Still tired though. First there was the frustration, nay, torture of taking over four hours to read two dozen or so emails last night (could my so called net account be any slower?) and then, when I finally gave up around midnight it was possum frolics, loud gunfire and police sirens and then the neighbour decided that 2am was the perfect time to sort out the recycling. They mixed it up, too, so I had the cacophony crash of entire boxloads going in, as well as potting individual items that rolled around inside like a bloody roulette wheel. The bastards.
Then they finished up with a bit of their ongoing dyi project (hammer, hammer, drill, saw, thunk...thunk?). Effing, effing shift workers. Either that or it was the fun loving criminals disposing of weapons and/or bodies in the wheelie bins again. Oh, you think I kid, but I do not (we had body parts of ex druggie the other month, as if Himself isn't OCD enough over seperating plastics from paper on bin night).
So that was my night, but other than feeling like my head is full of badly stuffed sawdust, I feel fine. I actually had a piece of fruit this morning, too. I've been so very unwell of late that I've dropped two dress sizes - yay. I'm kind of darkly anticipating the return of the nasty woman tomorrow so I can be so stressed I lose another dress size. Well, silver lining and all that.
Anyways, forgot to mention the other stuff I did on Sunday (yes, there was more). As public transport was thin on the ground I'd left at a disaster averting early hour and so had a couple of hours to kill. I popped into the Sydney Museum, which is the worst local museum ever, but what can you do, eh? All style, no substance, imho. This time it was hosting a small exhibition of paintings and sketches done when they destroyed the bulk of the Rocks in 1902, march of progress, slum clearances, blah, blah, blah, they did much the same in the 70s, too. Alas, it wasn't so much a piece about lost Sydney or the first stirrings of the heritage movement, as wall after wall of average, romaticised paintings of old houses and streets. All very historical, but, I dunno. I swear I must have seen a similiar exhibition before because it struck me as very samey and it was very timid re development and it barely touched on the plague.
Then I toddled down to the Police and Justice museum which is holding an exhibition, "Sin City" on corrupt Sydney. Amusing to note the contribution to the sleaze culture of drugs and hookers by American servicemen on R&R from ongoing wars, but alas, too much of the exhibition was in the form of a/v presentations, which I didn't really have time to sit through. Amusingly, though, as the P&J museum is run by the HHT and not the local force, it doesn't shy away from the bald truth that the worst criminals and racketeers in NSW have always been the local cops and politicians. I was reading and re-familiarising myself with some antics from the 70s and 80s that'd turn Gene Hunt's hair white, the stuff some of our coppers got up to.
The rest of the museum is small and quaint, just the way I like 'em, with odd bits and bobs under glass, with the old cells and courtroom still intact. If you see any local productions, quite often they film in the P&J museum, which is why the courtroom, front desk and cells are preserved as is and have a slightly film set air, even though they are The Real Thing.
So that was my pre-show entertainment. Feeling uncharacteristically peckish after a week of being green, but only a bit peckish, the pre-show lunch was at the nearest eatery with tables free and ended up being a small bowl of corn and crab meat soup (lovely) and a glass of an indifferent Hunter valley zinfandel.
I always find Hunter wines sour, acidic and bitter, and this was no different, but it was the cheapest, so I got what I paid for. I know, but every couple of years I try another Hunter wine, just to see if they've gotten any better, but no, still only barely bloody drinkable, I'm afraid. I much prefer a WA or SA wine, if I can (not that I know anything and what little I do know I learnt from James May off the telly, oh dear, but I did remember one American wine he liked and I got myself some while I was there and he was right, bloody marvellous drop it was, too).
And yes, I was at the matinee, nana that I am, but the public transport sitch was even more dire than normal with trackwork and the like, so I do tend to go to the earlier performances, if I can. Besides, I can go semi-cas, which is just as well, because the Target wardrobe doesn't really stretch to formal.
I think I forgot to mention I went to the Library's Macquarie exhibition a few weeks back. Stalked out of work early (anything to get away from marinated mean woman) and enjoyed it most thoroughly. He was a good man, was Mac, and look, a lock of hair, so we can clone him. The ultimate Enlightment gentleman, he believed in treating the indigenous population as kindly as possible (tried to set up schools and farms, but the well meaning if paternal attempts at assimilation didn't take) and the rehabilitation of transported convicts in what I always find a stunning and ingenious use of human resources that has never been equalled. Serving convicts and freed men and women were employed as befitted their skill sets, so we had convicted forgers serving as government architects. Francis Greenway, convicted forger, not only designed many of the few buildings of the era still standing in Sydney, he is the only convicted forger to ever appear on a proper banknote.
Beat that, Neal Caffrey.
Mind you, John Macarthur was also on the old banknotes and he was the worst of the lot, imho, and his little cadre set the tone for the old sin city thing which carries on to this day.
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