So we all had to pile off the bus, petrol pissing everywhere. The cyclist was upright and alert, being dressed properly, and a darn sight luckier than the last cyclist I saw being pulled with disturbing lack of urgency from under the back wheels of the bus. So, having established the cyclist was shaken but okay, we can now move on to calling him a complete fuckwit on account of his complete inability to steer around a frequently stopping old bus and unduly impinging on my precious quiet time. Grump.
And I had stuff to type, too, having eschewed getting online to snuggle down in front of a few old Morses' on Saturday on UKTV (the last, weep, I'll have to start rumaging for old recordings) and managed to get a few scenes down in pencil. I have the starts and finishes of all the stories now, just missing the tricky middle bits where all the plot stuff is supposed to happen. I have broad strokes ideas of what is supposed to be going on, but the details are proving elusive. I should just knuckle down and churn it out.
Or I would, if this wasn't shaping up to be a fraught week (and nice start, I gotta say). I've got end of financial year merde and a swag of new legislation coming into effect for a Govt with a less than 30% approval rating. Joy.
Annoying, because I really like writing Lewis and Hathaway. They are their own creatures, write their own dialogue and constantly surprise me. I like them. I like them a lot. They're a delightful mix of sweet and snarky. Which doesn't mean I don't bring the angst, but, unusually, it's mostly external than internal. They have their issues, but they are a unit, unlike, say, poor unrequited pining heart breaking Much, which resulted in completely different (and unfinished) fic.
So yeah, I watched some Morse. Also re-watched The Hole, just cause (and in a happy accident I knocked over a box of dvds in a particularly spectacular unco flail on Saturday and found my vaguely searched for copy of it, it was on cable a while back). Pretty young Laurence.
Also watched pretty, steely young Adam Carter in Spooks on both Fri and Sat, and Silent Witness on Fri (which I much, much prefer these days sans the santicmonius Sam Ryan). I gotta say, Silent Witness, for something they just slap on a tea time on the ABC, is a darned sight more with the blood and gore than Dexter. The race is always on to get tea done before Silent Witness. Because, like, eeew! But still, I love my dour effed up British pathologists.
The big ticket items on the weekend were Dr Who and Supernatural. Big finale on Supernatural. Lotsa wangst from the Winchester boys, enough man tears to fill a reservoir, and how in the heck are they gonna get out of this one? Loved the hints of Bad Sammy. Jared so wants to get his evil on.
Yeah, it was OTT and contrived but I loved every minute of it. Loved the pretty boy wangst, loved clever Bobby with the sprinkler action and getting annoyed about being ditched. Pity Lilith was a bit of a damp squib, though.
Dr Who. Titantic/Posidon. Oh dear. Kinda over the Doc as avenging archangel, when if anything he should be more like Loki, intergalactic hustler. Ah well, at least RTD's reign is finite (and for an avowed aetheist, he certainly brings the religious iconography, I'm just sayin').
Other than that, watched a few dvds on what was supposed to be a quiet weekend. Just a couple of 70s cops. Had a minor Streets/Sweeney fest, just because, or probably because I'd been watching LOM repeats, and I love Streets for just about every episode being a classic trope (the old partner gone bent, the crazed vet, the ethnic neighbourhood, the gay psycho killer, etc), and I love the way Mike isn't an angry old copper per se, just an old beat cop trying to knock some street sense into these shiny new college kids. And then I had to watch some Sweeney because I'm always Jack's girl and I needed a break from the Morse-a-thon and I wanted to see John Thaw swear at posh coppers wot loves opera and drive fancy cars (pick any episode, as the PG rolled his eyes when I asked for an episode where Regan growled at posh coppers wot didn't know their arse from their elbow).
So now the struggle is not to sound like Manny after a box set of the Sweeney and an inordinate amount of caffinated beverages.
Oh yeah, gotta comment on the episode of Streets with David Soul, at his shiniest and blondest, playing a Hispanic police officer, of all things (who was passing, but still). Some horrible mix up at this hospital, we can only presume. (Seriously we assume the non pc attitudes explored in the episode were so rife at the time that a lot of non blond actors passed on the role).
Sunday, in between washing loads and washing up and wldlife wrangling etc, I empited out some more of the IQ (helped along by Foxtel who'd deleted just about all of my keepers). Watching Wild at Heart right after Holiday Inn, we cringed at how far roles for African women had progressed in the last sixty odd years, ie not at all (at least not for Wild at Heart). Oh dear. Has anyone else noticed just how, er, um, monotone Wild at Heart is? I mean, I love Stephen, and I love the whole Daktari thing, but still. I mean, I do have issues at really silly instances of colourblind casting flying in the face of the cold hard facts of unenlightened times past (and present), but my gosh, Wild at Heart seems a bit, well, how does one put it politely, old fashioned at the other extreme? Oh well, it's pitched squarely at the English middle class tea time timeslot, so it is what it is (quaint country vet show with elephants).
Sadly I missed most of Rex (you want stereotypes? Observe the generous and sensitive portrayal of fellow Europeans in Rex, she says, tongue very firmly in cheek) and I've completely lost the plot of Spiral (the froggy law & order show), but it can't be helped. At least I have them on disk so I can watch them again, in theory (I've still got tapes from '92 I ain't watched yet).
But it wasn't all lazing about, on no. Aside from the above there were also lawns mowed and three (not so)little trees transplanted from footpaths and the like to the back fence zone. At first I was being good and only replanting 'good' trees, but now all the proscribed weeds are going in because I want my privacy back, now, dammit, and the weeds grow like, well, weeds. They'll do until my pathetic spindly little natives get anywhere near tree-like. The birds were most upset when I moved the catoniasta, though. Apparently it was just where they liked it. They screeched at me for two whole days and you know how I was desperately trying to get that tiny fleck of soy sauce out of my fave pale pink top on Friday? So not an issue now, sigh. I'll have to soak it for a week, and then think about dying it. Grrr.
Oh, I nearly forgot to mention Peanut Gallery's gold star of excellence (which completely wipes out accidentally mowing the strawberry patch that had sprung up under the Hills hoist - at least I know what happened to those pots of strawberries I tried to grow a few years back, j'accuse my little feathered fiends). As it was the unseasonal Dr Who Xmas special last night, the peanut gallery had secreted away two of Darrell Lea's chocolate Xmas puds up the back of the fridge (because I'm to scared to go there, they were quite safe from discovery) to make the occassion a little more Xmasssy. Top marks!
And my horoscope said I could finally back off the need to micromanage. And, at long, long last, I can, at least in regards to Xmas pud provisioning, and really, is there anything more important?
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