I just want to be dry shod when working in an uncharacteristically damp back garden - is that too much to ask? Apparently so.
At least I managed to finally get some boots for the office. They're too big for me - it was all they had so no choice there, but they feel two sizes too big, not one as advertised, but I'll just double sock, they let the damp in something shocking anyway which is deplorable in (for me) expensive boots. I finally managed to track them down by stopping and thinking where would they sell boots for flatfooted old matrons with dicky ankles. DJs, of course, and there they were, half price (but still three figures, ack). But they've been twice admired so that's something.
Also wickedly bought myself a new skirt (because I've yet to mend old faithfull). It's very much like one I used to own and love, um, a while back, and that's what I wanted, just a plain, utilitarian all purpose skirt for the office (lately they've been adding butons and toggles and things and that's just asking for a public transport mishap).
But no wellies. Argh.
But I did get to see Indy, at last. I went to see it in my old town, for nostalgia's sake, but I don't know why I bothered because the old cinemas were torn down and the new cinemas are even crapper with allocated seating (I sat where I damn well liked) and a tiny screen, crap sound and chip munching children. Oh yeah, much prefer my dvds.
The one good thing about all the crap reviews it garnered was me thinking, well, it's not that bad. It's better than Temple, at least, and it was. The opening was very American Grafitti, the ending very Close Encounters (tapped out, boys?) but it was cute, provided closure for both the film and tv series, it had some nice pieces, just a pity they were not quite up to later imitations (look, a treasure room, only smaller than National Treasure, and less spooky goings on than the Mummy, ditto the family that quests together stays together, gah). Several lame and obvious nods to other films (George Lucas lacks Whedon's lightness of touch) but it didn't really matter because Harrison put on the hat and he was Indy, and Indy still has a place in my heart. So yeah, it probably coasted on good will rather than merit, but never mind. I enjoyed it. The last reel was a bit of a drag though, you could tell because the kids went back to their chip packets (we can call it the chip packet indicator of (non) appreciation).
And I'll allow the silly flying saucers (just) because it was meant to be a pulp fiction version of the 50s, hence the rebel without a clue, cold war paranoia and the like. It was meant to be a comic book, never Goodnight and Good Luck, so it pretty much did what it said on the tin: just an old fashioned Sunday arvo fillum. Whether there's still a place for such fare, that's a whole 'nother argument, but I'd like to think that there was.
So then we come to the sticky. The cockatoos ate all my cumquats, but they'd left me some mandarins and lemons so I attempted another batch of marmalade but this time it turns out I was using my mother's ill-fated recipe for bitter soupy chutney that never sets. Bugger. I'm going to go back to the old tried and true recipe from last year, because it, at least, worked. Not that anyone wants my marmalade anyway, but it's a shame to waste the fruit. I'm going to try again, throwing in more ginger this time, and far less peel, and boiling it to buggery.
The boiling last night had to be curtailed because it was time for Northanger Abbey/Supernatural, although SPN was running so late again I got to see all of NA bar the proposal scene (never mind, I've lost count of how many times I've seen this version now). I love JJ as the muslin fancying Mr Tilney (these days an inordinate interest in women's fashions would be a tick under cons rather than pros, but never mind, it's not like he's in the Anglican church or still lives at home...). Moving on, I do like the way they incorporated our heroine's lurid teenage fancies and over indulgence in purple prose. A more accurate representation of myself at the same age (and still, to my shame), I have yet to see. I just really like this version, and I like watching Bath on telly. I like Bath.
Supernatural at first seemed like it was going to follow the same line as that disappointing I'm being prank called by dead people thing that Ray Stevenson was in that started well but collapsed in a muddle. But no, just a straight out prank calling demon, Sam and Dean arguing over big arc-y issues (Dean going to hell, Sam going evil, as demonstrated by the pinning of said demon, I assume I was meant to think), and a truly spectacular entry into my favourite motel rooms. They should put out a book. No, really, it'd be a shame for such set decorating whimsy to disappear unremarked and unregarded. I kind of liked the prank calling demon, too. The actor playing him gave him a sense of mischief missing too often in the long line of plain old kill-crush-destroy fellas our boys run across.
Sam and Dean were cute, and again taking the mick out of bad-fic. Or at least, I loved the "d'ya want a poem?" line. Quite.
Other than that, caught up on the flist during Morse on Saturday, when I should have been watching and ficcing. Hmmm, where to find a night I can happily net away? Maybe Monday, bugger all on Monday.
Except tonight I'm hoping for an early night, I'm knackered, or maybe finish off watching Colditz that I started on Saturday afternoon (it was suddenly cold and wet and I wasn't of a mood to scan). The Hallmark version so didn't have the full frontal scene (hello boys) but otherwise it's pretty much as I remembered it, except now I recognise Gwen from Torchwood in there, and Damian's "Scots" accent was making me wince (I felt like the Doc in Tooth and Claw, begging him not to do it, no, really, don't). It's a nice big role for Laurence, and, unlike his other WWII efforts, at least he's not playing a Nazi (Foyle's War, Island at War or "gawd, are you ever going to get out of the 40s any time soon," complained the Peanut Gallery). But he's so dashing in Island at War. Sigh (and not really a Nazi).
Also watched The Saint in between washing loads on Saturday (just got it all out when the clouds rolled up). It was written by Michael Pertwee, and featured Edward Woodward and Mike Pratt and for a show about corrupt African governments (in this case still under Colonial rule, not a single non Anglo in the cast) it was still remarkably timely, even down to Simon complaining about the price of petrol, not to mention the threatening tabloid sex scandal. Well, I was entertained and amused by the way things had changed but not changed at all in a 40 year old episode that would take precious little tinkering to turn into a Spooks episode.
I watched two episodes of Spooks (one on ABC1, the other on UKTV) and they've kind of mashed together in my head, but never mind, Harry rocks, Adam is pretty and Ruth left (flail).
And that's pretty much it. Nothing to show for another wet weekend except a complete lack of fic or scanning and several jars of an inedible sticky substance.
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