mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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heaven knows

"...the university is Cambridge, long a hotbed of righteous tolerance, spiritual heavy-petting and homo hysteria." - Stephen Fry

For no reason whatsoever, I swear, this made me smile.


Ever tried to swim upstream at Town Hall station at peak hour? I am bruised. If I were an American football player, I'd be crying big wet girly tears right now.

Fortunately I grew up playing rugby. Very unladylike, I know, but the girls hated me and I was one of the me two weeks detention eventually though, where I was forced to listen to classical music, Clockwork Orange style. Still not fond of the old Ludwig Van.

After that it was sewing and cooking (you'd think I went to school in the 1780s, but no) and I never set foot on a playing field again.

But I digrees. I am bruised. And tired (spent the last two days on a course but still had to run back to the office, which meant late nights and I even missed Rufus Sewell because I forgot to set it). And fed up (all this running around isn't gonna keep my job and my boss is a nasty backstabbing piece of). And miserable (numbing neverending housework and the loss of a beloved fruit tree).

So, the course. Blah blah wish I'd done it three years ago, would have solved all my problems, now too late. But at least I know where I've been going wrong.

And I'm wrong in everything. Rather fedup with spending my entire weekends as the maid. For example, I watered the garden, hung out the washing, started on the ironing, scrubbed down the kitchen, did the washing up, vaccumed and weeded, all while the person who only works two days a week read the newspaper. Cinders was feeling a touch unfairly put upon.

And, it being the Anzac day weekend (no holiday, don't get me started) there was nothing but war films on telly and as ironing took hours and hours and hours I started to suffer battle fatigue. Lost it entirely during Pork Chop Hill and the only alternative was Combat! Honestly, if you watched Combat, you'd think all American soldiers were a bunch of incompetent self absorbed drama queens who'd rather have a 'moment' than do anything remotely approaching getting the job done. Oh, right.

Moving on, I now want to weep over the fallen. No, not the soldiers, plenty of pollies on hand to sniffle into tissues for the cameras in that regard. No, I lost my beloved crabpapple tree to the winds that blew through the yard without check as everyone around us has cut down every tree in sight so there's nothing to break the winds when they come, and they broke all the trees down that side multiple hibiscus, coupla roses as well) but that crabapple. Yeah, it was an old, broken down tree, much like me, and probably not that much older, but it has always been my favourite, I looked forward to its flowering every year (and never got the fruits as the possums were faster) and it sucks to lose bits of my past, peice by piece, and trees planted by my parents. Chopping it up was heartbreaking and backbreaking and probably why I was so fed up on Sunday. I loved that tree.

Worse, now that the last local nursery has been given over to development, I can't get any replacements for the empty holes in my garden. Whimper.

I was going to pop across to the park today, I've been looking forward to it all week, but the weather is being rather bleak and gothic, with lowering grey clouds behind the cathedral and yellow leaves being torn from black branches and it's bloody cold. Kinda reminds me of UK weather, only I'm in my office duds, so not much fun. So it's green tea at the desk again. Sigh.

Speaking of weather, I had to put aside the Morse books for a bit because the last one was just so wrong, wrong in a way that even someone who grew up with an old mother with Tourettes style casual racism, had to squirm in her bus seat (when I could actually get a bus seat, and to the gentlemen who feel their masculinity must occupy an entire seat akimbo, may the drop off and roll away). Anyhoo, aside from being a despicable old racist, Dexter also drives me up the wall with his A-Z writing, that is, every chapter pretty much starts off like a bloody GPS set of directions. It's atrocious.

So, I've swapped him for Mr Cornwall, who personally loathes me for the now sadly ex Sharpe site o'mine, but no matter, but still with the hack writing. To shake things up, Mr Conrwall starts every chapter with a weather report, and while I'm sure it's essential to know the atmospheric conditions before pressing on to the action, it still makes me grind my teeth, just a little. Still, I suppose the book is called The Winter King, so I suppose it's only fair that equal time is given to matters meteorological as well as those of kingship.

I know, it's not like I've ever got anything published, but I've got loads of ironing to do, and that's much more important. Oh yes indeedy.

The weird thing is I had read the BC book before, but like a decade ago, so I only remember bits, like watching an old film with a similiar lag between viewings. Oh really, what is the point of reading all this stuff if I never remember it? But the other day I was so tired I couldn't remember what Department I was working for (this year). It'd be nice if I could get more than two or three hours of sleep a night, but I gotta get all that ironing done somehow.

Still it hasn't been all bad. The view from the office the course was held in was spectacular. I mean really jaw dropping. We were in North Sydney, looking down and over the harbour, with all the boats pootling about. It made me feel like a tourist. North Sydney was also kinda fun, different, smaller, sunnier and so squeaky clean. I couldn't get over how clean everything was: the station, the bus stops, the footpaths. Squeakier clean than Singapore, which is like a more humid version of North Sydney anyway (all out of the box identikit towerblocks and chainstores), with a few trees thrown in to offset the salmon coloured concrete.

Is it sad that I turn going to a course in another part of town into a day trip? Am I trying too hard to stay relentlessly upbeat, lest I be labelled depressive (even though the endless ironing gets me down).

TV? Sweet FA. Except True Blood which I raced home for last night and didn't do the washing up either, and got in so much trouble for that but it was the finale, man. More whimper than bang, and it felt like it was a 'we got renewed, well, fuck' finale, which is worse than a (over)confidently expecting renewal cliff hanger or a 'we're canned, lets blow shit up, everyone dies' finale. You know the ones.

The problem with True Blood is that Sookie's on/off with Bill is driving me nuts, I knew who the killer was from the start and that Sam was a were-collie, and the two weeks later addendum was so unnconvincing. I mean, everyone is all yay Bill now? Whatever. And Jason is with the freaky god botherers? No good can come of that. I can see why folks started to give up with True Blood. After #7 it did kind of drift off and get needlessly complicated and silly. Sigh. I'm loathe to say it, but it could use an editor's touch and a bit of red pen through some characters and subplots (now that they've gotten rid of the most interesting ones). In my humble opinion, of course.

Friday: Oh, what a week. The mean girls have me seriously contemplating stepping under a bus. The only things that have stopped me was a sunny day, though the park was still cold and muddy, running into a friend and my somewhat desperate test messages when the whole system (or systems as I have to make this shit work across two incompatible networks) crashed yesterday bemusing a kindly colleague who sadly works over 200km away, but at least they gave me a phone shoulder to whimper on. What really bemused them was the fact that I was so stressed I started using old family curses (re the server) during my tests and they recognised the local terms and realised I was a local girl, of sorts, when the server finally coughed up all the test messages this morning. This made then even more sympathetic (plus they know the players, they know my pain).

TV, not a sausage, although I did see some of Dracula last night. Not enough to appreciate it (luckily I've seen it before or I'd be really peeved) but enough to find myself musing on Whitby on a frosty morning and having no real idea why. Well, not until I'd had my first cup of Yorkshire tea and suddenly remembered I'd Dracula playing in the background last night, eejit.

Oh, I tell a lie. I did watch some tv. It was another Doc episode of Maverick which meant tools down, no matter how loud the bitching, and watching. I'm sorry, but I don't move when it's a Maverick/Holliday episode. Those boys are so cute.

I have caught a few episodes of Maverick over the last couple of weeks. I dunno whether it's because I know more about the 60s than the 50s, or it's all de ja news, or the team writing Maverick are really itching to do the Wire only that's nearly 50 years away, but lately there have been episodes dealing with stock market scams, bamks scams and corrupt goverment and the press, and, weirdly, thanks to Maverick and Doc, I know understand how the stock market crashed, how the banks fell over and why corrupt senators and the impoverished litigation shy press did nothing to stop it. Now if only the US goverment would adoptDoc and Maverick's schemes to get out of trouble we'd be sorted, and I can't believe that only Bart Maverick can offer workable solutions. Nevertheless, I remain bemused that Maverick has taught me more about how America works than years of reading the NYT. Oh, and you can really tell it's the 60s now and we're moving into the Kennedy era. My gosh, but the 60s musta hit the ground running, because the earlier 50s episodes seem so old fashioned and cowboys and indians compared to these urban romps and social and political commentary. (I gotta complain about Mad Men, because, if Maverick is any guide as a social document, the early 60s just weren't as backwards or simplistic as they make them out to be).

Also, Doc and Bart, sitting in a tree...I mean, my gosh, those boys. I have a shiny new fandom, all of my own, but at least I now have a whole three episodes upon which to base my fandom. Because those boys, oh my.

I know, I've really gotta try and cap 'em for ya, so you could see I meant it when I said one could rarely see daylight between them, so closely do they hang off one another one would think they were conjoined. I could go one, about the wandering into each other's hotel rooms, the walking around arm in arm, but I won't. Just know that I squee each and every time Doc shows up.

That's it though. The rest of the time I've just been tired, cold, miserable and working too hard for people I'd much rather kick in the eye.

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Simon Schama joins Financial Times

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Aussie lizard rolls over to avoid sex

Star Trek: Eric Bana interview

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Tags: inspector morse, maverick, stephen fry, true blood

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