty much it, otherwise you'll have to imagine the sort of panic that goes on in later Austen adpatations when Bachelor X is sighted striding up the drive. Something like that, with me sweeping down paths, vacuuming floors etc while poor Peanut Gallery ferried bags of groceries (not out fault, we have NO kitchen cupboards) into the spare room (aka midden) and dashed down for catering. Here, alas, Peanut Gallery made his first faux pas as I sent him down specifically for cupcakes for tea but he fetched up with Mr Kiplings Bakewells which he adores but the rest of us regard as Perkins Paste tarts (I suppose you have to be an Aussie of a certain age to know what Perkins Paste tastes like - on a dare, I swear - but if they'd ever baked the stuff in a tart it'd be a Bakewell). So that was a bit of a disaster.

Dinner was better, though they had walked into our funky attempt at Steak Dianne, alas ever so slightly undercatered. Thank goodness we had all those leftover ANZAC biscuits still lying around. Not good form to wave off your guests as they go in search of Red Rooster, but oh well, we only had four hours (and my dinner parties are always disasters, anyway). At least I had some Sarah Jane Adventures to hand when they requested a sudden desire to see them (I wasn't going to make it about sitting around watching telly but how quickly we fell into old, bad habits).

Still, lovely to see them and the house hasn't been so clean since Xmas.

Sunday was 70s day. No, really. The HHT has a 70s day (in honour of the 70s drive to save our heritage, which alas is going nowhere fast) but it's just an excuse to dress up in 70s gear, dance to 70s music and spend money I don't have at 70s stalls (I was determined to be strong but they had viewmaster packets, Emergency and Hawaii 5-0 at that!) and eat 70s snacks.

This second year it was a bit more organised, with an ABBA cover band (oh yeah, got ABBA stuck in my head all week now) and a 70s dance competition and fashion show (I wasn't picked for the fashion show, as if my top wasn't lairy enough, and there bitter tears on my wee pillow that night). It was fun, but the best fun was watching the reaction of the drugged out residents of the nearby public housing estate and the tourists as they stumbled onto our timewarped frivolities (yes, I did a lot of sitting on steps as I'd rooted me ankle again on Friday when the bus shot past my stop and I had to drop down into a driveway several blocks away and landed badly, again, probably tensing up because I knew it was going to hurt, and it did. Too old to tuck and roll these days, dammit).

I should probably mention Chi Chi, one of the, er, um, performers they had on hand. Only Chi Chi cannot be described. Chi Chi must be experienced (and that's no doubt the way Chi Chi likes it).

I started Monday just blind and numb with exahaution and it went downhill from there (not helped by the bitka with the perfume that made my face all puffy). I did get home in time for a cuppa and a repaste of free samples diligently collected by the Peanut Gallery in his travels and then a quick tea of tinned soup before onto more pressing matters, like my inbox (well, okay, there were other more pressing matters but it was dark and I was incompetent). Didn't even turn my telly on. Sigh. Such is life.

Tonight I'm looking forward to getting home in time to do the ironing during Time Team and Who Do You Think You Are, and I can't believe that's the height of my ambitions these days (so you'll understand when I get annoyed that such modest hopes are thwarted by bullies).

Oh, I should also mention that I've not had any sleep due to the noisy wildlife. I'm not sure if it was rutting possums or rodents with a chocolate monkey on their backs (now that their secret stash has been disposed of) but whatever, the folks upstairs kept me awake all night with their thumping and bumping and scrabbling and screeching.

Wednesday: Well, at least the possums were quiet (mainly because I fell asleep with my reading light still on, weirdly they won't play up when it's on).

Meanwhile, dear Peanut Gallery is forgiven the cupcake faux paus because not only had he picked up a couple of Krispy Kremes (evil, but much needed) for treats, but had ironed all his shirts as well. This was a mighty boon because I'm no longer just a bit unwell, I'm now bloody awful (now that I'm back in an open plan office it's back to the weekly colds that nearly killed me last time, joy). So I sat through Time Team (they went for a villa but ended up with a barrow) and then Who Do You Think You Are, worth it just to discover John Hurt's brother is a jolly Benedictine monk. Poor John discovered the family tales were complete bollocks and was quite destroyed. Oh well.

As always, a surprisingly fascinating programme, though I still giggle over the Armstrong & Miller pisstake ("Occupation: Whore", etc).

PM update: Neil Gaiman fondled my Holga! Squee!

Okay, so none of the photos will come out because a) I'm a crap photographer, especially regards manuals and low light situations, b) my hands were no doubt shaking and c) I only bought the camera the other day at the MCA (because the Peanut Gallery was taunting me all day with his Diana).

Oh yeah, Neil's back in town. Usually I follow him around like a puppy but I missed the readings last night (I was so ill I couldn't sit up, let alone stand) but I managed the book signing in Dymocks today. Yay.

So I took my Holga along to, Neil posed, then had a play. So, squee.

I quite like the Holga, though I've yet to be destroyed by the rubbish pics I'm no doubt taking, but it reminds me of My First Plastic Camera (which aspired to be a Diana, I assure you). I took rubish photos then, I want to see if I can take better ones now, regain some of the discipline I've lost with my faithful Fuji. Must get Olly fixed at some point, because he's my real camera. My Olympus OM1 still works, it just has trouble winding on film (when I least want it to be petulant) at times. Now I'm back working near the camera repair shop, I oughta get him seen to.

But yeah, got my book signed, make intelligible words, worshipped anear at one of my very fave authors. Not bad for a lunch break. (Oh yeah, She Who Must Be Cowered Before ain't here, which helps, lots, especially as I'm oh so poorly, when not bouyed on a cloud of hero worship, of course).,0,1190364.story
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Tags: neil gaiman, rejseholdet, rome

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