mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

winter of discontent

Another week of things not going entirely to plan, and I will start by telling you about the tea party on the patio, which the Peanut Gallery rated three 'Mirandas' in not going wellness.

It all seemed so easy. Too easy. It was a lovely sunny morning so I set to typing and went on until I finished up to the end of one notebook, so yes, the planned tea was an hour late, but only an hour. By the time I'd set the tray with pretty cups and my favourite teapot, boiled the tea (Fortnum's) and toasted the bread for my brand new batch of marmalade, some clouds had rolled up but I wasn't concerned because I'm used to clouds hanging on the back fence for days before silently slinking off again with nary a squirt.

So down we sat, poured the tea, and poured the marmalade, which on Saturday was sweet and setting on the spoon as required, was now biter and astringent and as runny as anything. Sigh. Mutter. And then, crash. Or rather, a rumble, which I insisted was yet another low flying 747, but then the crash. Oh. Oh dear. I packed up the tea set in a hurry and barely had the screen door slam behind me when down it came.

So much for the tea, which we finished darkly indoors as the brief but intense storm passed over (and wound around all afternoon, putting the kybosh on all plans to continue with my wee pc as I'm loathe to switch the wee fella on during storms and his battery power ain't what it used to be, I guess PC years are worse than dog years).

So that was that. One morning tea even the Mad Hatter would tsk at for its complete lack of sense or form. Sigh.

Tried putting up the tree but I was such a butter fingers (not even the residual stickiness of the marmalade helped) I kept to the reasonably non breakable decorations so it's what the PG calls a Tennessee tree again, ie a hanging tree as all my little collectable historical pesonages dangle from the branches in effigy form.

It's interesting, because as much as I would be interested in collecting them, I have no possibly controversial figures. No James I/VI, no Guy Fawkes, no Charles Darwin. No Oliver Cromwell, either, though that would be ironic - grin. I have Harold, but no William, Henry VIII but none of his court, certainly no Richard III. I wonder if I just can't find them, or if they're not made. Don't mind me, I'd just like my rogues gallery to be a little more rogue-ish, you know?

So there was the watching of Jude Law's Holmes flick during a dark and soggy lunch, and that's pretty much it. Kind of wasted the day as I couldn't do anything on the top of my to do list and I was lacking motivation to move down the list, as I should have.

Saturday was sunny and hot and I did my alloted spot of gardening (that is, until the green bin is filled to the brim) and got myself sunburnt, scratched, bit and rashed for my troubles (still scratching, just so as you know). Oh, and I made the marmalade, consisting of the meagre spoils of four trees which only amounted to a handful (one produced none at all, the others only one or two, my best tree was either over ripe or under) which I had to pad out with oranges and pears and the secret ingredients and I thought it went well, then. Sigh.

That was the weekend, a rather nothing weekend, but quiet is probably good.

This week Himself is off in Wellywood giving a paper, so it's just me, lonely lady meals and my one eyed parrot. Such is life, eh?

Sorry, wet weather is getting me down. And it's cold, so cold. Coldest December in something like fifty years, so they say. So I'm still rocking the long sleeves and leggings. It's been a long, long winter for me, starting in February when I went over to England, only to get a week of Summer before the cold winds blew, and they've been blowing ever since. It is is December and I am still wearing the same jumper I've been wearing since February (okay, yes, I've washed it, often, but that's not the point).

Yesterday I made the mistake of wearing the jersey print wrap dress I use to quickly and easily tart myself up (so I like to think) when I go to the threate in London, just putting it on over my black long sleeved top and leggings (or jeans, if it's really biting). Yes, I look like a Qantas hostie circa 1973, but that's neither here nor there as I was called 'sir' again as I walked home. That's it. I am stalking to my room, slamming the door and never coming out again, ever. Sigh. My life, you want it? One little old lady owner.

Wednesday: Someone's been smoking in the loo, and not the usual gaspers, either. I can use that as an excuse for why I'm just sitting here staring into space, and not a complete lack of sleep on my part. What on earth do you do when coffee doesn't do it any more?

Anyways, yes, out late, late last night, creeping home past the witching hour, having to plunge my hand blindly into the letterbox like a tarantula lucky dip to collect the day's post, then I walked into an enormous spider web. In the kitchen. Fek, I'd only been gone, well, twenty hours or so, I guess, but still. That's it, I'm swishing the broom about again come the weekend, light fittings be damned.

I went off to see that Richard III thing that everyone's talking about. It was okay. I found their lack of sheep disturbing.

What I should not have done was read the bad review before I went, because instead of finding old Kev a charming ham, playing up to the audience with broad nods and winks, the way they did in just about every one of Bill's plays I've seen this year, I found myself thinking what a shameless and greedy thesp he was, when that was exactly the point, old Dicky was shameless and greedy.

I wish I'd enjoyed it more, but there you go. My seat was kind of horrible and the audience, for some reason top heavy with VIPs, or, at least, people who thought they were very important indeed, I found off putting, especially the woman who charged and gouged me so badly in the loo queue I had to check for tears and blood, she slammed me worse than any contact sport I ever played, and what was I doing? Standing in the loo queue minding my own damn business, that what. I spent the whole second half bruised and miserable.

Which I merely mention as background as to why the play and players had an uphill battle before them, and why they didn't quite make it. Couldn't see the set (did I mention how completely crap my seat was?) so I can't comment, and I heard others remarks that some of the other roles weren't all that, and yes, I'm not used to Yanks attempting the Bard (and I do mean attempt) but the Brits rounding out the cast I loved, especially the actress playing mad Queen Margaret, she of the underwire bra in Spooks. Love her to bits. There was another actress and I couldn't work out if I'd seen her in Lewis or Poirot or Midsomer or Dalziel and Pascoe (it was all of the above).

The guy playing Buckingham, though, he was a treasure. The way he played Bucks as such an oily, modern day politician, swinging whichever way the wind blows, always trying for his own advantage, the way he grinned and preened, it was showy, but funny.

Mr Spacey, as the vicious old scallywag, like a spiteful and selfish child playing with toys, it was a grand performance. Perhaps a touch OTT for those who like their Shakespeare a little more constrained and British, but just as OTT as any of the local productions I've seen and it worked for the role, and, hey, I've seen him live on stage now (hell, he even delivered some lines at me, down the blade of a sword).

I'm sorry, I'm tired, I need to ruminate on it some more. Not as much fun as the Belvoir mob, but not bad, just me not in the zone, I guess. But I saw it and I can reflect on it and enjoy it more as I play it back in my head.

What I did enjoy though was the pre show dinner. I'd fully intended to have a proper meal since I'm being left to my own devices right now (and I'm about to run out of bread and cheese so even cheese on toast is going off the menu) but I was running late from work so I cheated and just ducked into the casino (where the theatre was). The resturant was fully booked but they had some tables round the side with a set menu for walk-ins (how clever).

The view was pretty damn cool (cooler than the posh tables, imho), and the two waiters who looked after me lovely and kind, selecting an excellent wine for me (pricey but drinkable) to go with the lamb I chose (the other option was a prawn soup but as I'd already chucked half a cup of tea down my silk skirt I figured soup was a no no) and they even came around pimping the dessert menu, even though the skinny blonde bitch in charge of seating kept standing people over my table and telling them I'd be done in five. They told me not to mind her and bought me another coffee. Dear boys, bless you. And the dessert was worth pimping. The lamb might have been overcooked (resulting in some very Proustian times) but the dessert was perfection, some form of rum baba with poached stone fruits, possibly peach or apricot, I couldn't tell, they were pretty poached, but it was so delicious and just hit the spot (and hello, one fruit serving - grin).

So that I enjoyed, at least (except for the table intimidation, very poor form, imho, just because I wasn't wearing designer duds didn't mean I wasn't going to order anything the queer dears told me to, another glass of that very expensive wine, why yes, you sweet, tasty, boy, you).

So, that was my night. Now I am somewhat worn (on a school night, tsk) but upright, at least. Bit of a rubbish day, though, at least on the bus when my nose started bleeding all of a sudden, as it does, and there weren't any tissues in the front pocket of my bag as always and as I desperately plunged my hand into the bottom of my bag searching for that spare packet that must be in there somewhere (I have the world's biggest handbag) and I must have wriggled on the seat too much as the crusty old barnacle sitting next to me abused me most heartily, especially when I didn't stop immediately and kept diving frantically into my bag but it was running down my chin at this point and poised to drip onto my favourite tangerine jumper (yes, jumper, nice winter we're having) before I came up triumphant with tissues. He was about to hit me and I reckon he only stopped because I already had a bloody nose.

Some people. I was only fishing for a tissue. (If I was wriggling and making the cheap seat jiggle then surely he could have borne it for the 40 seconds or so it took me to find those bastard tissues). It's only because I'm ugly that I'm abused so. If I was blonde and skinny I would have been offered a tissue, not a thumping. It's true, too, there have been studies, pretty people have it swell. I just cop abuse from pillar to post. Jeebus, I sit (or, more usually, stand) quietly every day with my book (currently I Claudius) and all I was doing was fishing for a tissue. You'd think I'd just lifted a couple of hundred from his wallet, the way he reacted.

At least the old guy on the fruit stand gave me a smile. I don't care how much he marks up his apples, it's worth it for that (lookit, another serving of fruit, no scurvy for me while the chef is away).

So that's my last 24 hours: thumped and knocked flying in the loo, glowered at in resturants and threatened with another thumping on the bus. And all I wanted to do was pee, eat and wipe my nose. I am clearly the worst person alive ever. Richard III has nothing on my apparent and manifest evil. Turn away, look not upon the unclean thing.

Meanwhile, in my unrepentent wickedness, I'm tittering over an article that sternly instructs the reader to use plain english when writing for the web, then went on to use 'hence' in the sentence. Oh, I know, glass houses and I can't send you the url because it's vaguely work related and I mustn't mention the unendurable misery that is work, but it bemused me.

Btw, a website I may or may not have worked on just hit a seven on the old PageRank, which is nice, just before they pull the plug. Such is life, eh? A seven is pretty darn good, if you're not up on that sort of thing. Ah well, look on my works, ye mighty, and despair, etc, etc.

Thursday: Never getting the hang of, etc. Especially this oarticular Thursday. Now I thought having to run down to the shops in the cold, pouring rain, stagger back from the shops in said rain, and pushing out the rubbish bins, and I'm sure ever single branch had to slap me wetly in the face on the path as I went, and then getting even more soaking wet when I put out some soon to be porridge seedbricks for the very soggy angry birds sitting pitifully in the tree.

I took pity and now I'm going to pay for it because they're not happy and I think I'm coming down with a cold. Huddled in bed wearing four jumpers and struggle with a connection that was so dire every page I tred to get to told me to check I was actually connected to the internet. Barely. Dear Telstra, I pay you over a hundred dollars a month for broadband and .04 kps ain't broadband. Thieves and liars (but I'm locked in as the net account was tied to the house account which I can't close without the registered owner's permission, and, well, that ain't gonna happen this side of judgement day).

But that was milk and honey and fluffy white bunnies compared to today. The bus zoomed past not picking up anyone so I had to wait another 90 minutes in the pouting rain, in addition to the twenty minutes I'd already spent (in case it was early or on time) and the next bus shot past full, so another long wait in the rain, then standing up all the way in, another two hours. Dripping in just ten minutes before everyone else (instead of my usual time when I can get everything done in peace and quiet) and, to top it off, I've torn my favourite cardigan (I fell over, rushing). Oh well, it is my favourite and it'll be my house cardy now until it completely falls apart, which will be tomorrow the rate it's going.

I know, you're wondering where my raincoat is. Lost to the ages, that's where. It hasn't rained like this since the 80s, and I wish I could fit into my 80s raincoat, trust me. Oh, it was a cheeky and silly little red plastic number, covered in small black polka dots. Well, it was the 80s and I was a teenager. It was cute. But I've never owned one since. And the moment I buy one, it'll be dry as dust for another century, such was the fate of the little red raincoat. I shall let myself get soaked, for the sake of drought-breaking. No scarifice too small, etc, etc.

The whole coming down with a nasty winter cold is no longer speculative, btw, so gird your loins as I will be whining expansively as I feel awful, but more than that, it's how unreasonable and unfair it is to be suffering a bad winter cold for xmas (stabs angrily at the globe pointing out the southern hemisphere). Snuffle. Wheeze. Sigh.

And I haven't even started organising Xmas yet. Oh...bugger.

Friday: Feeling far more cheery today and the only difference is I finally had a good feed, all the stuff I like, including grilled tomatoes and sweetcorn, which makes such a change to the mono vegetable obsession of others (potatoes, potatoes, potatoes). It was so delicious, having my own personal favourites, just the way I liked them. Merrily finished decking out the tree, and yes, it's heavy with baubles but I hate a bare tree. Give my shiny, sparkly, things, darling, and lots of 'em. The rest of the house is a complete sty but at least I have my yearly, magical shiny thing.

Watched a Doctor Who repeat (wee Davey, chewing the scenery, bless), had a nice hot cup of tea, and totally dozed off like a nana ten minutes into the one telly program I did want to watch this week. Ah, well. And it was being all silly and Department S, too (ghost written by Dennis Spooner's ghost again? Sure played like it, the ten minutes I saw). Shucky darn, shall have to look out for the dvd for closure.

Oh, thought I'd ticked off the Xmas shopping but the little rascal just emailed me to say he'd picked up the very boxset in NZ, so back to the shops/online for me. Bugger.

Btw, I know it's poor form, but some emails are too funny not to share:

Hotel good with one exception (and a rather obvious one, with hindsight). My room faces onto eponymous 'Atrium'. One imagines the architect (poodle-perm mullet, jacket with sleeves rolled up) convincing the developer (ponytail, red braces) with catchphrases like 'atrium', 'light well' and 'communal courtyard'. What it actually is, however, is a panopticon, complete with creepy Rear Window vibe.

...Downton Abbey... had already decided to watch finale when Prime aired 60 second ad in Spoiler-ama-vision. [orange level spoiler alert follows] Bit of reception problem with the digital TV as well; the Earl of Grantham turned lurid green so often I began to wonder if __________ was really killed by giant maggots; but the best effect was every second pixel freezing, while the rest carried on with the action. Marvellous scene where Dowager Violet says something cutting and pithy to Matthew and he storms out (surely, that's not a spoiler): Matthew appeared to walk out of Violet's mouth (a la that old Grace Jones Citroen ad). Who needs Weta when you've got Tinakori Hill?

Meanwhile, saddened to hear of Harry Morgan's death. He was indeed a fatherly figure on tv, and rather beloved by me, especially one night I still remember with alarming clarity when I was so ill, and he was on some tv movie, this being before cable or dvd or anything, so it was tv movie or nothing, and I remember with watching him on my tiny black and white telly, all that night. He kept me steady, the comforting and familiar voice in the darkness. He might have just been an actor spouting lines on television, but his quiet dignity, that wicked twinkle in his eyes, I would say he was a formative influence.

In fact, MASH was one of my favourite shows as a child, and, without wanting to give Fox any further ammo, it did impress upon me a great many things, not the least how to deal (or not) with office bullies like Frank Burns, how to rort the system like Radar (not that I ever would, ahem, but hypothetically, more effective than you'd think) and, well, Hawkeye, whom, I know, is not well regarded these days, but to me, he was the very stuff of legend.

Anyhoo, that's me, for the moment.

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Tags: doctor who, downton abbey, mash, theatre

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