Some reviews said Gillian was a touch OTT in her turn as Miss Havisham. Seriously, isn't playing such an arch character like Miss H a licence to unleash the inner panto queen? If not then, when? Ray Winstone, well, you know who he was playing (the words 'born to play' may have been bandied about) and young Mr Booth was as insipid but impossibly pretty as always (not that he's been seen on local tv before but I have an obscure dvd collection).
That's the tv pretty much out of the way, bar my Tuesday night fix of Mr Davenport and Mr Bomer, oh, and Justified repeats, sorry, first run screenings of series one, which I have been indulging in. And Mr Fassbender, in the rather dreadful Sherlock Holmes pastiche that is the Silk Stocking but at least it had young Michael being rather wonderful in it (cold and reptilian, menancing, sexy and creepy, and then just plain pathetic) and hey Rupert, maybe it's because you're a bit crap as an actor that the roles aren't rolling in? Just a thought. I love you dearly, but you ain't no Benedict Cumberbatch. But at least I had Fassy to keep be company on a long night of sitting up and being ill, and that's all that matters.
You should have seen the size of the box my new winter coat came in from M&S. Oh my gosh, huge. Those mad fools, instead of just scrunching it up and wedging it in a Jiffy bag, had carefully folded it in half only, and laid it out in the box, like the world's biggest pizza box, with plastic wrapping and coathanger and everything, as though it were drycleaning, as if I'd ever owned a coat that had rated dry cleaning before. So posh, so proper. So much fun. And, mercy, it fits, and it feels fine and I kind of love it.
It wasn't my first choice, or even my fifth, but the choices kept vanishing as I dithered and dawdled over doing something so insane as buying a coat over the interwebs, but one just cannot buy a decent coat locally, and, usually, that makes sense, the winters are usually so mild that a flimsy bit of nasty nylon that isn't even lined and is as effective against wind and rain as a damp tissue will do as it's usually only needed for a day or three, but the coats they sell here sure aren't rated for the homeland, oh, goodness me, no.
I've gone to shops here before and they always say buy something when I get there, and let me tell you, it's a bloody long way from the airport to the nearest M&S in winter (which is usually only when I can afford to travel). So I figured I'd do the slightly clever thing, I hoped, and order one. And it worked. Yay.
I miss my old coat, though, that magnificent black one with the faux fur collar that travelled back and forth to Blighty so many times until one day, half mad with jet lag, I left it hanging over the chair in an over-heated cafe and was on the plane before I realised (weep!). The replacement was never as good, even though it was far more epensive and far finer cut and far better materials, it just did not stand up to several torrential downpours, it shrank, it went weird around the shoulders and that hood ran torrents of freezing cold water down the back of my neck. And it never recovered from sudden turbulence chucking an entire glass of tomato juice over it. I probably could have dry cleaned it but by then I was over it (though I did love its big map holding pockets). I'm not sure how this new coat will go, but ever the optimist, me.
I really shouldn't be buying stuff from M&S when I've got spiders lounging in ever corner, but it's priorities, dear. The spiders will always be there, long after I've gone, and I'm so over it, you know? That bloody garden, I get so little time in it these days it really is out of sight out of mind.
Yes, I know, I should ease up on the theatre and I know I am really going to have to from now on. I just just having fun, for once in my life. Putting myself before scrubbing and other such nastiness. Of course it couldn't go on, but as far as mid life meltdowns go, it was fairly benign. And when you keep being threatened with being summarily re-located to Dubbo or Orange, well, you kind of get a death grip on the bright lights. At least, I do.
Oh, it's been a week, not at all well, packing up desk, technical difficulties and some minor flooding. A lot of water came in under the doors yesterday and we've got the rugs all hanging up where we can, ditto curtains. What else can you do? I got home and found a good half metre of water sloshing around in the recycling bin that had been left with its lid gaping open to the heavens. I couldn't budge it a centimetre (there had to be a good 50 litres in there at least) so I had to shoulder charge it to tip it over and then upend it as it drained. Oh, the neighbours all know I'm a freak and a beast anyway.
There has been other work merde that I cannot discuss, but which I've found distressing. The other day in my fever dreams the office kept tipping over like in Inception. No hidden meanings there.
TV? Not much, really. Mainly repeats, an episode of Grimm (because the odd little romance bemuses me, I mean, sincerely, the dinner with wine and complaining that he never asked about his favourite colour? Tee hee), Southland, finally playing out here (how many years am I behind there?) and Leverage (which just isn't grabbing me these days but I'll just call it grumpiness on my part for now).
And now it's sunny and I'm stuck in the office. Can it be Saturday now?
Okay, yes, totally didn't get online at all over the weekend. Following are the various excuses.
Well, there was the massive redundancy party on Friday (don't worry, it'll be my turn soon) and, as always, it's the really interesting people who actually do things and who are such a help who are leaving, while the twats stay on to make my life a complete misery. I was very, very sad to see some folks leaving, which is probably why I had that extra glass when I should not have.
Toddled down to the Opera House to see Midsummer (A Play With Songs) and, oh man, under new management. The big black leather seat I'd fantasised about curling into was gone, the lobby now sporting impossibly hard nasty little benches, giving it the ambience of a bus interchange. Yuck. I can see my run at the House coming to a screeching halt once my tickets are done.
Anyways, Midsummer. Love. Any play that references Clare Grogan, Kim Wilde, Ewan McGregor, The Buzzcocks and The Jesus and Mary Chain is clearly the play for me. And it was. It was hysterical, and the bad sex scene, complete with Elmo doll, I was cryin'. It was set around Edinburgh and I did not need the map they handed out, and it shows where my heart is because I knew all the places they mentioned, from personal experience and family history, too, as the hotel some ancestor held their wedding reception at, the Oddbins I always used to buy the wine with which to gift the rels, Waverley Station (won't tell you that story), the old town (or that one) or Princes Street Gardens (not a chance). Set a story here and I've no idea as it'd be all about places I never go, but Edinburgh, oh yes, I had my own stories for all those places, so much so I was seeing the places, and not the stage. Transported, completely. Yearning, absolutely.
It was a silly, funny, staggering love story of smart mouthed Scots, and I loved it to bits. It's touring Canberra next, if you get a chance.
The weekend was sunny, so I did my best to hack away at the jungle that is the back yard, wrestling vines and giant spiders and giving myself sunstroke as I chopped back the canopy, also a month's load of washing, which involved some very creative hanging out methodologies due to limited line space and the promise of iffy weather to come making it a now or never proposition, also trying to expunge the mould that has taken over the bathroom and other stuff, all with a hangover worthy of the hangover song from Midsummer. Not fun.
So I didn't read, much, except bits of this book I picked up the other day on famous art thefts that jumped out at me, literally, at the second hand shop when I went there for more commute reading, hardly any typing undertaken, except two hours on Sunday while the washing II went round and round, and feeding the Captain, my grumpy one eyed parrot, who still hasn't forgiven me for sleeping in last weekend (my sins are many) and no writing at all, despite having a stack of scenes backing up in the old and very unreliable brainbox.
TV? There wasn't going to be any but I was so knackered by sundown that Saturday night was spent wallowing in front of Spooks (poor old show on its last, tottering legs) and Strikeback, with Andrew Lincoln and Richard Armitage being dead sexy and thus glossing over how extraordinarily right wing my tv viewing has been of late but I'd rather sexy soldier boys/cops/spies/US Marshals than anything overly earnest, well meaning and inner city activist preachy right now, which probably explains Homeland, though I'm so very bored with that now, dearest Damian nothwithstanding (where is my Soames now, I dispair). Highlight was, weirdly, Great Expectations, just because Harry Lloyd showed up. I adore that boy more and more, and, just for once, he wasn't playing a complete tool. Sweet and smiley Harry is just too precious.
Then it was a night of tossing fever dreams, not at all helped along by noisy possums and making the dread mistake of checking the inbox before I switched off, and being miserably reminded of the spiteful and continued existence of a couple of people I really don't like, and who haunted me all night, in lurid Dickensian nightmares, the bastards.
This morning, oh, the best yet, had some lump of a creature slump beside me on the bus, who'd not bathed since the seventies, seemed like. Well, good thing I chose clothes I did not like (because I woke fretful from my fever dreams), because it's all gonna be burned when I get home tonight, I can tell you. The smell, the smell, not all the oils, etc, etc.
Ah, the seventies, my one joy, for I found, quite by accident, that the Life On Mars listed in the FX guide was not the US version as I'd assumed. Curses, episode two, and I missed the best opening to a tv show ever, but there they were, Sam and Gene, the original and the best, accept no substitutes, and it's been so long, I'd forgotten the many, many ways in which this show made me so happy. Just the car squealing round the block and the synchronised door slamming, a mere few seconds of filmic squee, to be followed by one highlight after another. Classic, classic, classic.
Sorry I haven't posted this. DW is now blocked and the last few days I've just been tired to attempt anything remotely technical at home. We're talking tea kettle fail here, so no messing about with anything a touch more complicated.
And I know I'm not supposed to discuss work here, but sometimes it casts such a cloud over my life. Basically, I packed up everything for the little princesses and got nothing but grief for my efforts, I mean, really nasty, graceless and ungrateful send me dashing to the loo to weep stuff, so on top of being exhausted, sweating, bleeding, bruised, cut, torn and strained I'm insulted six ways to sunday as well. So unhappy, so tired I've not typed, written, done any admin or shopping, housework, ironing or even watched telly.
So yes, they shoved me in the tiny desk off to the side in the corner, yes, it happens to be near a window, but I know I'm on my way out, and right now, that seems like a good thing (though how I'll put food on the table or pay the bills I do not know).
Sorry to be so down in the dumps but after all that effort, to get nothing but a kick in the death, well, it was beyond the ability of a fine cup of Yorkshire Gold tea (the tea upon which the plot of Homeland revolves, to my great amusement), a special chocolate Italian biscuit and a particulary campy episode of Big Valley (Sample quote: 'I don't want coffee! I want men!') to remedy.
Speaking of Big Valley, I just typed Heath instead of Health in a document. Tsk. Yes, I am such an unforgiveable little tv slut. Don't care. I need my damn cowboys. Now more than ever. Too bad there's no Raylan on tonight. I could use me a dose of that snake hipped son of a bitch.
Oh, speaking of Mr Lewis, 13th Street are replaying Life, which is cute, but I had to switch across for Smash on Tuesday (the one thing I have watched this week, Grimm doesn't really count as I was passing out for minutes at a time) and I realised that, if it came down to it, I love Jack Davenport more. And true, he does have This Life, Ultraviolet and Coupling standing behind him. Yes, I love Jack Davenport more. Just so you know.
Golly gosh, it's a long way to the kitchen on this floor. On the completely opposite side of the building, and it ain't a small building. I'm sure it'll stop feeling like trying to find the source of the Nile at some point, but right now it's like, 'Day 57. Still no sign of the tea room. Party wearying and losing all hope. Buried Fred yesterday at sundown. May have to eat the dogs or one of the porters tomorrow...'
One good thing yesterday, being my usual duitiful self I took myself off to a talk on web accessibility and while I was note taking and desperately trying to hob nob and at least making free with the wine and snacks, there was such a transport snarl/stuff up/no, actually, it completely ceased to be, so there would have been no getting home at the usual time anyways. So I'm feeling rather smug about standing around in an office space that was 'so New York', not my words, but they had converted an old building and used breadboxes for lightshades and the like, seriously, it looked exactly like the sort of loft quirky tv characters inhabit, anyway, while I was enjoying the wine and ambience (and I needed a glass so I would actually make with the human speech thing) I was missing out on spectacular transport fail. Yay.
It did explain why there were hundreds and hundreds of folk still crowding the bus stop when I rocked up, a few hundred more than usual, though I merely shrugged as transport is dire for me everyday. If I can cram onto a rare and infrequent bus and not be left stranded to my own devices any given night, well, it's a win. Why only rich people in nice places get public transport I do not know, but it is the way of it.
Oh, I might be finally able to break from the phone company contract that has had me bound since the aged parent carked it and left everything in a mess and the phone company refused to do anything because only the account holder could cancel or change the service. I tried to sort it out every month for two years then I had to give up for the sake of my emotional health. Anyhoo, fast forward and the company I have my Galaxy with rang up and after a lengthy but cheerful discussion, they reckon they might be able to sort the transfer and massive, massive upgrade and reduce my bills by 80% and whoo and I don't want to get too cargo cult about it solving all my problems but it might solve some and even if it doesn't, at least I had another damn hard run at the problem. Yes!
And I put in a job application. I won't get it, of course, but at least I was moved enough for my current inertia to submit one. I know the office and it's just as toxic as here but at least I'd actually be doing what I'm suposed to be doing. Instead of being pointedly ignored, sidelined and locked out, not to mention the constant vicious nastiness.
Merciful gods, at least I have a window to gaze out of now.
At least I had a nice red curry and a glass of shiraz on Saturday.
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