I'm fairly sure they don't mean any Janto type action is at all in the offing, but I must admit, it did make me smile in any case. And besides, I don't find Jack/Ianto a particularly healthy or convincing relationship anyway. Oh, I tried, and it was very, very cute and the snog in that episode made me go BWEE! but the foliage frolics, not so much, though maybe I was just cold, overtired and had a headache (and it was sixth months later, too).
And really, way to be insensitive, lads. As if Zombie!Owen needs to find Jack jism all over his inter-rifty petunias to be reminded that he's had his last happy.
Oh man, do I have a headache. And I'm tired and cold and grumpy and today's format breaking Morse was distressingly Lewis free, but I have had a lovely dark wee hours typing session (Lewis! Hathaway!) and now that my bus drops me off miles (okay, about 1.5km) from my office (as opposed to the previous two blocks) and I have to trudge past all the shut shops at least Woolies was open and I managed to pick up new gloves (I manage to hold onto gloves the way Sienna Miller hangs onto her knickers, ie not at all) and yet another throw rug because I had four jumpers on yesterday plus every tiny bar heater in the house. Himself even bade me to forgoe the ironing rather than unplugging one of the little heaters, so cold were we. Okay, so it was barely into single digits, but we're soft southern types and the house is so not built for that type of cold.
The sun's out now, but it was still cold and wet when I tramped in this morning. Yesterday it was so cold and wet it reminded me of schooldays, the last time it was so reliably cold and wet in winter. And my poor brolly, ripped inside and out until it was no more. So I had to buy a new umbrella, too.
But at least the rain let me out of watering on Sunday, so I thought I'd snuggle down and enjoy a nice hot cup of tea and Morse on the telly, fer once. Only it was Remorseful Day, wasn't it. Poor Lewis.
So I caught up on some Janto instead, having a big red box of Torchwood in my hot little hands (it was worth the money not to be spoiled any more than I was, though of course now I can't go back and read or see all those posts I skipped past with steely determination). The Martha arc, was rubbish. I really don't like her and she totally sucked all the air out of the room, and Owen's plight would be heartbreaking if it was anyone but Owen. He's a horrid little shit, and it's just so hard to care when karma bites his bony little butt.
Rhys still wins the award for doormat of the year and I fear for Ianto, but at least he's keeping Jack off the streets, I suppose (Torchwood Jack is something of a loose cannon, I feel). For a while I thought they had something, but Adrift has me thinking seriously twice. Pity. (Although minor acts of insubordination probably only meant a much welcomed spanking for Ianto, but it's not just that, it's just something dangerous and false note striking with those two).
Anyway, once Martha shoved off (for good, I hear, hurrah) the show snapped back into form. Pity there might not be much Torchwood, because they're just starting to find their groove. When they're playing at the alien shagging Famous Five, they're pretty sad. When they play at being the British Angel, they're far better (well, that Gwen episode was so that Cordy one, but at least they spared us some hideous Ianto mpreg story, I suppose), but when they're playing at The Invisibles Lite, then they rock.
Or I thought so, anyway. And sure, PJ Hammond was rehashing some Saphire and Steely goodness, but it reminded me of my fave stories and it made me happy. I really liked the creepy circus freaks and the escaping off film bit: well creepy. Some very clumsy execution alas, but a girl can't have everything (and hurrah, they saved the tot, now tell the little blighter he's all alone, whydoncha?). Torchwood is often afraid to really go there, like it's afraid of the shadows. Annoying and ironic. Oh, I know they kill cast members, but that's not particularly clever, I'm talking about really addressing the bleak, since they raised the topic in the first place. Damn, if only it was made by BBC Scotland, then I'd get the black misery my dark Calvinist heart craves.
But I enjoyed the episodes I watched, and for Torchwood, that's an impressive effort. I just wish they'd be more like The Invisibles, and less Five Go Mad in Cardiff.
Of course, this whole Torchwood fling was inspired by the Peanut Gallery bringing back a copy of the Torchwood mag from the shopping trip, practically pimping the Janto.
Other than that, not much. Finished my course. The 'teacher' was complete crap, just seting us tasks and then spending the next hour out of the room on his phone (repeat) so I had to rely on the tutorial pages I usually do, so that was a big fat load of not help. Because I got home late (two trains and two buses) it was a case of another curry from the the Literal Curry House (so named after the other week when I ordered "naan, Pershwari naan" and that's exactly what I got: naan and Peshwari naan). It's quite good and surprisingly spicey for our suburban wastelands - hence our encouraging repeat patronage. But you know this bodes ill, now that butter chicken is now only four blocks away. Oh dear. Does it help that it's at least uphill on the way back?
Oh yeah, I'm still finding and cleaning up stray marmalade splots around the kitchen. It really did go the napalm while I was boiling it down. And I made a mistake: according to the wildlife, now the mandarins are worth eating, not before. Next year I'll wait until they get the thumbs up from the local experts (there's mandarin peel all over the garden, messy creatures).
And it took those damn cockatoos a week and a half to find the placatory and expensive seed bells I'd hung in the trees. Harumph. I'm still tripping over lemons in unexpected places. Wicked creatures, they are.
So, basically, freezing cold, stressed at work, house falling down around ears, living in own refuse, killing favourite pot (not to mention ourselves) with too much Caledonian fare (stovies, porridge) and watching gay porn, I mean Torchwood. Oh, and I'm still ploughing through the Morse books. I just adore how passive agressive Lewis is, always saying one thing and thinking another. It's a quirk I've taken to my heart.
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