Why? because young Steven is perfectly attuned to my idea of Doctor Who, as ably demonstrated by Blink. Precious little of the screaming girls running down corridors rubbish. Oh, happy day. (And if he has to pick someone from Coupling, can it be Mr Coyle?).
Oh, expectation. I was just wishing for someone like young Steven to take the reigns just on Sunday, when I read about the evil doom-mongering Chinese Mascots and thought now that's my kind of Who, and far better than the pissweak Daddy-issues-riffic Olympics episode that we did get (which would have been far better as a Sarah Jane episode).
Anyway, that's my squee. Probably still on a sugar high as Himself bought two cupcakes and I bought two doughnuts to make up and, oh, sticky nearly ick factor. Also, a dearest friend nearly killed me dead by sending early Jensen pics. You know, the kiddie pr0n years. Oh dearie me.
I nearly coughed myself inside out, again, but at least it was from laughing hard, and not cheap perfume, folding laundry or choking on museli chaff (do not fold up bag with a flourish after replenishing container - way to fill the air with museli dust).
That's about it. Sort of watched Who Do You Think You Are (was unsucessfully multitasking), and it was a pity I only sorta watched it because it was all about the 19thC British opium trade, which tied in so neatly with the Sally Lockart Mysteries last Sunday, and WWI and then we even gave The Tudors a tickle. I really do like that show, and the way they link personal histories to the larger world view really makes it far more memorable and affecting than tweedy Oxbridge talking heads (with speech impediments) in stuffy leather armchairs.
Finished the ironing (such that was dry) during Stargate so I was free to watch Time Team, which was about an attempt to find a previously discovered Roman cemetery. Epic fail in that regard, but they're always so fussy, tossing aside other great finds because it wasn't part of their mission scope. They did however compensate with re-enactments of Roman camp life, and the news that this particular fort (on the Tyne, south of the wall) was once manned by a squad of boatmen from the Tigris. Tony nearly squealed at delight at the irony of Iraquis being part of the invading force holding England at the time. What's this, political comment and naked bums? Tsk, tsk, Time Team, you're in a family friendly slot here. Anyway, that, too, was educational.
Buffy wasn't at all educational but fun. It was the episode with Wentworth Miller in it, leading to odd Bones/Prison Break cross over scenes as Angel tries to take a bit out of the boy (we don't often see Angel go the same sex biting, but he makes an exception for pretty young Wenty).
Meanwhile, I seem to be being granted food wishes, which will do, I guess. I wish for stovies, I get 'em. I gaze longingly at the cupcake shop window, and there on the table when I get home are cupcakes from that very shop. Best of all was on Monday when I wished for muffins and an instant later a collague came around with a plate of muffins.
Okay, sure, I could have wished for James McAvoy or a million dollars, but I wished for muffins. Perhaps they were more attainable. I am, after all, a girl of usually simple tastes and needs (though I wouldn't say no to James McAvoy and/or a million dollars. He can bring the muffins).
Why yes, I'm hormonal, why do you ask? It was all the muffin talk, wasn't it. Dead giveaway.
Weirdly, I had a dream where Neil Gaiman and James McAvoy (sans muffins) insisted I write again (so kind of them to care). I said I was not allowed notepaper in this office (and I'm not, either, no lie, one has to get special permission to be granted pen and paper) and James just ripped down the badly printed on just one side reports from the shelf and said I should write on the blank pages. Well, then, James and Neil want me to write again. I'd love to oblige them, but thus far, means and opportunity eludes me.
Last night, in between tossing the blankets off, I dreamt, amongst other things that they made a cop show where the two buddy cops were actually in a civil partnership, only it was so PC it was dire. Heh, my subconcious has low expectations of tv execs, at least.
Meanwhile, The Independent are running a feature on rude place names in Britain. Always fun (and educational, re the history behind the name). It's one of my favourite parts of travelling in Britain, going through (or near) towns that make me snigger like a four year old. I mean, just getting on the Tube at Heathrow and you get the name Cockfoster flashed in your face, and it's downhill from there. My personal fave is Bishop's Itchington.
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