Now it's in its last week it has gone completely bonkers, but bonkers is completely fine by me and I just adore the cast so much (while dawdling in front of the retro furniture shop, nose pressed to glass, Ashley, Ashley, Ashley squeezed past me on the narrow footpath, swoon). Ashley of the striptease (swoon, times ten) and Darcy in the pond moments, he of the glowing writeups in the Chicago Tribune, and if you're thinking there's no Darcy moment in Shakespeare, well, you've missed something, oh my, yes.
And Hamish, Hamish as, well, every character he plays, really, but the country parson and the sheep, oh, that sheep, are stand outs. Best sheep ever. I'm sorry, he gets that look of bland malevolence just right. Perfect (oh, don't talk to me about sheep, you have to buy me a beer first before I tell you my sheep tales, from my ag. class days).
Then there's Gareth, still magnificent as Phebe and Charlie as Touchstone, that suit at the end. Brilliant, just brilliant.
It truly has to be one of my most favourite productions of all time. I've seen stuff that was interesting, educational, quirky and moving, but this was just bright, colourful, silly, sexy, rude and so very funny. It ticked all my happy boxes.
Got home to discover White Collar has been playing away on cable and I'd never even noticed. Tuned in out of duty more than anything else, and the hope that a viewing might kick the fic over the line. No such luck, and Bomer is no Ashley Zuckerman, more's the pity, but he tries, bless, and I've seen worse scripts on The Glades , which I adore, just for Mr Passmore and his larrikin grin, because the scripts are always wtf, either that or the cuts they make always cut out the Poirot explainy bits, so it's churlish to complain and Matt is pretty and it was pleasant enough to have on while I had my first and last cuppa of the night. Maybe Matt just needs that all important Darcy style pond dunking scene (though at times I'd be happy for a good cucking, yes indeedy, he annoys me so much).
Whatever, Matty was on telly, and, let's be honest here, I can barely sit through Ashley's US show, which I have to pvr just so I can FF through all the non Ashley bits, oh my yes.
That's the highlight of my week. The rest of it has been the exact opposite of highlight, so I won't bother you with it, but I've not been of good cheer, let's just say that.
Thursday: Counting down, not to anything special, just getting the hell out of here. My beloved little teapot was slapped and slammed around yesterday so I've pretty much had it, you know?
Sigh. All it takes to make me happy is a bit of sunshine, scratching out a bit of pr0n in the park, a very silly play with sheep, a glass of driinkable wine, maybe a spot of accidental narrow walkway frottage with a handsome young gent.
Not to much to ask, it's not like I'm after everything gold plated and shiny. No. And yet, and yet, here I am, at the most vulnerable time of the year, suffering such sharp attacks I don't know what to do. Sit tight and say nothing, even as my teapot is thrown at me, I guess, but it's hard, so very hard. Some days are so horrid that not even a cup of tea and a biscuit and Doctor Who on telly can fix them.
I know, you always say it will get better. I've been told that for so long now, as long as the bullying has gone on, which is all my life, and I'm tired of it, you know? It won't ever get better, I have 'kick me' tattooed on my forehead.
What I really need is someone kind. Sadly, the last kind person I knew, who bought me icecreams on days like these, was horribly axe murdered. Did I mention that I'm not happy right now? Or, I was, for a bit, before it started up again. Make it stop. Please, just make it stop. I'm begging of you, make it stop.
Friday. Well, not stopping any time soon (they snapped my favourite pen in half yesterday, the one I particularly liked that I'd picked up in Melbourne, and they wanted to do that childish and ferocious crossing out again and because it twists open, well, vale pen) but I've finally seen the trailers for the Hobbit and Sherlock.
Bless you, Martin Freeman. Two of my most beloved fictional charaters, and you are perfect in both. And I do mean perfect, as in not just doing an adequate job, but being everything I could hope for and then bringing even more. Doing an excellent job, in other words. I never saw his Arthur Dent, because the reviews were off putting and HHGTTG is a very, very sacred text (I can quote chunks of text verbatim the way others can quote classical literature) but maybe I should, since he seems to handle my boys with care. Dear Martin. Trustworthy actor (there is no higher praise, considering the rubbish American actors who've ruined other treasured characters).
A couple of cards arrived, oddly from folks I wasn't expecting cards from at all, so it was back to the newsagent and post office. They haven't spoken to me all year, but now I get a card? Bastards, commiserated the newsagent girl.
I also had a couple of good phone calls and emails from folks not here, which at least raised me to a level where I could appreciate a nice cup of tea and a biscuit (from the xmas tin) and The Next Doctor, with David Morrissey, whom I've long been fond of, and he does such a great double act with t'other David (all that tango-ing in Blackpool paid off, then).
I was busy admiring Miss Hartigan's fabulous red dress and her Victorian mourning jewellery (the jet). I was wishing I could show up in such a fabulous dress and my Victorian mourning jewellery. I can just imagine it:
ALWAYS ANGRY PEOPLE: Why are you wearing that? Nobody's died.
ME: Oh, how remiss of me. You know, I'm always getting it wrong.
Sounds of shrieking and gurgling. Then, silence.
ME: There, that's so much better. I believe I'm appropriately attired now.
[Daintily steps over still steaming corpses]
Or something like that. Heh. I must be feeling better if I'm having dreams of supervillainy (and rather empathising with the much put upon Miss Hartigan, hell hath no fury, etc, etc).
The Peanut Gallery was meanwhile spluttering over the bold statement that 1851 was a particularly dull year for London. What, he proclaims, the Great Exhibition, Crystal Palace and the Panopticon weren't enough for them (never mind the city seething with my ancestors, including the brilliantly named Mercy Holmes).
Also, while I appreciate the nod to Dickens, the amateur historian in me chaffes at the writer clearly having only glanced at a clip of Oliver! on YouTube, as workhouses weren't solely orphanages, despite what Dickens wrote for dramatic effect, and there weren't quite that many orphans in London, as child mortality kept a cap on the rugrat population (aka the good old days, says she, bitter and barren and very much tired of xmas shopping).
But never mind that, it was fun, if silly (somehow my ancestor's journal skipped over the whole giant cyberman terrorising the city incident) and it cheered me up no end. Nothing like a bit of death and destruction to warm the cockles of my wicked old heart.
"The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction."
Don't mind me, it's just been a week. A friend sent me this photo of their dog, which says everything I can't:
To all those dear and lovely folks I forgot to send cards and/or well deserved loot to this year, in appreciation of your tireless friendship and support, I have made donations to several local and international charities in your name. I hope that's okay. Greetings of the season, etc.
Cast relish being let out to play on a long leash
Eamon Flack's production of Shakespeare's As You Like It uses Belvoir Street Theatre to the full
As You Like It | Belvoir
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The Brit(ish) List
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Matt Bomer: Sunglasses Shopping!
Ministry of Gossip (Bomer ref)
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The Cult of the Cleanse and 3 Digestion Myths
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