So I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't have long to wait. My newasgent is selling up and leaving the country. This is the man who, for most of my adult working life, with a few breaks as I was posted around the place by uncaring overlords, has carefully nutured my (immense) magazine buying habit/collection, always tracking my trends and buying more of the same, ordering in obscure titles, saving things under the counter. You know, good old fashioned service.
This man is the patron saint of the League of Obscure British Actors, responsible for almost all the magazines I've scanned, and have yet to scan (well, I guess that backlog ain't going to get much bigger, as newsagents are rare in the city these days).
This man has been such a part of my life, the only constant, I've lately been joking he'd be the only mourner at my funeral. And now he's leaving me. I tell ya, it's only the fact that I probably couldn't get back up again that is stopping me from throwing myself down on the floor in a full toddler wailing fist flailing leg kicking tantrum.
There's going to be a fair bit of post partum grizzling on this one, let me warn you now.
The pendant I'm wearing today has been much admired. It's only a bit of Japanoiserie enamel on a bit of tin, parasols and blossums and the like, but I saw it at the fete and had to have it, and had to wear it. So the (rare) approval is nice.
I was thinking it was just the sort of thing I'd have bought when I was 14, if I'd been allowed. So not 14 anymore, but since I never really got to be 14, I'm trying, sadly, to have some larks before its all beige elastic pants and slippers.
Sometimes I think I'm stuck at 14. That was the year my Dad ceased to be nice (or maybe I did, whatever), and the year I was completely ostracised from school, so I had to sit by myself in the corner. I had an old exercise book and I started to keep a journal and write fic to keep myself from screaming. Still do. Well, I've never finish the fic, but it's written, still, in lonely lunchbreaks, with my face turned to the wall.
I was never allowed to have jewellery when I was 14. Or makeup, or music, or magazines, or watch telly. Nor was I allowed to make or receive phone calls, nor recieve or visit friends. The only clothes I owned were my school uniform and smocks for wearing while doing (all) the housework. To this day, the neighbours are absolutely convinced my mother was a member of some repressive fundamentalist cult.
Nope, she just couldn't stand me (or was, at the very least, somewhat remote). If we'd had a cellar or attic or a crawl space under the stairs she would have kept me there, I'm sure. One day, when I was 12, my birthday, in fact, I ran into a friend from school (when I still had them) and we went to look at a dress shop together. She Who Must Be Obeyed left me there in a fury because I was five minutes late (okay, maybe ten, but no later, I wouldn't dare) getting back from my errands (I had to do all the shopping) I had to walk home from the mall (about two miles, in old money). I never looked at a dress shop again (until last year).
You'd get arrested for that now, abandoning a kid like that, but back then it was perfectly fine. I was bullied every day (still am, just last night some kids on the bus pulled down the labels on my collars and laughed out loud at my dress size) and she was fine with that, because I deserved it. She liked outsourcing her dirty work, did my Mum.
But never mind that. I saw that pendant, thought it was peachy keen, of itself and the sort of thing I'd always wanted (cheap tin that it is), and everyone liked it, so yay.
Meanwhile, having more fun making up silly aliases for Neal. Less of the silly and more on filling in plot holes would be better, or, even, dammit, typing it up, but no, just me being silly last night.
I had meant to type during Supernatural and Deadwood but was still feeling knackered so I thought I'd just settle down with a cuppa and watch WinchesterszzzzzZZZZZZZ.
So that was that. Into the nana nod offs, already.
At least I have my new phone. No, I've no one to call, or call me (not surprising since I have the social skills of a piece of wood). Well, I've actually missed six calls because I can never hear ir from the depths of my bag and I never remember to pick it up and take it with me, especially not out to the garden, but honestly, that would just be asking for it to be uncovered by archaelogists two thousand years hence, and we all know it. But I don't really care about the phone part. It's more of a senility aid, you know, to answer the whole who am I, where am I, what day is it and what did I walk into this room to fetch anyway? Well, I haven't found an app for the last one, but the rest I think I've got covered now. Whee! New toy!
Now if someone could just find me an app to locate my favourite tea cup via gps, I'd be fine (sheepish grin).
PM update: Did get to park, and managed to find a spot to sit and scribble some without getting smacked on the head by a football, accused of being a pervert or attacked by spiders, or d) all of the above. Not that the scribble is worth anything (though Neal did blurt out a truth to Peter, oh my).
Weirdly thinking of Supernatural, mainly how annoyed I was at falling asleep during it when I'd been looking forward to some gratuitous Winchesters all day, but also thinking that the moral of the series, one to five at least, seems to be that little brothers are annoying self absorbed, selfish, egotistical prats who'll cause you no end of grief and misery and totally mess up your life as you try to bail them out of whatever jam they've blithely wandered into this time. Heh. Don't expect me to jump to the defence anytime soon. Yes, younger brothers have their moments, and can be dear, sweet people, but man, they're such hard work.
Like, have you ever noticed how many actors, the very epitome of vain, silly people, are younger or middle siblings? Funny that, eh?
I suppose younger sibs think we're all rules and reasons, but, man, it's only trying to head off trouble at the pass, which we never do, because young eejits just won't be told. And grumpy? Do you know how many night's sleep we've lost, running around behind the scenes making sure things go right on the night? Martydom? Do you know what it was like being the crash test dummy for our parents? I mean, seriously? You've no freaking idea.
At least, I think that's one of the messages you can take away from Supernatural. The amusing part was that at the precise moment I came to that thought, AC/DC suddenly blasted out of a car radio, as if to say, yes, indeedy.
Or not. I'm still in a weird, slightly flu ridden, entirely sleep deprived kinda mood.
But if I had to guess, Peter is so an eldest and Neal is so totally a youngest. Like, really. I guess it's hard to think of consequences when there's always someone to bail you out, literally, in Neal's case - grin.
It's like that at work, too. There's a colleague here, and a younger sib, as you might readily guess, who has a slightly over inflated idea of their prowess, at least in relation to their estimation of my abilities, anyway. This week they've been given a project which they've entirely messed up and handed to me to sort out. Normally I get a bit cranky when handed someone elses's big ball of crap to untangle, but as I've got nothing better to do, what the hey. So I fixed it and handed it back, and they messed it up again, so I fixed it again, and so on and so forth until, just now, I think they had an inkling of where the weakest link in the chain might be, and might not, in fact, be me, gasp, shock, horror.
That's my job, fixing stuff, bailing people out, and not telling Mother. Most importantly, not telling Mother (if you knew my boss, you'd know just how much Not Telling Mother means).
Thursday: So, tv is back on, well sorta, one of the cables has gone out again (and I totally give up), but I was only watching in bits as I had some typing to do, because I've been really slack as slack can be in that department. I'd have that notebook finished by now if I'd spent all Thursday hunched over a keyboard instead of jumping up every time a delivery van sped past the gate. And it bit me, that notebook. Too a chunk right out of me. see if I take it to NYC again.
Anyway, pity, because it was the Human Target tries to do Central America episode (with Kris Marshall, no less) and it was very, very MacGyver I just couldn't help but smirk, smirk and smirk again. There are many places Canada can stand in for, but tropical rainforest jungles ain't really one of 'em, alas. Well, not unless the location scouts found some temperate rainforest pocket in some gully that might do at a pinch, but they never do. But it wasn't just the slightly unconvincing locale, I mean, all my fave shows are doing location on the cheap these days, but the whole gloriously eightiesness of the plot. And they knew it, and did it anyway with a smirk and a wink. It's a really cute show, if you don't take it the slightest bit seriously.
Meanwhile on Spartycakes, clearly I'd missed some big moments, like, oh, I don't know, having to kill his BFF. This was at least conveyed to me by the endless whining about said dead BFF and feverish hallucinations of said dead BFF and okay, I get it now, he killed his BFF and he's feeling kinda shitty about it now. I dare say it probably would have had more dramatic impact if I'd been able to view the tragic death of the above mentioned BFF, but I didn't, but I gather he's dead, and this is not a good thing. Meanwhile, Spartybabe, and let's face it, nobody's really into him for his smarts, has finally, finally, finally twigged that he was screwed over re the whole dead missus thing. I take it from the flinty glint in his eye that there will be a reckoning, and soon (because the ads say like there's only one or two eps to go, and boy, this ep sure felt like filler).
At least, that's the impression I got. I was trying to type as furiously as I could, getting through a rather chunky section where, good grief, can you imagine, Neal is rather upsetting the applecart again. Drama queen.
And, really, after the mid series two finale, I think the 'drama queen' appellation fits. I mean, the whole Errol Flynn leaping through windows thing was very visually dramatic, but not exactly sane. I think there's enough canon now to back up the whole Neal as overly dramatic problem child view.
What that boy needs is the stern, Calvinist hand of Lenny from The Fixer. Heh. Oh yes. Lenny from series one, though, when he was menancingly omnipotent. Yeah, they've been repeating The Fixer here but it's on opposite other stuff or the lesser series two, where Lenny lost his dark powers of Scottish scariness. Sigh.
Friday. I've had...better days. Better years, in fact. Oh, it's not been dire or anything, just a bit meh, the only highlights being hot chocolates with mates in Seattle and San Francisco and the tours of Joss Whedon, Stephen Fry and Neil Gaiman. Other than that it's been meh, with meh seasoning and a side order of meh.
Perhaps I'm still reeling from the distress of the horrible realisation that dawned, after examining bare shelves in three different stores in the city, that there are no Glenfiddich puddings to be had for Xmas, not even for money. Way to ruin Xmas, which was looking a mean affair anyway.
Today, though. I'm off after work so I had to take a wee handbag instead of my usual big bag of everything, and as if I wasn't already hyperventilating over having to walk out without my books, gadgets, tissues, umbrellas, bandaids, etc, I discover to my misery I'd left my pass at home and it's the last Friday of the month so everyone is off and I had to wait over two hours before anyone else showed up (two hours I could have spent quietly, um, working away).
So that sucked, with bonus shitty calls from Himself whom I rang in desperation (Had he left already? Yes, he had and my phone sucks and hang up on me why doncha).
So, okay, I get in, I decide tackle something from the too hard tray since there's nothing else going on. They'll be so pleased and surprised at my initiative and pluck, I think to myself. Imagine my surprise when I was completely bollocked. I couldn't even go sob in the loo as I have no pass (I have to swipe out and back in, three times, through firedoors, to get to the loo) so here I sit, trembling of lip and crossed of legs.
Not happy at all. I can only hope things get better this evening, but I can see me standing up the back a big ball of msery. Sorry, childhood hero o'mine, it just ain't gonna be it, so I won't review you. Besides, like the old 'Gurge song used to go, I like your old stuff better than your new stuff. I'm just ridiculously unbending like that. And I'm dabbling in a re-read of High Fidelity so that's all I'm going to say on that matter.
I also caught sight of my reflection in one of the glass walled meeting rooms as I went hunting for milk for a much needed cup of tea (yes, I know that's only going to aggravate the loo situation but this is an emergency, damn it, man). Looks like I've been drowning my miseries in food again and I've undone all my good works. Sigh. I'll never get into that dress in a fortnight now. Wail. Moan. (Or should that be whale? Probably, yes).
And I realise now I'm never going to get a job anywhere else by moaning about the one I've got now. Sigh. I swear, you give me something interesting to do, and treat me decent, and I'll shut up. I promise.
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