I am pining. There's going to be more, yes, even more, misery and petulant stamping about than usual, for I am not leaving on a jet plane as planned, as I had been looking forward to for well over a year and a half. All my hopes and dreams once more fall victim to other people's merde. I could and should just up and go, sod 'em, sod 'em all but I suffer from a triple blow of being a capricorn, an eldest child and raised proddy. So it's duty and misery above living my life and doing what I want to do. Again. Hence the pissy pity party.
It's not like I'm being thanked, either. It's just expected. I am so not happy, especially as this was all I had to carry me along for so long. They don't give medals to those who stay home and iron and fix other people's mistakes.
So, that's that then. No Jude or David or National Gallery or British Museum for me.
It's a good thing they've finished playing season one of White Collar out here because I'd find Neal's constant whining about being stuck in New York very, very trying, right about now. He should try being stranded in Sydney, far, far away from everything that is good and right. It was once considered a fit punishment for criminals, you know, being exiled here. Still is. A fate worse than a fate worse than death.
So here I am, stranded, grounded, stuck here, through no real fault of my own, fearing that as I give in now I will never, ever leave again. I probably won't. I hate this.
|It's not Paris http://t.co/29KFZo4|
|It's not London http://t.co/hvofYKt|
|It's not New York either http://t.co/b6Hcb2J|
Nope, nowhere interesting like that. http://t.co/PCn3ZEy
I tried going down to Melbourne on the weekend, just to soften the blow, but it was all monkey trumpets from start to finish, I couldn't get my regular room, the one I was in was horrid (so no sitting at the window typing as planned), my flight back was delayed three hours then cancelled, and I did my ankle in again leaping down from a tram loaded with heavy art catalogues.
I did get to see the Vienna thing. They promised walls and walls of Klimt but ended up just showing off mainly chairs and coffee sets but I'm not a huge fan of Klimt and I love me an Art Nouveau chair or coffee set so I was happy, at least, to see those, though I'm fairly sure the coffee parties wouldn't go on too long if you had to perch delicately in one of those chairs. More form than function, methinks.
They even had a Charles Rennie Mackintosh chair, to show the obvious influences (these days he'd be sending out COD letters), from that cafe in Glasgow. I have sat in a replica of those chairs in that cafe in Glasgow. Sat for quite a while, indeed, so long a nearby couple took sympathy and pleaded with the waitress to stop ignoring me and take my order. The food was horrid. I don't know what I did to so offend the Willow Tearooms but it's sure taken the shine off my lifelong love of CRM, alas.
Never mind, there were some William Morris inspired prints as well (fie on those who keep saying the PRB went nowhere and inspired none) so I was happy. I like old posters. I like old posters lots (I blame Parrabooks with its long demolished should have been heritage listed ceiling and walls papered over and over with old posters to bohemian effect).
I was bemused at the architectural plans, too. Of all the many, many plans I had to deal with, they never had nudes cavorting in the borders, more's the pity.
So I liked that. And I like the rest of the NGV. It truly is like, albiet a much, much smaller, version of the V&A, or, at least, I like to pretend it is, with a room or two of the Tate thrown in. They'd rearranged everything, too, so I had to wander from top to bottom, marvel at new things, grizzle at missing old faves. There's lots of European stuff there, some classy stuff, too, like Tiepolo, most of which were, cough, sold to the NGV by the Soviets, which makes me wonder how young Mr Caffrey could possibly have a warehouse full of loot stolen from the Hermitage by the Nazis when the NGV seems to have picked up quite a few bargains in the early 1930s. I'm just wondering.
Neal Caffrey: satisfied with the NGV's leavings. Snorkle.
Anyhoo, I'm not about to question it, the NGV has the receipts and I, for one, am happy to have cool stuff that is only a short plane ride away.
I also trotted up to the library to see a couple of their exhibitions. The general history one of Victoria was okay, except of course I'm fuzzy on the details because we naturally glossed over the history of that troublesome southern upstart of a colony - grin. Mind you, when you get round to Ned Kelly's armour, even though it's a replica, it's damn impressive (and inventive). It is, indeed, iconic.
There was also a display of old books, or, the history of the printed page, sort of like the exhibitions you get at the British Library. They had a Morris print of Chaucer, which cheered me up greatly (the NGV also had some Morris prints), and a book illustrating Sir Hamilton's collection of greek vases, and, gazing upon all the fit young chaps chasing each other across the pages, I understand Lady Hamilton a little more. A woman with some spare time on her hands, as Himself archly observed.
One of the books was called 'the golden treasure'. Heh. It would have been funny if Neal's treasure had just been an old book. It's the words, dummy, not the gold. Well, it amused me. I love pouring over old books, but I did miss the a/v interaction that the British Library had in that fabby exhibition I went to (especially when they read to me the Latin or Old English that I can't read for myself). Sigh. Still, making do, and they still had a page of a Gutenberg, which always reminds me of the old Pagemaker 5 defaults. It shouldn't, but it does.
There's also a small gallery there, mainly of Melbourne vistas, and a room of scary arse impossibly stern Victorians. Victorian Victorians, at that (ie Victorians from the 19thC). The only one who didn't scare the beejesus out of me was the man with sparkly eyes who turned out to be Peter Lalor, MP. At which point I must say fie on my education, and, worse, fie on my taking it spoonfed and not looking it up for myself because I was only ever taught of his arrest, never that after Eureka he ended up Speaker of the House, no less. Such an interesting life. Fie on my whitewashed and white-anted we'll make no role models out of rabble rousers education. Fie, fie, fie.
Speaking of bad boys with sparkly eyes, missed out on the hat as it went for crazy prices, but I was determined to spend my cancelled airfare on it, but it went well past that. I surprised myself by how upset I was by that, because I've really no need of a stupid hat. Nevertheless I wobbled unhappily across the road from my favourite laneway cafe and the first shop I went into had cheap knockoffs for half price plus store discount and so I found myself with a hat anyway, making do, and it's not as fine, not by a very long shot, but it proves my point that I've no need of a hat because I looked particularly disreputable in it. Nevertheless it was useful in keeping off the sun as I wandered about the park, scaring old ladies and ducks.
I'd managed to find a newsagent, got myself an new notebook and set to scrawling away merrily until I was chased out of my seat by a wedding party. Though shalt not be allowed to ruin the wedding photos by lurking in the background with a stupid hat (even though it was a public park and I had every right, but no matter, there's me, being pushed over and away again).
I did find Jane Eyre on, too, mercifully. Couldn't find it on anywhere in the cinemas I knew about but after a web search that took longer than the actual film running time I did find it on at a boutique cinema down on Collins St so I got my Fassy fix (the re-busted ankle had stumped my plans for walking about taking photos, somewhat). Now you know I love Fassy, but I'm not sure he bumped Toby Stephens from my idea of Rochester, not at all. Not that Toby was ever my idea of Rochester (I grew up with Dalton) but I loved his version so much I'm afraid not even Fassy could dislodge him.
And I'm saying this after sitting through half of Die Another Day on Fox Classics while I was catching up on the irooning (always ironing). [UPDATE: after all that no David and no Jude my dept was just abolished this afternoon. so worth it].
What else? Went up to the Queen Victoria markets which were not as wow as I'd been told (cheap Chinese knockoffs as far as the eye could see, and manadarins that looked as sad as the ones the possums left on our tree) and also do not open early as advertised, not at all, nor did the park opposite retain its quaint statuary (as advised) and the quirky church was under scaffolding.
So I didn't see as much as I'd hoped, or take any photos I have a desperate need to share, but I still like Melbourne okay. It's the closest thing to being in Europe if they won't let you go to Europe. I make do.
Making do, making do, she says between gritted teeth. Always making do. Yes, I am a touch bitter today. Bitter and vicious and annoyed at others who seem to have everything handed to them on a plate, but no plates for me. Not even a trencher. Just being yelled at. I try, and I get yelled at, and there's no David Tennant for me. Not now. Not ever.
It was a long hard thirteen hour day without a break and much being screamed at for doing nothing so much as quietly churning through my dutties. I'd planned to pop round to the gallery so the day wouldn't be wall to wall drudge but no.
Fortunately I had decided to, when my leave was torn up, to buy tickets to see Dylan Moran, who was in town. Compensatory Dylan Moran. In the State Theatre, which I adore, and there were half time icecreams, just like at the Wyndham, but I'm afraid as much as I did laugh out loud and laugh out loud lots as Mr Moran complained of growing old (me, nodding along) and demonstrating his grumpy old man credentials, I was sitting there demanding 'be funnier, Dylan, damn and blast your eyes, for I am missing David'.
It was far, far better than just going home and sitting in my room and have the cable go off again, as I was certain it would (it didn't, just this once), and Mr Moran was funny, but it wasn't David.
Sad thing is, after all this work, I'll probably be restructed into redundancy next week. Such is life, as Ned Kelly is reputed to have said, he of the Mona Lisa smile on his death mask, so he probably did. Iconic to the last.
So that was Melbourne. Adieu, Melbourne.
Meanwhile, the first, and indeed 131st thing I thought of when I heard the news that young Matty Bomer was going to be playing a stripper was to carry on like a lecherous cartoon wolf, but I gotta say, I was surprised. Especially as young Mr Bomer has so far cultivated a coy and private persona, especially when it comes to ogling his fine form. He does realise that he is going to be tumblr'd to within an inch of his life, right?
Whatever, his choices, and sure, I'll watch, I have no shame (and neither, it seems, does young Matty) but please, please don't let it be Showgirls II. Actually, it'd probably be funny if it was, since there's no way I'm going to be watching it in a right and proper fashion anyway. Nevertheless, I just couldn't help going to the Cupid Stunt place, 'And then all my clothes fall off, but's all done in the best possible taste!'.
Dear Matty, it's like he's in and out like the little man in the dapper suit on the old weather gauge we have, who swings out of his wee pillar box if it's sunny but swings back in when it's dampish. It bemuses me, but again, whatever.
But seriously, making me sit through another Channing Tatum film? Matty, what did I do wrong that you must make me suffer so? Yep, still grizzling over my beloved Marcus being given into the hands of an earnest American thespian.
I shall write loads and loads of bad Marcus fic, just cause, you see if I don't (yeah, I know, as if I've finished a fic since 2005, oddly enough, exactly when the bully came charging and snarling into my life).
I know, me on flights of fancy again, but do you really want to tall about how the bully just reduced me to tears when after all I'd sacrificed, all I'd done, she still had to snap and snarl. And I wasn't feeling at all well, it's TVPG14 down there.
The email system has been down all day. It finally sent around instructions on how to reboot the system. Via email. Genius.
It's like when the Peanut Gallery was heckling the S1 finale of White Collar (S3? Forget it) when Diana pretends to be from IT while messing about with Fowler's PC:
'What? IT have been there already? I only logged that help call this morning. That is highly suspicious behaviour. Oh, she deleted all my files? I guess she was from IT afterall.'
Or are we projecting just a bit? Afterwards we tried to decide just what Fowler was ordering down at Starbucks and decided upon a skinny decaf caramel macchiato with cream and extra chocolate sprinkles, cause I figure he's a secret girly drink guy. Not that there's anything wrong with that, we were just taking the piss as Fowler always lacked a certain menance.
So, I curled up and watched 'Let's Kill Hitler'. Now I'm aware of the complaints about the current state of Who and at first I thought they were all RTD apologists and anything is better than burping bins and I've been a fan of Mr Moffat since Press Gang, never mind Coupling, but, and it might have been because I was ill, tired and upset, but that never stopped me digging it big time last year. So I watched, and I gotta say, WTF? I have no idea. I never thought I'd say this, but seriously, can we just get back to the business of running down corridors away from monsters? Thank you.
No shortage of that on the old Tom Baker episodes they've been showing on Sci Fi. I cannot describe them to you at all because I am totally viewing them through the nostalgia goggles, but, man, it's been fun. At least I'm not quite as bad as the Peanut Gallery who can recite along with the show. Me, I'm just wallowing in the adventures of my beloved Sarah Jane. She was such a sweetheart. So darn plucky and endearingly British. It's such a treat to see these again. In fact, I'd better not be delayed as it's the Zygons tonight. Classic!
Well, I was delayed, but the pvr had a rare altruistic moment and taped it for me. I know, but I'm old and tired and we'll just leave it. Not so tired I wasn't wondering how the Doctor could refer to Shakespeare as a lovely chap when the later Tennant ep gave every indication that this was their first meeting. I know, wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. Either that or he was faking. That too. Retcon error? Never!
Nor will I ponder on why the Zygons fetched the step ladder that helped Sarah Jane find their secret base. And how come they never had a book case that slid back to reveal secret passages in the library in Buffy? Seriously, could they not? A terrible oversight, imho.
Weekend was TVPG14 unwell, so there was no yum cha, no typing and no gardening of any kind (tearing a few weeds out by the roots in passing does not count). It was all I could do to shift myself from the fainting couch (lovely term) to the porch for tea. I was so wrecked I couldn't even manage tv or a book.
I did get the Doctor Who/Torchwood double on Saturday and the Guardian review did remind me that the Doctor Who episode did have some good lines, but I'm still a bit meh on it in the cold light of day. Torchwood I loved, though. Not as great as that wonderful Jack-centric episode (and why don't they just ever do Jack episodes, they're always the best) but we were back in Wales and it suddenly felt like Torchwood again. I think that's where they went wrong. It works better with the Yanks in the UK, not the other way around, it really does. Anyway, story finally kicking along and finally being more like the old Torchwood I knew and loved and hated (depending on whose episode it was, okay, so it's still Torchwood I guess and Rex and Esther are so the new Tosh and Owen). Anyway, much love.
Game of Thrones, well, it was that episode so whimper. Watched a bit of Lewis afterwards, since I need a restorative cup of tea after GoT, and they're playing S2 now so it's still fairly fun. Oh, boys.
I'd forgotten that wen I started my White Collar fic I was still watching the Fixer and Lewis. It kind of shows - grin. My Peter does borrow some of Lenny's vicious deviousness and Lewis's grumpiness, though it took WC three seasons to catch up - grin.
Oh, then there was True Blood. It was pretty much blah blah blah but so worth it for Alex's naughty boy oopsie expression at the end. Too cute. I can just see that smile having had a lot of traction for the boy.
Oh, I also watched Wild Boys, mainly because there's still a place in my heart for Sgt McKellar. It wasn't bad, for local telly. Bit obvious, and they've clearly seen Robin Hood, alas (and could Mr Sims be an even more moustache twirling Sheriff of Nottingham if he tried?) but at least it's not cops/doctors/lawyers.
Btw, as if to prove that Ned Kelly still remains iconic, here are his iconic remains, headlining all the media (btw, trending on Twitter yesterday).
Ned Kelly's remains found
No bones about it, remains really are Ned Kelly's
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