I know, first I lament my life is going nowhere, then I wallow in being exactly where I was ten years ago. I'm a confusing person, I know. But it it is nice to be within one's comfort zone when the hangover starts to kick in, which is right about...now (I'll be off for coffee in a tick, though it is still dire out here and oh, I think this is my old keyboard, oh keys, the things you've typed, eh?).
I was still all sleepy when I got up this morning and I toddled off down to the bus stop and stood in my old place, and I realised I'd gotten myself off to the school bus, at the old bus stop, in an outfit not a million miles from my old uniform. Still, I was going where I needed to go, just a few stops more, so it was lucky I could manage it all on autopilot, albeit default DOS settings. It's all sort of oddly comforting, as though I'm running along a set of rails today. I don't mind. Clearly I'm not going anywhere, so I might as well go slowly around in circles.
PM update: Whoo. Okay, so having no plan is a plan? I ran across to the shops at lunch, again, but this time with no real game plan, just looking to see if they might possibly, and I got four out of five things on my list, which isn't bad compared to my usual null points result. Okay, so it's not curing cancer before winning the Nobel peace prize and then going to the opera in Berlin, but for me, this week, it'll do.
And I'm sorry if I annoyed anyone with my very nearly dunken threatre crowd frottage exploits, but I was very, very tipsy (and I still am, good grief, what do they serve as the hpuse white at the STC?) and I have been a great admirer of Mr Weaving since the first flush of puberty and he was right there.
Personally I think all pretty actor boys should burqa up when they're out in public as I couldn't possibly ever be responsible for my own actions or trust myself to employ a modicum of decorum, decency and respect with regard to other people. Good grief, no. How did that saying go? Parading themselves around like uncovered meat, so they are, or in this case, fine, tightly covered, perfectly shaped, well rounded meat...um, where was I? Oh yes, complete lack of self control, yes, that's it. Walking around in public like that, being pretty, the nerve of the man. What is a girl to do?
Mind you, the only reason I had that glass of wine was because I was so damn nervous and uncomfortable. I mean, there I was, walking through the posh parts of town I never dare wander through because I know I'm not welcome (Achtung! Papers!), daring to show my face at a theatre packed with the cream of society and feeling like so much westie scum (especially since I'd bled all down the front of my brand new blouse - magic). I felt so out of place, so I asked, in my roughest westie voice, for a house white, quick, and downed it just as quickly, because I was terrified I'd be asked to leave at any moment, and I was trying desperately to blend in (and failing miserably, as if the 'I'm not poor, I'm bohemian' excuse has ever worked).
It made me think of Peter waking into all those posh places, and I'm surprised they don't make him use the tradesman entrance (did I mention I've known rich bitches who made me do that?), strictly on business but very much an interloper, just like any policeman in an Agatha Christie novel (as opposed to Poirot who is always on invitation) and, yes, even poor old Lewis (heh, will Peter be as embittered as auld Robbie when he gets near retiring age, I wonder?). It's not his world and I wonder if he feels uncomfortable, or is made to feel uncomfortable (they always go out of their way to put you in your place, and it always leaves a scar).
Neal, well, he can walk the walk and talk the talk and he knows these places and how they work inside out and he knows his U from his non U backwards but he is still a Gatsby-like fraud. He might fit in but he doesn't belong, and deep down, I think Neal will always know that (that crack in the pilot about pretending to drink posh wine out of the old bottle says as much, to me). So they're both trangressors into that old high society: visitors, observors, but never part of it. Hmmm, would that I could dig out Phildelphia Story and High Society for a weekend wallow, but you get my drift?
Anyway, I felt like such a pleb. It's why I like to go to the theatre overseas. At least then I can feel like just a dumb tourist instead of an uppity commoner. Btw, I always, always fail at the U with my oh so posh rellies. Always. Sigh. Trust me when I say I know well the withering glance of social failure.
Wow, this post is sounding far crankier than I actually am, because I've still got a really good buzz on from last night and I got to sleep in this morning (it makes such a difference). And I got meself a coat, as I suddenly remembered I needed a new coat for that one week in July where it gets cold enough to actually need one. Sometimes. It's not perfect (like my old one), but it'll do. It's not absolutely awful, like the ones I looked at yesterday, that's fer sure (though it is so obviously cheaply made in China, very non U).
And it looks like I'm goofing off here but since I have to wait around for someone else to fiddle faddle with my work up the chain of command I'm kind of at a loose end, as in all my puppies are parked in other people's inboxes right now. Bored, bored, bored... and somebody remind me I need to pick up some dates for tea (evil sieg heiling monkeys need not apply).
Friday: I remembered the dates. Yay me. You make shrug and chortle but you've no idea how much of a win that is for me this week. Bear of very little brain indeed.
The vaguely Women's Weekly-ish Moroccan dish (ie nothing of the sort and nothing that might be unnervingly foreign or unfamikiar for the little housewives) wasn't too bad, and, to be honest, the dates, which weren't in the recipe (too foreign!!!!) made it, imho.
Since I was home early and I was sleepy I decided to forgo Dollhouse and/or checking up on what Matty did next via Twitter (celeb stalking made easy) and go to bed. Which worked fine until I was woken up around midnight and could not get back to sleep again until just before the alarm went off at 4 am again (ouch, forever ouch, but with no public transport to speak of, one must shoulder one's burdens). Weirdly I was dreaming of Raylan again before I was woked up. I say weirdly because I'm always dreaming of Raylan and I haven't seen one episode of Justified yet. The subconcious is clearly already a fan, though. Tsk. There's no way the poor show can live up to expectation now, but there you go.
Slightly more productive day today as I've finally been given something to do: headkicking recalcitrants who are holding everybody else up by not getting their shit together. At last, something I'm good at. Heh. Even got my DM's on, too (well, it was the Friday before another PH and I thought I'd better be comfy cause it's gonna be a long day and probably a long walk home if I miss the last bus again. Oh, and I got some precious park time too - and I got sunburnt. Tsk. The shade moved and I was so engrossed I didn't notice (Neal is being a Grade A prick again, btw, charming, as always, but still a prick when you come down to it).
I'll be paying for that. Ditto the iced green tea latte but I'm pretty sure I'll be walking the last leg home (this time with slightly more suitable shoes). And I've been so good. I was so good yesterday. I deserve a bit of a break, like a nice summer's day and an iced latte. Only it isn't summer. Weird. Nothing like buying a new winter coat (see last year's saga of the coat for why) to push the ambient temps into the 30s.
I could ramble on about telly but I honestly haven't watched anything this week, and White Collar, well, I'm more involved with what my versions of the characters are doing, rather than the actual ones (though I did enjoy the sides that are floating about), because mine have been having adventures and are no longer the same men, because of that. Right now I'm trying to round off the ending with Peter still hopelessly in love with Neal, no matter what Neal puts him through (and reckless, impulsive and selfish Neal puts poor Peter through rather a lot).
And yet, Peter can still gruffly deliver the 'it's you, it's always been you, why can't you see that, you eejit' speech with hand on heart. Because he does, and will always love Neal and I think Neal has, and does, come first in Peter's heart. There's the pilot where Peter is so excited about getting to play with Neal he nearly damn slips up and has to clumsily course correct and say, why yes, his wife always comes first in his estimation, and no matter how many times I watch that, it always seems like Peter nearly speaks the truth and stops himself not quite in time, and then Elizabeth throws fuel on the fire by referring to Neal as her rival and her husband's obessession. Poor Elizabeth, she knows the score (and she's playing second fiddle).
Then there's finale where Neal has just trashed the Burke's lives through his unthinking alliance with Fowler and Peter is furious, but is he with Elizabeth? No, he's sitting outside with Neal. Sure, they're probably hiding out because El looks mad enough to rip both their nuts off and smile about it, but my point still stands, Peter is with Neal, not Elizabeth. It's Neal, it's always Neal, and I'm trying to acknowledge that it's not entirely cute or funny that Neal has such a hold on Peter, because, given the mess Peter (and his wife) are in, it's not an entirely healthy or happy situation. Certainly Peter is compromised morally legally and ethically by the things he's done for Neal - oh Neal, you bad boyfriend, you. And yet I can't deny that Neal is night and day, the moon and stars to Peter, and they can be so silly and happy in each other's company.
It's a hard one to pin down, cute and doomed at the same time, you know? (And so like the ever so slightly dysfuntional relationship in the play I enjoyed the other night).
Not that it matters. I'm trying to get as much down as I can but I'll still never get it typed and out there before canon blows it into another universe, one where people will never be able to read it without shaking their heads. Much like my poor laboured Lewis piece that, eventually, rests so much upon an intersection of Hathaway's deliberately murky background and an incident from Robbie's past. Apparently Hathaway is getting a back story (boo, hiss) which will cut across my fic, like, well, a ride on mower, really. I shoulda typed it last year instead of just sulking, but there you go. Ah well, maybe I can add a preamble that it was written for series one and two and should not in any way be considered as attempting anything more than a flight of fancy. Because, trust me, gets very...weird...towards the end there. Like Denis Spooner weird. Which was, I felt, in keeping with some of the original Morse episodes (as I watched them, anyway). Maybe a bit more Midsomer freaky? Never mind, doesn't matter. I do hope I get to see blondie bear tonight, though.
Oh, and further to the whole 'the past is a different country thing', the Peanut Gallery (currently up to the elbows sudsing my smalls, long suffering hausfrau that he is) followed up this morning with "they don't speak English there, either", as he is currently being driven mad transcribing guff from the 1920s. "Pip, pip, tally ho, cheers, what!" said I, possibly over-influenced by one too many bad ITV Agahtha Christie fillums (though I wouldn't say no to a chance to indulge in the one where Fassy is all louche and smouldering and smoking wanly in doorways, woof! woof!). Ahem.
Yep, the past, where they eat weird food, wear silly clothes and talk funny. And I love them for it, because otherwise I wouldn't find old cookbooks such rollicking entertainment (and thank you Mr Likeks for introducing me to that rich seam of hilarity). Oh, 30 seconds before I cracked up at my desk. Oh dear. It was the Siz can...(snork!)
Oh look, it's 4.30 pm and we've got incoming! Yep, this is what I was biding my time and waiting for: 4.40 pm on a Friday and a bunch of selfish c*nts who give no regard at all whether or not I get home in time to see my beloved Det. Sgt. Hathaway. Grumble.
Late PM update. Ooooh, work meeting with booze. and I was only just starting to sober up after Wed. All meeetings should be like thish....
U and non-U English
Powerful play explores hostages' love of their captors
Gallery of Regrettable Food
The Princess Bride
I thought I was asking too much ... how wrong I was (Whately, Fox)
A magical run for Merlin
Of Alexander Skarsgård, and VMAN
'True Blood' Star Alexander Skarsgard Goes Suave In A Tux On Cover Of VMAN
Let's talk about 'Supernatural's' 100th episode, 'Point of No Return'
Sam Winchester is Taking No Prisoners on Supernatural
Justified, 'The Collection': Raylan in trouble at work
Centurion kicks off British sword and sandals film wave
Centurion: spot the homage
Iron Man 2 grounded by ash cloud
Spectre of a second Aussie 007: Sam for Bond, you bet
Leonardo da Vinci = Einstein + Picasso + Doctor Who
Female action heroes still the weaker sex
So who is the real Robin Hood?
Why Hollywood is remaking the Eighties
Cemetery Junction's gay-baiting is not funny
Tim & Matt prepare to rob a bank in Brooklyn this morning
Tim Dekay preparing for a high-angle shot
Jones, Peter & Neal on set today
Neal walking out of bank with a briefcase full of cash
Tim Matheson, Matt Bomer & Tim Dekay rehersing today
Extra Extra! More With Matt Bomer from our Beautiful People Issue
Matt Bomer Creates CW Pilot
Matt Bomer writes pilot for The CW
Matt Bomer is suited in the city
Filming locations in NYC & vicinity for Monday, 4.19.10 including ‘White Collar’ & ‘The Oranges’
White Collar - Fascino Criminale da stasera su FoxCrime
Pour VMan, voici les « bombes de Hollywood » :
White Collar is criminally good