mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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Hugo Weaving's arse

Hello. Do please excuse this post as I'm still more than a bit tiddly and usually interwebs + booze = bad but I just have to tell you about tonight (and tomorrow I might not get a chance to).

So, yes, dreadful day where everyone else is living fabulously fulfilled and successful lives and I can't even drop the hammer on a page of shit (and you've no idea how literally and factually true I'm being about the page contents - where did I go wrong in my life?)

So, anyway, jinx person left and the printers started working again and, and, I hasten to add, I was a gifted a left over packet of Arnott's biscuits, creams, no less, and it probably means nothing to you but as a public servant that's pretty much as good as it gets. The knees of bees, in fact.

So I put on the new white faux silky shirt I'd bought that arvo and toddled off. I'd forgotten I was supposed to be going to the theatre, you see. Well, not forgotten, per se as I knew I was going, and on Wednesday at that, I just didn't realise it was Wednesday already. Sheesh.

I wasn't going to go but I'm glad I did. I toddled down through the city at night, and slipped into a cafe down at the Rocks (alas no longer seething with the sodden sons of Erin) and enjoyed a cherry danish (or thing with cherries as the NESB waitress styled it) with a dark hot chocolate and a merlot. Carefully, carefully getting through all that with nary a drop on my spanking new shirt I sat back and thought beat that and nosebleed! Arrrgh. New shirt duly ruined. Damn, and I loved it, too.

Pulling jumper on, on a steamy night (but it was cold and foggy that morning) I trotted the last leg to the theatre. The journey of a thousand miles begins at the entrance to the STC as you climb up and up and then walk around and around but at last I was there with time to spare so I had a glass of the house white - and I am still walking sideways. Cate, damn, girl, what do you stock in your cellars?

So, ze play, ze play? I liked it. Featuring the Excellent Mr Otto the younger (hello acting dynasty), late of The Pacific, and an actress who really reminded me of Yvonne from Chuck (but I dare say same graduating class) and I liked it. The plot was simple, claustrophobic and to the point, and I loved the set design and the theatre trickery smoke and mirrors stuff and the scene where our troubled lovers devour each other on the table with knife and fork was as hot as it was disturbing. It was a dark little vignette and now you're going to think this is what I'm referring to with Stockholm stuff and yes, there will be a great deal of resonance, but, honestly, I was on the theme already (which is why I bought the ticket). Yeah, it really made me think and kicked my imagination along, as well as holding me for the duration, so yeah, good, effective piece.

And when I leapt into the taxi the radio was playing the Motel's Total Control. I like a themic night.

Oh yeah, and Hugo Weaving was sitting three seats in front of me. Bwee! Better yet, when it came to leave, traffic merged in such a way that I had to walk up the stairs immediately behind him (key word: behind) and I was still well tiddly at this point so I was sternly telling myself: hands in pockets! Hands in pockets. Well, I had no pockets so they had to be metaphorical pockets, but I behaved myself, you'll be pleased to know, because I was very, very tiddly indeed.

Wobbled up the street, with Mr Weaving still in sight, as I tried to look for a taxi, and it was like oh, look, he's sashaying now most beguilingly for some reason - no! Look for taxis! So I did not follow him into the cafe, I got a taxi. How very good was I.

Came home, Himself was still up, had yummy veg curry leftovers and tea. Still tiddly. Bed now. well, it would be but for those bats and their sonic beepas. BEEP!

Tim & Matt prepare to rob a bank in Brooklyn this morning

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Tags: hugo weaving

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