I know, I whine and whine and then it's all 'oooh, sticky rice!'. Well, it is sticky rice. A forbidden treat is always the best.
It's the annual noodle night market. It's achingly cosmospolitan and yet so very Sydney, it smells and sounds like Sydney, and nowhere else. Nevertheless I've found myself a quiet corner, as always, where I can watch the crowd and the pretty, pretty lanterns. I love a Chinese lantern. It rather looks like all those old 19thC park life paintings I love so much. So I'm going to sit here for a bit more. Before I have to move. Before I can move. That was a lot of sticky rice. Yum yum.
Cow and Moon coffee shop, Enmore: So there I was, friendless freak that I am, wandering lonely as a cloud through all the peoples and lanterns when some called my name. My actual name. First name. Last name. Me.
It was someone I knew from sixth form. I'd not changed a bit, they exclaimed, which was how they'd spotted me.
Well, yes. The funny thing was, I couldn't think of a thing to wear to see Mr Weller, not a thing in the wardrobe appeased, so then I thought, okay, my girl, what were you going to wear. You know, if he'd ever played here when he still adorned my sixth form folder.
So that's what I was wearing, pretty much. The next thing I know, someone from high school is calling my name across a crowded park.
This never happens. The last time I saw anyone from school was something like eight or nine years ago. Scattered to the four winds, us (hey, it was that sort of town).
Freaky. Lovely, wonderful, but freaky.
Still, once again the streets of Newtown uncomfortable resemble that band candy episode of Buffy. Maybe someone else will be calling my name, but I doubt it. But I did overhear 'I know her' in the ladies, pre-show.
So, the glorious art deco temple that is the Enmore. And Paul Weller.
I might have been up towards the back but I was not folding my arms. Relaxed into an excellent night all I was thinking was please don't let this suck. From the first note, I knew it wouldn't. He was still brilliantly, perfectly, unmistakably Paul Weller. And I suddenly realised, played live, I do like his new stuff, almost as well as I like his old stuff. But, ah, you can't beat nostalgia or memory as powerful emotive ingredients an I was delighted when he played 'Shout to the Top'. But then, he said 'oh, if you liked that, you might like this' and the next thing I heard was, eeeeeeeeep, 'That's Entertainment'. You beauty. I'm surrounded by Brits (funny, that) and we all bounce up and down together in a good natured, beg pardon, middleaged but giddily happy way. It is a good night.
I couldn't believe it when he played 'Pretty Green'. Suddenly I remembered listening to that song over and over in secret on a tape I'd borrowed from the city library, studying the cover intently. And then he followed it up with 'What You Give Is What You Get'. Bwee! But wait, the last song of the night was a bring down the house version of 'Town Called Malice'. Oh my.
So yes, loving the new stuff, but oh, to hear a couple of old faves in the mix, I was thrilled. A damn fine night out and Mr Weller still has it, I can confirm. Oh my, yes.
Getting home was a bit of an odyssey, too. Caught a crowded bus back into the city that was crammed with drunk American students (wtf) and kids in pyjamas (at midnight), and then it took me forever walking up and down George St to get a taxi (and you know me, I can get a cab just like that in NYC), so understand that they were thin on the ground.
Saturday I slept in, because I was happy, but was still wafting about on Weller vapours when I did the washing. Just got the last load out when I had to whip it back in on account of the thunderstorm the currawongs warned me about (they've been off their game of late so I was taking it with a grain of salt, their insistence on rain and hail, but they were right, and yes, they are my familiars, or, at least, they give washing day weather warnings for snacks). Retired to read old Bond short stories but ended up sleeping like my old teenaged self until teatime. Tsk.
Sunday was rainy and gloomy so I caught up on admin and watched the last episode of Wallander. Gloomy weather says it's euro cop time, even if it's faux euro cop (btw, according to The Australian, who had a whole article on euro cops, anyone who watched Unit One or The Eagle, with his distressing laundry day flashbacks, on their first SBS run, is the height of sophisticated. This is me, in my old Specials t-shirt and trakky daks, the height of sophistication, apparently).
So, Wallander. I found this one oddly affecting and moving, perhaps because Wallander's "Gone? Gone where?" call in the middle of a busy meeting struck very close to home, and probably primed me to getting a bit weepy when he just pointed to his father's painting, unable to speak or form any sort of vowel sounds. For some reason, the day, my mood, I felt myself carried along with this story, getting involved in ways I usually don't, and wallowing in the scenery (which inspired a new section in the old fic that has been bumping around trying to take form, but there it is at last, though badly written down, I'll have to fix it later).
Alas, instead of just writing and writing and writing on a rainy Sunday, I had other things to do, so by the time I got to it I was rushed, tired and clumsy. Oh well. I still remember what I was trying to get at, and thanks to Wallander for gently easing the muse out of neutral once more (even if I wasn't allowed to take advantage of it).
Sunday night was rounded out by the last episode of Sherlock, which is as brilliant as brilliant can be until Moriarty shows up, who then ruins everything that has gone before. Dreadful, simply dreadful (and Matt King agrees). Then I scrawled some more and there was pretty pretty blue eyed Bryce Larkin on an old Chuck repeat.
Ah, Matt Bomer, you glittering thing. I wonder, often, whether you hsve any staying power, like Mr Weller and Mr Branagh, long my companions since my sixth form folder days. We shall see (I really doubt it, but you may yet surprise me, but you've never made me weep or leap up with joy, as yet).
Old geezers. They've still got it.
And my teenaged tastes? Nothing to be ashamed of, then. Now? Oh boy, too easily distracted by the shiny, I can tell you. It's all end in tears, and not from a bravura performnce either. More like a tediously tabloidy crash and burn. But no, I shall not be jaded today. I shall bask a little longer in the afterglow of my silver boys, my talented true loves.
Late PM Update:
1) Possums are way noisy. quiet up there!
2) A friend gifted me some lefrtover Grandma's hotpot. Dinner was done.
3) Do not attempt to iron during Armstrong and Miller. I kept burning myself while collapsing in giggles, and that Spooks pisstake has just killed S8 which is finally starting on Sat.
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