This cafe still isn't as quiet as I could hope, but it'll have to do. The food is shocking though, not even the coffee is a safe bet (oh, so not, oh dear me, no). I realise now I will never be a writer, but never let it be said I've not suffered for my meagre arts. Certainly not with that coffee. That's real pain, that is.
No indeed. Dreadful coffee aside there were the blisters the size of turnips I gave myself trudging over Manhatten, though that was, originally, meant to be a street photography project but it somehow got sidetracked. Then there was the day I'd set aside for reconnaissance in Oxford that turned out to be blizzardy, and I still went out and took the icy wind in the teeth.
My trips to see the little tin bird, the wall, the baths, Yorkminster, etc, oh I wouldn't swap that. Best ever, it really was. Perhaps I should have stuck with number one fandom. Ah, well.
Okay, Pierrefonds was a grand day out, too, even though I never finished that story, either (very, very Rosemary Sutcliff if you were wondering, only more overt than her Arthurian adventures, just a touch).
I really should take some time off, just so I could start putting all the pieces together, but I just know that I'd finally get onto the mould problem in the bathroom instead. Still, that wouldn't be a bad thing, either.
What I should really do is book a room in the Blue Mountains or something. Should do that. Never will, though.
Meanwhile, this wet weather has demonstrated that yes, indeed, when I had to walk through the drifts of broken glass the other day (bless the little urchins who sail bricks through bus billboards) and I thought I'd cut my foot but couldn't find any blood and so I told myself to stop being so ruddy melodramtic for just one second? Well, it did cut my boots to ribbons. It was just such a clean slice I couldn't see it, but I'm bitterly aware of it now. Picture that episode of MASH were Hawkeye has the hole in his boot and keeps ending up in all the deep puddles. Unhappiness.
Oh, it's the wettest week since 1959, so the papers say, so I feel I am allowed a small whinge. Just a little one. It surely is dampish.
And I was a bit verklempt watching the last space shuttle land. No more space age. Damn you. I was promised science, technology, excitement, astronauts. You give me clowns with pies instead. I am so not impressed right now.
TV? Not much. It rumbled and bumbled about last night and, as I'm such a nana about using the pooter during a thunderstorm (a friend scoffs, and scoffs long and loud, and how many laptops have they fried, including an Apple?) I decided to risk the telly instead (could use an upgrade). As it happens, there was Hex on SciFi (still SciFi here) and there's nothing like a nice hot cup of tea and that nice Mr Fassbender. Oh, it's a daft show, like Skins meets Charmed, but there's Fassy being, well, Fassy down to his bootstraps and I just adore him.
Played back Covert Affairs, yet another show I must endure if I want to cop an eyeful of certain television gentlemen. This week they were in Paris, and it really looked like they were really in Paris, only it was filmed so cheaply it reminded me, perhaps fondly, perhaps not, of Highlander. The Louvre, designer handbags and cafes, is that all Paris is to the Americans? I guess so, really, when I think about it (scrolling loosely through a century's worth of pop culture). Anyways, daft, but it'll do for a wet winter's night. It realy is so Girl From Uncle, though.
Of greater interest are the two gritty American cop shows on at the moment: Detriot 187 and the Chicago Code. I understand there's no point getting too attached to these shows, but I like 'em all the same. The characters are interesting without being objectionable, bar the screechy Ms Beales who really should get her skinny butt over to Law & Order, where all the speechifying is, and just leave me with my worn down cops and their gallows humour.
Oddly, I find these shows remind me very much of those grim northern cop shows from Britain I was addicted to so much, at least until Red Riding overloaded my grim circuits and I've onto airy fairy shows ever since, pretty much. But the grit seems to be slowly creeping back into my tv diet. Anyway, yes, they remind me very much of those bleak Brit shows I loved so much, and I'm curious as to whether there is an influence (not impossible these days with cable, dvds, downloads, etc) or are all decaying, rusting run down post industrial towns the same? If so, there's a paper in there somewhere for someone. You could call it something pretentious like 'The barbarians are at the gate: television policing in a post industrial setting' or something equally ludicrous.
In any case, I like 'em. I don't love them, like stick posters on my door love 'em, but I do enjoy watching them, I will sit down and pay attention, I will get involved and they do make me think. They're just nice, solid, savoury grown up cop shows. Like a nice hearty soup on a cold wet winter's night.
Can't stand Law & Order any more, or as we now call it: Preachy and Screechy. It is so screamingly preachy all the time, and I guess I really noticed in the 90s when everything was 'tonight on a very special Blossom', but these days, it so annoying, so old fashioned, so unpleasant. No wonder they wrapped it up. I tried watching the first episode of L&O:LA last night and managed about five seconds of screechy preachy before it was Off! Off! Off!
That's quite enough of that, thank you. Somebody tell me when Tim's episode is so I can set it and possibly watch it back when well fortified against all the hellfire and brimstone shouting from pulpit.
That's pretty much it. It's still raining.
Monday: I am having a near fatal dose of Mondayitis right now, so you'll have to bear with. I know I'm not to complain, but after a week's worth of record breaking rain battering the house and doing real damage, all the other domestic merde and then having several more projects taken off me at work, well, you should see my reflection. I look so old. Old and fed up.
I've been miserable about the work thing all week. I know it's the way the world works, I do all the hard graft and they swoop in and take the glory and that's why they have the big houses in the nice suburbs and I have the leaky falling down hovell with walls as thin as paper and the sound of gunfire every night. This is my lot and I should be glad of it, but I'm not.
Nor were my ancestors resigned to keep their place and tug the forelock, swing rioters, mutineers and revolutionaries to a man and woman. No, I know who'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes (only I've waited so long, all my hope is gone).
So it was off to see The Cherry Orchard on Saturday, another one of those NT Live broadcasts. Actors from Midsomer doing Chekhov, but doing it well (who knew they had the chops - Zoe was a revelation) and, yes, more revolutionary rumblings as the upper classes flutter and fail to see the writing on the wall. It is intesting, as pointed out, that the play seems to be describing the death of the old Tsarist Russia, but cannot see whether the future is communism or capitalism. As it happens, both. And both Lopakhin and Trofimov are so venal and self serving, despite their philosophies.
There were speeches, but also funny bits, all the characters wickedly observed. I enjoyed it. Though that's quite enough Russian theatre now, I thik. I need to take a break from plays where every's surname ends with a V.
Oh, but the 'theatre' we went to see it in. We thought we'd give the local venue our support, but oh, the Rafferty theatre. What has poor old Chips, local boy wot made it, done to deserve such a theatre in his name? More like some ladies auxillary hall, the little arrangement of flowers in the corner not dispelling the impression at all, with the most uncomfortable plastic council style chairs imaginable, ranged so close together that if those in the back seats crossed their legs we in the front seats were kicked in the back of the head. Horrid, horrid, horrid. I think I'll take the three hour bus ride to the city in future. At least you get comfy seats and cafes.
We did stop off for hot chocolates on the way back to the bus stop, but it was starting to get late and the gangsters, looking like they'd just dropped out of Burn Notice with their designer sunglasses, multiple gold medallions, Maserati and Aston Martins clogging the sidewalk in my miserable little town. You know how gangsters are, they manage to make a million dollars look dead cheap.
Best be on our way, and so we were.
Sunday and the rain let up, for a bit, so it was washing, scrubbing, ironing, sweeping, airing and all sorts, not to mention feeding pretty much all the parrots. I mean all of them. Those that couldn't crowd around the back door, trees, washing line, shed and roof were ranged up and down the street on all sides. And they were hungry, the damaging rains having impeded their foraging. One parrot had his feet coated in white paint which cracked me up no end. Somewhere, someone has parrot prints all through their fresh paint job. Which would have been ruined anyway as the rains swung back as evening set.
Ah well, at least I got out of watering the garden, I guess.
Maybe I'm just grumpy because Foxtel was out almost all weekend (I guess water got in the cables again). I did managed to catch up on Torchwood (we must save the world, but first, some pointless hookups - ah, Torchwood, don't ever change) but only saw 20 mins of White Collar. It was the one with the boiler room and the vault with the comic books and Neal so pissy because he thinks Peter is betraying him, manipulating him and lying to his face. Oh, really, Neal? Pot, kettle, anything? You twat, Neal, considering all the lying you do in S3, and to be honest, I can't see any comeback from what Neal's done. Peter needs to locck him up and throw away the key - anything less will ruin Peter. There is just no excuse. I guess that's why Neal is so upset in this episode, he projects onto Peter his own bad behaviours.
You know, the way liars always assume you're lying as they never do anything else, the way cheaters always get so damn needy and possessive, that sort of thing. In other words, Neal, dear, you are an arsehole. Pretty, but bad to the bone. I worry about poor Peter, I really do. You are going to break his heart so bad, and something tells me, young Caffrey, youo don't want to make Peter really angry. You won't like it. Peter played by gentleman's rules before, but if the gloves come off?
Not on the USA show, though, I'll wager. It'll all be laughing around the water cooler. Oh, you stole all that Nazi plunder. What larks. Harumph.
Other than that? Catching up on Murdoch Mysteries that we missed (dvd), Smallville (ditto) and that was pretty much it. Oh, I did find S3 Buffy on SciFi and sat down with a nice hot lumpy chai tea to enjoy both (buffy and Tea). Well, not so much Buffy but the rest of the gang. And Giles, most of all Giles. I keep giggling, because it'd be just so Uther, to be like most rapid conservatives, completely in the closet about his magic past (here I'm picturing Tony not just as Giles but as Adam Klaus in Jonathan Creek, as well).
Missed Game of Thrones because I was dog tired, but I might as well have sat up for all the miserable fever dreams did to me. I shall watch it back tonight, pvr willing. With any luck there'll be a nice beheading to set me to rights.
PS. Okay, one more Russian. Got home in time for the last half of Spy Who Loved Me. Cheesy funski.
A life of its own (Spirited)
A fighting chance (Eagle)
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