And as for me in the glasshouse? Hardworking? Sort of. Good? That's a matter of opinion. December is getting away from me this year, like a greased pig with a firecracker up its arse. Cards will be lucky to arrive before Burns night (if you'd like a late but sparkly and well intentioned card, drop me a line and your addy privately), no presents have been bought (UK orders all cancelled or delayed, and Himself just went out and bought what I'd had for him, which is poor form in my book, especially as I'm completely bereft of ideas now). Can't talk about work and as for getting the house in some sort of order, well, I just give up, I really do.
Even today's lunchtime plans have been cancelled on me, losing me a $100 deposit. I swear, with the hormones (oh, hello, just what I effin' well needed right now), I could snap two candy canes in half and come lunging at deserving eejits with the sharp sticky ends and if I get one more stupid question or act of wilful or careless sabotage I really will.
Bah and very much, humbug, as usual. Picture me the disgruntled anti-Santa Xmas ninja, Xena style. Well, that's how I feel, anyway.
What have I done this week? Oh, where to start. How about the storm? Sunday, waking to chirping birdsong (which equates to the SQUARRRRRRK! of angry parrots where I live) I got up, did the shopping, lugging about 40kg of groceries back up two hills, who needs a gym, swept down all the paths and lawns, did the washing, actually got in some typing (while the washing loads went round and round) finished cleaning the kitchen, got the tea and cakes ready and then, when all was done and ready for the arrival home of the weary traveller, I retired indoors from the baking sun to catch up on the interwebs.
About an hour or so later, halfway through an email, and unknown to me as I had the curtains drawn against the sun, boom! In comes the roaring wind. Bang! goes the thunder. Ack, what to save first? I unplug the PC and shut down on battery while I race out to rescue the washing, still dampish and whirling about on the hills hoist at 75rpm, I kid you not, which was a great challenge to get off without losing head and/or fingers but I did it. I did bang up my ankle really badly, though, as I cannot leap down the back steps Royal Navy style any more.
So, waited for storm to pass, hobbled around ironing, raking up all the leaves that had fallen, and had been tracked through the house by me, washed up, tried to compose myself, did some more dusting, saw some of a young Damian Lewis in Poirot, and then Himself arrived, late, right in the middle of a big episode in Merlin (whimper) and I made tea all through Boardwalk. And he was reeking of hotel soap which had me coughing everywhere. I had planned cake and tea but all he got was a grumpy, coughing, sneezing, overtired and overwrought harridan with a gimpy ankle. Sigh.
I am a bad, bad person.
Rest of the week hasn't been much better. ISP was slowed to a stop on Monday night so I couldn't even get the Brit List away and by the time I finally got the chance to sit down with pen and paper I was so tired I could not (and can not) remember the scene I'd wanted so much to write, and damn, because it was a cute scene, the two boys riffing away like a screwball comedy couple in an old black and white film, which they should always do but never do. But no, all gone. That was the sharpest cut of all, I think.
PM update: Sssh...while the cats are away this mouse will play. Snuck out for a longish lunch and got my hair done, and they worked miracles. For once I bounced, rather than slunk, from the salon. Damn, where have those girls been all my life. Waste of good hair on an old head now. My hair is looking exactly the way I always wanted it to, but it never did. Too late, alas. Sigh.
And now I can't remember the scene I was supposed to be writing today. Damn. My days are just too long, my brain too small. Oh well. I was trying to write some cute scenes, but every man and his dog seems out to stop me. Not that it matters. Neal is so damn up himself I am resolved to chucking him down a waterfall forthwith. Sans floaties.
Thursday: Dear Universe, thank you from the bottom of my squishy bits for diverting the people who hurl abuse at me to other locales and for keeping by me the people who offer comfort, tea, shoulder rubs and pudding. I could have not done today otherwise. Phew.
I also collected some more effusive compliments re the hair. It is great hair (even if I do look like Gwen from Torchwood now, same hair, same face), the best, I'm just still unfairly miffed that I have great hair too late, like I could have really used this hair before now, dammit. Ah well, I shall have great hair this week, I guess. One week in my bad hair existence.
Friday: I haven't had a chance to write anything, of course, but if I had, Peter might have found himself a new hobby. Oh dear.
Again, by the time it came to finally touch pen to paper, when I thought I might be free of all interuption, I was too tired to remember anything of the scene, especially the dialogue, except for the long Pinter silence that descends as everyone around the table suddenly becomes aware that everyone there has slept with Neal. Awkward. That slutty, slutty boy. And a gold star for Caffrey, as around the table are seated a husband and wife and a father and daughter.
As I now have to try and rewrite it, I'm not sure if what happens next should be from the British, American of Rusiian school of drama, that is, do they all sit there in grim silence, scream at each other and break dishes, or drunkenly wave guns about while shouting a lot (I'll leave it to you to match the cultural stereotype to the description).
Meanwhile I think I might have poisoned myself. Every year I get so ill for Xmas, and my hair starts falling out in handfuls, and I always put it down to seasonal stress and misery, but, but...I was watching an old Marple on the ABC last Saturday, after all my hard work cleaning out the kitchen and laundry, and so I sat down with a nice cup of tea and it was the one with JJ Feild in it, bless, you know, the one where, as he can't reach for the cigarette case of evii, dear JJ instead ties on a bib, slathers the scenery with butter and tears in with relish. That one.
Anyway, the whole plot had to do with folks being carried off by rat poison, and I should know as I went to that lecture on the rash of thallium poisonings in the 50s, but it wasn't until they started ticking off the symptoms that I suddenly thought, clutching at more clumps of hair, that had I not been at the shelves of cupboards of a crazed and careless fifties housewife these last few weeks, trying again to scrub and clean them out, which I never finish because I always end up taking to my bed with some terrible malaise. Hmmm....
At least it's not quite so bad this year as I made sure I wore my gloves and mask, but still. Okay, no messing about in the back of cupboards. No one to visit so no need to literally and actually kill myself over it. And I'm not kidding about my hair coming out in handfuls. I could stuff a pillow with the stuff. Oh dear. Absolutely no one will be visting now - grin. At least I think I know now why I've been so damn bloody ill and tired. Good grief.
Oh, and they've moved things around at Town Hall station. Jared's Moriarty (too many Moriartys!) is now appearing to lining up a shot on the big hearted and well-intentioned but insufferably untalented cityrail brass band, and I can see his point. Plucky little troopers all, but they're sadly not even in the so bad they're hysterically funny camp, like that brass band at Granny Smith day that unleashed the whitest and most uncertain version of Tijuana Taxi you will ever hear, the recollection of which can instantly collapse both of us into breathless giggles.
Sorry, I know I'm being mean. Blame the weather, the hormones, and my mother damn nearly killing me, from beyond the grave, the silly cow. Harumph. It's been a week.
Monday: Tis the season to be, well, there's a Leunig cartoon that pretty much sums it up. I'm even being blanked by my one eyed parrot. I'm not sure where I transgressed, but clearly I did, and he's not come down for days until yesterday when hunger won out over principle, but he still made sure to turn his back every time I appeared to refill his bowl or try and talk to him.
Sigh. Folks ask if I'm spending xmas with family and then look somewhat shocked when I tell them I am very firmly not invited or welcome. Is that awful? I don't know. I guess it just reflects badly on me, weird and dreadful, even with my new hair.
Still, it's not as dire as it might be. As my gift giving dollars are now tightly concentrated, I can afford to do something silly, so silly the bank cancelled my credit card on me because someone had just bought something very large and silly in Picadilly. Yes, that was me, using the interwebs to buy something Himself had expressed a whimsical wish for (it's called xmas shopping, you charlies).
I'm not sure what started it, I think it was an episode of Supersizers, but he's long harboured a desire to have a hamper from Fortnum and Masons, no one else would do, proper, in a wicker basket with leather straps and everything, just like the Edwardian gent he is in his heart. Turns out F&M still ship hampers around the world, and they did, and it arrived three days early and appeared at the front door with only a squeak from a bird to indicate its arrival, as though by supernatural means. There was no disguising what it was as the enormous cardboard box was stamped all over with F&M, so I let Himself open it, and there it was, somehow having arrived on the other side of the world, on time, and having cleared customs, a perfect Edwardian hamper, in a wicker basket, with leather straps. Proper.
Of course, then we felt guilty, not just for the carbon miles (obscene) but the fact that every other hamper arrived at some large house in the country, delivered into the hands of some chap wearing white gloves, and this poor hamper is now sitting in the meanest, most grim kitchen in the meanest, most grim worker's hovel in the Empire. Oh dear. Oh well. It was a very, very silly present but I've seen Himself stroking his large, Edwardian wicker basket several times now, so it was well meant and well received, and that's the main thing (though how I am to top it or match it next year I do not know).
So fie on the snubby snubs, we shall have the hunting biscuits, and maybe don the pink and chase the feral foxes in the nearest park (on foot), VIEW HALLOO!!!!
Actually, tis a great sadness that I no longer have friends or am a student because running through the park astride hobby horses, scattering soccer mums hither thither, sounds like perfect holiday entertainment to me. Which is probably why I never get invited anywhere, ever. Too silly, too wicked, for this dull, dull world (certainly far too silly for my bank, but it's nice that they're keeping an eye on things, though the fact that Himself was using my card the other week to pay off his massive iTunes habit went by them completely, even though I don't have an iTunes account - shocking but true).
I also probably shouldn't be let out near mean and mean spirited people after spending most of the weekend a touch under the weather and curled up watching channel 13, which seems to be all Poirot, all the time. Thanks to Poirot I now know what's appropriate to be served after a horrible grisly murder (sandwiches and coffee) and that fish paste sandwiches and home made beer are perfect vessels for concealing the bitter taste of poison (cue evil laugh here). In fact there were so many poisonings I was thinking old Agatha must have sat down to some very rum lunches indeed. Heh.
At least this time I can happily claim I wasn't watching for the plots. No, it was solely for the parade of pretty boys (JJ Feild, Rupert Penry-Jones, Paul McGann, Aidan Gillan, etc) and dripping with avarice over a particularly nice tea set or country estate. Pretty boys, antiques and murder most foul. Yes, the perfect recipe for an inclement and unwell weekend.
Speaking of poison, the rat poison has eased off a bit, but I'm still not quite what you'd call 100% just yet. Stupid woman, probably just tossed it about, not realising it's transferred by skin contact, like when muggins here dusts, scrubs or polishes. Why did she never get ill? I refer you again to the dusting, scrubbing and polishing. That she never did. Those were my duties. As she said, she only had me to do the housework (I'm really not kidding with the Cinders analogies, oh, mercy, no).
That said, I'm quite happy to go the empirical experiment where I cease dusting and see if my health, which has always been poorly, doesn't improve a bit. What I really need is a biohazzard team to move in and scrub everything down, but failing that, I just have to be careful, now that I'm certain it is not, as people always say, just me being weird, lazy and crazy. Hello, have you seen the bag of my hair wot fell out? In one week? It's why I had to go get my hair cut, to cover up the bald patches. Harumph.
Speaking of Mr Gillan, as I was, I'm enjoying Identity on 13 (in one of their rare non Poirot spots) and the repeats of Game of Thrones on Showcase, which really is a boob and boff-fest when they slap (ooo-er) the episodes together instead of delivering them up in 40 minute slices.
Sadly, we've never had any fundy cults at the door ever since those poor Mormon boys were treated to the orgasmatron in Barbarella all those years ago (and Himself reckons there's some sort of hobo sign out the front that warns off any such inquisitive inquisitors) because, man, there were some choice scenes which they could have walked into (due to a rubbish redesign of the hovel, which is why we have so many problems, the tv now faces the main door as there's no where else for it to sit, so small is the hovel, again, rubbish redesign, so everything we watch on the big screen is broadcast to the neighbourhood and I can no longer be bothered to close the curtains, so shameless am I).
Now no one is talking to me at work and again all I've done is try to help. I am a walking disaster area and should be put down forthwith. Clearly, providing food, presents and assistance are all one way tickets to hell. See you on the other side, Winchesters.
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