Then I discovered that my old faithful saucepan with the pouring lip had been chucked out. Welcome to another day in my life.
Slept through The Professionals. Sulked through Ashes to Ashes (not even in the same universe as LOM, but the soundtrack was cool). Dozed through Top Gear. Was entirely unconcious for Burn Notice.
And so it goes. The Peanut Gallery srrrived back from NZ in one piece, albeit highly caffinated. He told me of his adventures but it came out as a high pitched whine. I've sat through the slideshow. He was taking about a photo a minute so if you scroll through 'em fast it almost animates. At least he had fun and found it productive, and I got my souvenier fridge magnet, as promised.
Btw, re Ashes: I will never, ever, ever be able to watch Pride and Prejudice or Spooks ever again without traumatic mullet flashbacks. Thanks, Matt.
Oh yeah, Spooks finished (S4 or 5 or whatever so far behind the rest of the world series that we're up to now) with Adam having one of his now weekly (if not daily) breakdowns. I mean, I love an angsty bloke as much as the next sicko, but really. For fek's sake, Adam, stop whimpering and try to stiff upper lip it for a change. Harumph. This is how they lost the Empire, you know. All that simpering, well, a little is sensitive, too much is just off putting.
Petticoat Lane we should call him, like Ellen called her man in that episode of Gideon's Way we were watching (Subway to Revenge - note shameful pandering to US market). She was the best companion Dr Who never had. Seriously. A proper spunky little girl friday, unfazed by mugggers or mummy's boys. She really, totally should have been one of the good Dr's companions. He missed out on a real gem there. We've decided that re companions that many are called but few are chosen, and poor Ellen will just have to settle for the odd bit of amateur sleuthing. Too bad, I just loved her. She was a great character.
The women in Gideon's Way are surprisingly well written for a 60s show, but then they were, back then. Compare Cathy Gale to any simpering/man hungry/alcholic/miserable twat on telly these days.
Gideon's Way is fun, once one gets over the bitter disappointment that for an ITC show from the 60s, it's depressingly free of naughty men in silver space suits. It is, in fact, hilarious in its own way. It's Dixon of Dock Green trying to Naked City. It's the mean streets of middle class middle England. It's noir, with floral settees and nice hot cups of tea. For all that though, it does offer up some great guest stars (Donald Sutherland, breaking the mould as a psycho, George Cole as a nutter who has conversations with a plastic doll he keeps in his sock drawer, and then there was the creepy dad who was far, far creepier than anything offered up these days. Oh we had fun, especially the one with George, the doll keeping mad bomber what bombed at midnight. When he went round to the quarry (quarry!) in his guise as salesman, he was asked to put in another order for oven mitts. "Oven mitts, destroy London, oven mitts, destroy London, so many things to remember!" quipped the Peanut Gallery.
But I also loved the episode with Anne Lawson, who should have had a better career. Hope she's happy with her mummy's boy. But back then, as now, they're either gay, criminal or psycho. Oh yeah, did I mention baby faced Derek Fowlds turned up as a young tearaway? My gosh, was he ever that young?
And, seriously dude, I could have lived without knowing what Anton Rodgers looked like in a Beatles wig. Seriously. And speaking of stoopid Beatles haircuts, the sooner Gideon's eldest son gets shipped off to national service the better, the annoying overacting little prick.
Son #1: "It'll be an adventure!"
Son #2: "But I'm tired of having adventures."
Son #1: "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
Sorry, too much Five Go Mad In Dorset last week.
And also, re Gideon, spot the Aussies. Any more in one of the episodes and it would have qualified as local content! Too bad the bunny boiler didn't see off the black widower she'd married, but it was a bit early for that sort of post ironic plot twist, I suppose.
Yeah, we had fun. So long as it's watched as just another vintage cop show, it's groovy, man. The grinchiest.
Other than that, just the usual chores and stuff, though I did take to my bed for the Sunday Morse, as I could feel a hot water bottle session coming on.
Oh yeah, the birds are still being actively snarky over me not getting home to feed them last week. The magpies just shat all over my favourite purple top, but the cockatoos, well. Saturday morning was the first time I'd seen what they'd done. The backyard looked like a Fab commercial (I realise only Aussies of a certain age will get the ref, but that's what it was, a Fab ad): the backyard bestrewn with lemons. No, they had not fallen off, they'd been bowled at all my pot plants, knocking them over, some larger pots obviously requiring several large lemons to do the job. Howzat! I'm equal parts amused and appalled, but at least they didn't break anything this time. I'm miffed though, as I hung up several not cheap seed bells to try and placate them. Obviously it's biscuits only or the pots get it. Sigh.
WEDNESDAY: I missed Charley yesterday. I knew he was going to be there because I had sekrit insider info, but the planets misaligned and, well, there you go. Never mind, I met him last time when the planets did align.
We also have a new kettle. Two in fact as I was given a cheap kettle for use with my hot water bottles. That's either sweet or an attempt to keep me away from the posh new ceramic kettle. Which makes really excellent cups of tea, and will build upper body tone because it's bloody heavy.
Didn't do ironing (oh god, I'm supposed to do it tonight and I'm nae well), just had many cups of tea and watched Time Team, Dr Who (the rather pointless Gridlock, as always featuring a shopping list of FoB and the Macra and a dystopia without bothering to provide an explanation or rationale for any of the above). Also watched last night's Burn Notice of the disk (thank you) and enjoyed it. Too bad Xena won't be back. Typical, first person who offers young Mikey a challenge and they're written out.
But back to Who. Didn't mention the Ood episode on Sunday, which also seemed to be from the shopping list school of writing without any internal logic whatsoever (they carry around their brains? How could they possibly survive on an ice planet, without even a free hand for food or shelter and, oh, don't get me started). Okay, slavery and corporates are evil, but this episode was criminally stupid compared to stories from the 60s and 70s about similiar social concerns. Again, no internal logic or rationale, RTD just wanted and ice planet and thus, it was. But it made no sense. And the giant claw was just so much a computer game sequence. No exactly the makings of a good episode, let alone a great one. At least the Doc can now go six minutes without mentioning Rose, but that's about the only improvement. I do like Donna though (finally a companion who I can identify with), I just wish she had more to do that be the audience for the Doc's soapbox rants (I did like her asking if that's why he liked humans, so he could take the piss all the time).
Nothing for it but to grit my teeth and wait until I get to see what Mr Moffat decides to do with my Doctor. Hopefully a little more plot driven than issues/ marketing opportunities. Not that he won't, of course, because the Beeb still has to milk the cash cow, but I'm hoping for something a little more, well, subtle anf thoughtful. I know, in Doctor Who? But I have hopes of something, well, a little bit different if not better. And kudos for turning down Speilberg politely to write Dr Who. That's a big tick under committment, which is a very good start.
THURSDAY: Oy. Took too many mersyndols last night. Didn't mean to. I was just miserable and I made a cup of tea but had to do this or that and the other before I got back to my by now cold cup of tea and I couldn't remember if I'd taken it or not. Sure didn't feel like it. Bonus points for miserably doing all the ironing, too. But I must have because I crashed during Rome (damn, the great Pullo/Vorenus bust up) and I could not walk in a straight line until, well, lunchtime. Ooops. And still all with the crampy. No fun. And all I want to do is wallow in the domestic dramas of gay detectives, but no, it's all excel sheets and stupid people.
At least I have my radio and the odd email from friends (really, really appreciated the help with the tv cars, oh Top Gear guru) to keep me going.
Don't mind me, I'm just miserable because the story is going lickety split in my head but I never get to write it down because I have to be bullied by twats so I can buy milk and bread. It's necessary but horrible and I'm afraid these too will end up as unfinished just because of the twats who rule my days and nights. And I really, really like writing Lewis and Hathaway, more so than I've done for any other characters in ages. Bugger. (Don't even think about it Lewis, they now want all theses words in this table in bold, even though it's vulgar to do so....)
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