Oh, yesterday was a day. Thanks to everyone who kept me entertained and upright yesterday via tweets, dm, texts and emails yesterday. I really needed the support team. Love youse all. You were like those brave lasses weilding pots of tea during the Blitz.
Today isn't going to be much better but, dammit, I'm taking my half day for the first time this century because, dammit, they owe me, and I am blessed unwell and the Bond fest starts on Fox Classics this arvo and pity the fool who comes between me, the couch, a hot water bottle, a cup of tea and Sean Connery. That's all I'm sayin'.
I'm also wearing by big, silly, snuggly wool coat that is more blanket than coat and looks like it escaped, violently, from 1972, but I love it all the more for that (it kinda got a bit worse for wear lying on the grass at a rock festival in Brisbane at which The Saints were playing, so I feel it has its 70s creds intact even though I bought it in '07). I swore I'd never, ever wear it into work, especially not a day when Bitchy the Perfumed Posho Temp is in, but I needed the comfort, I really did.
I'm still a bit weepy over the dread news about Ms Sladen yesterday. It's funny how some stuff just gets you and you realise just how much a part of your life a character on a silly tv show was, but there you go. She was a big sister, mother, hero, mentor, icon to me, and when they brought her back in the Sarah Jane Adventures, well, I just loved it. So long as there was Sarah Jane, everything was going to be all right. And now she's gone. It's a terrible, faith shaking thing.
At least there's still a Smith in the Tardis.
Oh, what a morning. Woken to sky splitting flashes and bangs going off outside the window. I was all WTF but it turns out it was just your standard car into tellywag pole thang (but sounded and looked so much more dramatic). Anyhoo they closed off the road on account of the live wires so I had to run the 5km to the train station as there were no buses and I was so pleased with myself that I could still move that far and that fast cause I made it in, only a little bit late.
Of course that's when the adrenalin wore off and I realised in fact I couldn't run that far and fast any more (ow, ow, ow, oh the pain, the pain) and then, best of all, the booby prize. In my panic and cabin fever malaise I'd entirely forgotten that I had a meeting in the branch office that morning, so I coulda just turned around and dawdled in via the other direction. Arse! Fek!
So I'm still here, at my desk, having had to ring up and grovel and, oh well, as I couldn't turn around and go back because the road is still blocked off and, oh, well, bugger.
Worse, I'm here alone with the two evil temps, and I've lost count of the snide comments already. A brief moment of joy arrived when someone from one of the cafes downstairs showed up with free coffees. They're all like 'is there sugar in it?' and 'can I get a skinny decafe?'. Me? I'm just so bloody grateful for a free coffee at the precise moment I was about to sink under the desk from a too trying morning (police! fire brigade! ambulance!) so thank you so very much, free coffee people. Your timing was perfect.
Who the hell quibbles over a free coffee? Stuck up byotches.
But that is neither here nor there. The main thing is that I did take the half day gift and walk out and I was home, on the couch with a hot water bottle and a nice hot cup of tea, ready for the opening titles of Dr No. Squee!
The Bond fest? It was fun, though I missed quite a bit of Goldfinger hanging washing on the line (or what's left of the line, though I'm glad I did because the currawongs were right and it bucketed the rest of the weekend, and I am so being burnt at the stake for understanding the currawongs and their discussion of the weather, but I do, demonstrably so).
So yes, it was a (mostly) very wet weekend and so I watched far more Bond on telly than was good for me, I know, but it was fun, from the avarice over the groovy Danish designs in Dr No to playing spot the Shane/Ed/Burt in the earlier films, to nitpicking them wildly (the comments from the Peanut Gallery I cannot even repeat). My two favourite Felixes were Jack Lord from Dr No (the One True Steve) and the passive aggressive one in Goldfinger (Bond's bitch, and he knows it). One could go on seriously about the cold war (though the Russians were never central to the plots so I've no idea why they had all that angst in the 90s) and Britains loss of Empire, but, honestly, it's all about the volcano hideouts, isn't it? And what did happen to Blofeld's cat in You Only Live Twice?
Why is Scaramanga evil for pushing solar energy? And were were all the motorbikes in the big chase in Man With a Golden Gun? Product placement, you're looking at it (though some folks shoulda asked for their money back). Oh, and we laughed at the henchman's lot, especially in The Spy Who Loved Me ('I polish stuff', 'And I change lightbulbs').
And James is such a girl over the spider in his bed (had bigger) and the wild ride into New York - had worse, though I later discovered that there's a thing where if their first fare at the airport is a single woman, NY taxi drivers believe they'll have bad luck all day, which explains if not excuses the extreme wild and bad tempered driving that had me white knuckling it through Brooklyn and Queens or whatever we skidded through.
By Tuesday, deep into rainy long weekend cabin fever and the Brosnan years (sorry, Pierce, I love ya but your films were shite) we moved onto Chuck instead, which meant more Timothy Dalton (yay) and many a spy cliche laid bare and danced upon. And finally, again, all those dreadful 80s films I was dragged to prove to be not a complete waste of time if I can get an in-joke in Chuck. And the bit with the Wookie? How can a scene with a 1977 Kenner collectable make me weepy? Awww.
Oh, and we watched Doctor Who, too. We had too, especially since I was being spoiled big time by the New york Times, LA Times and Guardian, to name the worst offenders. The Guardian, the dears, put the spoiler warning after the big ol' spoiler-riffic screencap. Well, at least they're vaguely aware of the concept of spoilers, at least, unlike the US papers who always put major character deaths and the like in the H1 tags, the bastards, so there's no looking away for even the most cursory glance at the old inbox. So, spoiled already, we dragged it down, at a stunning 8kps (broadband? really?) just so I could go on the interwebs again before whenever we get to see it. Spoilers, people, spoilers. Still, it was nice to see MS in the show. I mean, how could DW go on being the only show without his credentials?
I agree that it was a bit all over the place, but it had its moments. Certainly when we finished up with Bond and turned onto UKTV that evening and found more Doctor Who and yet more Timothy Dalton, we tittered a little about how unfair it was, that David Tennant was once the best Doctor ever. And so he was, quips the Peanut Gallery, 'for another twenty minutes or so'. Oh the cheeky bitch.
Ah, but the weekend wasn't just an accidental Dalton fest, oh no. It was also brought to you by Rufus Sewell, as UKTV couged up Zen (a slow middling cop show with lovely crumbly buildings but I was going to throw something if somebody had remarked upon Zen being either Venetian or the only honest cop in Italy one more time), and W has given us the Pillars of Earth, which, although I was multitasking, wasn't too bad, though I'm glad I caught up on all the backstory in the BBC history magazine (Stephen v Maude). I'm not sure about the weird attempts at regional accents though, and I keep expecting Cadfael (et Hugh) to turn up. Still, it also features Matthew Macfadyen, Ian McShane (at his most moustache twirling) and Tony Curran (last week's actor du jour), so there's usually somebody on screen to interest me.
The weekend? Wet, wet, wet so no gardening or any other outdoorsy jobs, nor was I inclined to go anywhere as it would just up the grimness everytime I even thought about it, and, well, there's just no excuse for the lack of typing/wardrobe culling/magazine culling that was meant to be going on except Bond was on telly and I was all tired and headachey and, well, impossibly lazy, let's face it.
Pity because I really ought to finish the fic as it now sounds like a completely different show, with Peter completely sidelined for Neal's new GF. This me, making gagging noises. It's not my show any more, from what I've read. Not at all.
Pity still, because you should see how my wee tab loaded up a few episodes I copied across to see how it worked. The grabs it picked for Who and Supernatural were abstract at best (wot, no Winchester totty?), but it picked out some very pretty Neal porn shots for White Collar. Such a shame they seem to have ruined just about the only things it had going for it, and I don't mean the Neal porn (I'm sighing over the Peter/Neal friendship and Mrs Burke as the designated adult).
Pity further that there seem to be no articles at all either via google, gossip or the studio channels since Bomer came out last month. Not a peep. That is very disappointing, really. Oh well. Why should I care since I'm not even sure I'll want to watch the show any more.
Why are some US shows so afraid of male friendship? At least Chuck was grown up enough to give us the extraordinarily touching wookie moment, which was silly and poignant at the same time. Still, I suppose that was about the boys growing up and apart, too, but somehow, it seems less forced on Chuck.
Oh well, ruin my show with your screaming homophobia then, whydoncha.
Oh, I almost forgot, there actually was an episode of White Collar on telly. The flashback one. More on that later, much later, but for now, if Peter is supposed to know wines from that fake bottle ep, then why did he buy Neal a bottle so cheap and nasty Neal wouldn't drink it? Did someone forget and make Peter boorish again or was he being a passive agressive arsehole. Either way, it grated.
Or maybe I'm just sensitive over that still ringing rebuke from that spaghetti house in Atarmon with the oh so snotty waiter and his offended airs and graces that we'd dared to bring a screw top into his BYO. We were kids, just out of uni, so the rebuke stuck, and snotty waiters are judged on a sliding scale with him as the perfect score. Yeah, maybe I'm sensitive, but that still doesn't explain what they think they're playing at on the show. Yo, writers, put this stuff on cards, will ya? It's old school, but it works.
They're lucky the Peanut Gallery won't sully himself by watching the show. He'd have a field day ripping into it. You should have heard him during Bond, and Doctor Who, and Downton, worst of all. He watches that with a pile of textbooks by his chair, ready to take issue. We did see off the last disk with a high tea: best Assam, chicken sandwiches and lemon slice. Perfect!
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