I must say, this massive Tom-bombing is bringing me to an appreciation of his many fine qualities, fine qualities that I might have previously overlooked to my great shame. I declare this Tom Riley week. A celebration of Tom.
But that'll do, Tom, let's not go overboard. One thesp once bombed me with nearly a decade's worth of output in a fortnight and I've never really been able to bear the sight of the chap ever since, even if he is sharing the screen with you, dear Tom. One can have too much of a good thing.
Yesterday was a miserable experience, with the bully shooting off nasty emails every couple of minutes, all day, desperate to find fault.
Well, she won't have to look far today. I have had no sleep. None. They were doing roadworks outside my window all last night, the full Tonka truck set of diggers, graders, rollers and all manner of metallic dinosaurs that growled, clanked, crashed, chunked, screamed, shuddered, snuffled and beeped. All night with the beeping.
And if that wasn't enough I had a furious possum stomping around all night in the roof all night in high dudgeon (crimping his style, they were).
I give myself about another twenty minutes or so before my eyes glaze over entirely and all you get out of me is 'beep...beep...beep'.
Pity, because I was enjoying myself typing away for a bit to my music. Oh, if you only knew what I was typing to what. Giggle. Snort. Well, I was amused. I'm not sure if 'Love Hurts' was the right song or very, very wrong song for that moment. Wheeze. Chortle.
And yes, I have a lot of really bad AM radio stuff from my childhood on there, as it's my digital blankie these days, and as my childhood was in the Seventies, you can just imagine the wildly inappropriate tunes that occupy the childhood playlist. Step forward, Supernaut:
It explains a lot, doesn't it. Smirk.
It's probably having been raised solely by telly drag queens and luvvies in the Seventies, both Australian and British (thank you, BBC), that makes me look at those airbrushed young Hollywood boys and shake my head at how very, very tame they are. Oh, my dear, sweet vanilla babies, you missed the Seventies, and there are real and terrible reasons why you never grew up with this, but I did, and aren't I lucky (and I mean that, 'cause I'm very, extraordinarily fond, as my playlist would attest):
Anyhoo, turned on the telly to set it for Suits, and saw Smallville was on, which surprised me as I'd checked the guide and it said Simpsons, but never mind. Nothing like a bit of Smallville to make anything I was worried about in the fic seem sane and tame by comparison. Never mind, pleasantly diverting. Better yet, fangirl squee, there was an ad for Supernatural. Season Seven. Next week. Golly and gosh. Okay, so I've already seen it (if only Dean could just love Cas the way he needs Dean to love him, sorry, so shippy) but still, wow, wasn't expecting that. Shame about the whole Cas thing, though. Way to test the fanbase. Are we all supposed to clap really hard? I do, I do, I do believe in fairies.
Then I ended up staying up for Suits but I was just watching it because by then I couldn't hear a damn thing over the roadworks (so I'm going to have to play it back later anyway), but I think I got the gist. Dearest Suits. It's supposed to be the show I watch when not watching White Collar, but it's rapidly becoming a fave in its own right, eclipsing even (Mike might make mistakes but he's not a douche, and neither is Harvey, deep down).
Meanwhile, Sean Maher came out, and I am seriously surprised that anyone is surprised, as in not fooling anyone, the dear, sweet boy, but yeah, must have been rough and isn't he a brave boy indeed. I hope it doesn't hurt his career (cause I'm awful fond of young Maher).
I do worry about young Matty Bomer. Don't think I didn't notice how he just dropped off the publicity rounds and twitter feeds after he mentioned his family in the public domain. Don't you dare think I didn't notice, and don't you dare think I wasn't annoyed and aggrieved by it, especially as it seems ongoing. He's a beautiful boy and it shouldn't matter. Get over it, Hollywood homophobes (man, you are so in the wrong industry).
In amongst the massive skip's worth of month's worth of posted items that arrived the other day (still don't know what's up with that but the falling dollar and novelty value has already curtailed my intial ebay spree) were bills, yes, but also some damn posh mail. Missives from the Australian Chamber Orchestra, Bell Shakespeare Company, Belvoir Theatre and STC, amongst others. Heh. How I must be skewing their demographics, or, as the cabbie remarked the other day, he never gets anyone in the city going there, ever.
Well, no, the city is designed to keep us out, but as I've already struggled into the city for work they've yet to contrive a way to prevent me from attending a show after work. I say yet. Nevertheless, it was fun to get all that posh mail, and addressed to me, as if I had kulcha and stuff (scratches arse and belches).
So anyway, yes, the great mail mound mystery: larcenous or lazy postal workers, the AFP inspecting all my ebay purchases, the street with the nearly same name two blocks away (thank you, town planners) finally coughing up? Who cares, I have loot, I'm still rolling in loot. I'm opening just one or two a night. It's like an advent calendar. Only with cool stuff. Whee!
Did I mention the cabbie from Monday night though? Exactly the kind of dangerously excitable cabbie Roger Moore was always getting when he was James Bond. I think we nearly ran over Iva Davies as we lurched off outside the theatre. Yikes. (Well, it looked like Iva, we were taking off at Warp Six so it was hard to tell).
Nothing going on this week, mercifully. Here's hoping I can get some typing done.
Fabby. Just ran into someone on my way back from the park. Why is it that I always imagine my lunchtimes like this, but I end up so windswept and covered in twigs that I look like I have indeed been dragged through brambles backwards, rocking the Worzel Gummidge look. Sigh.
Sometimes I do actually sympathise with Neal, you know, wishing the world was more like it should be, instead of the way it is.
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