I am a dirty, dirty pervy old woman. Worse, twice this week I've had someone add more than ten years to my age. Before I started working here I used to look ten years younger than my age. The EBQFH has aged me over twenty years. That's... impressive. I'm now awaiting the final blow: for one of those stunning young chaps I see on the bus occasionally with this whole 70s rck star vibe going (which seems to be the fashion these days) offers me a seat on account of my antiquity. Then my life will be officially over.
Meanwhile, been watching (well, bits of) the Murdoch Mysteries. I wish I'd bought that dvd when I saw it, for I've never seen it's like again. It's not the world's greatest tv show, but I like it well enough, and Himself loves it when they try to cram some Toronto history into the piece. I like it's vaguely steam punky attitude, the obvious influene of a certain Mr Holmes and the way it's evolved into a sort of buddy cop piece (though the sensitivity with which the gruff ginger Inspector dealt with the very special gay episode would have made Gene Hunt blush). Last night they were doing the X Files, which was vaguely amusing. Canadian actors: we specialise in craning earnestly at darkened skies. Anyhoo, turmed over and they were all gathered around a disemboweled cow while waving plaster casts about, which led to the immediate quip: "I don't get it. Is it avant-garde?" Okay, so you had to be there. Although it did lead into a riff on My Favourite Hill St Blues moments: "Cows only got up genes, ain't got no down genes" (or words to that effect, Colin Morgan wasn't even a twinkle the last time I saw it).
Anyhoo, it was all about Martians and some steampunky cold war riffs and was that a shout out to Torchwood at the end? Hmmm.
Meanwhile, still stuck with old school detectives, I'm thoroughly enjoying my re-reading of the old Holmes books. I mean, I was enjoying them enough before, but now I'm loving them. I just love the turn of phrase, the observations of society. the charity shown towards the female characters (quite possibly the least misogynistic books I've read all year) and the comedy. I also love Watson, poor needy Watson, and the way he thrills and flushes whenever Holmes tosses a rare compliment his way or deigns to show some small grace of affection. It's also fun to realise that, quite unlike the elderly tea time dramas I grew up with (good as they were), that Watson is often dragged along with his revolver solely as the muscle, and I was also bemused to be reminded that Watson is a veteran army doctor of some pretty nasty campaigns in Afghanistan.
Never mind Holmes with his drug addictions (Watson as enabler, fixer, supplier?), fetishes, behaviour bordering on pathology and aloofness. He's like a brilliant psychopath who has fortunately turned his talents for good. But it is Watson, faithful narrator, who is bemusing me most (oh please notice all my efforts for you, Holmes, please please please). Alright, so I'm imagining him as Jude Law, it's still fun. Yes, I am a dirty, pervy old woman.
And I'm suddenly reminded of young Jude (in bridal drag, no less) in one of those venerable old Jeremy Brett series episodes.
And speaking of the scandal friendly young thesp: Oh...Jude. And here I was thinking he'd turned a corner, grown up a bit, sucked it up and been a bit more career orientated now he'd received a passing grade from Michael Billington. But no. Sigh. Tabloid city, once again.
Btw, when I go looking for Wooster or Watson in the bookshop, Wodehose is found under "literature" while Doyle is relegated to "crime/thriller". Just so as you know where you stand, Sir Arthur, you old hack. Unfair, imho, but there you go.
PM update: I was just nearly eaten by the hound of the Baskervilles. No, really, as I've just finished the book last week and I swear the dog in question was houndier than even the crossbreed as described. Mayhem ensued, which is why I love the park, because after deciding neither I , nor my writing pad, were worthy of his attentions, the pony sized beast leapt onto a small black lab guide dog (who to be honest, wasn't adverse to the big doggy attentions) but the blind guy she was attached was a bit taken aback. While this was going on and dog owners were trying to disengage animals, a massive lawn mower tractor thing was bearing down on them. Cue strident music! Alas, disaster was averted at the last moment as the visiblity vested chap atop the council vehicle braked and helped untangle the pooches and quietly warned Mr Baskerville to keep his dog on a leash and outta da park. At least, I think that's what went down cause the hell hound departed sharply afterwards, leaving the guide doggie pining away.
I love the park. And I'm loving those old Holmes books. And I swear I'm not reading them through slash coloured glasses because in Baskervilles Watson labours so carefully over these letters he's been tasked to write to Holmes (you can practically see his little tongue sticking out as he writes) and he is so gutted when it turns out Holmes wasn't in London at all, and then so elated when Holmes has actually read the letters, then crestfallen again as Holmes reveals he already knew much of what Watson reported, and then his mood softens again as Holmes gives him some sop for his efforts. I feel for poor Watson (but removed from his plaintive and emotive narrative I wonder whether or not Holmes isn't brusque at times from the effort of constantly reassuring his insecure BFF, though that said, Watson wouldn't be so damn insecure if Holmes didn't make a sport of scoring points off poor Watson ALL THE TIME).
I just read the Irene Adler story this morning on the bus and damn me if Watson isn't need to be reassured that his smoke bomb bunging wasn't exactly as Holmes recquired. Bless. No wonder they're rarely long separated, it's such a, well, I was going to say dysfunctional, but it seems to work for them, symbiotic relationship. I wonder if Watson's wife is resolved to being forever the third wheel and second most important person in Watson's life? Because, like drop everything and start sleeping over at the merest whiff of an invitation? Oh, Watson, Holmes is your crack, isn't he?
Late PM update: Himself has been doing the old fam tree and has discovered Darcy might not have been quite so uncharitable when he described Hertfordshire as being full of inbred rustics. Pretty on the money, we've since discovered. Not so prejudiced but rather brutally honest, but Pride and Astutely Observed Social Demographics has less of a ring to it. Mind you, it's turned a lifetime's impression of Darcy on its head. The man wasn't so much an insufferable snob as I thought, but a man who has found himself stuck deep in hillbilly country. Cue banjos. How I do not have webbed feet I'll never know.
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