Or, how I don't live, she says, seeing the world as a dirty, cracked and empty glass this week. Well, there was the picnic lunch in the park with a friend, that was a small oasis of sunshine, but other than that, well. Let's just say that if someone were any more of a cow I could put a bell on them and call them Bessie. And as for the blighters who've neither phoned nor called in years, in either the firm belief or dear hope that I was dead, suddenly sending along a card, long after I'd hoped never have to queue up in the PO ever, ever again, and, just to grind a little ground glass into my mild irritation, not putting a return address on the envelope thus insisting upon a degree of sleuthing that would exhaust even the great Hercule himself, well. Seasons greetings to you, too, you smug bastards.
So I tried a little retail therapy last night. Did not work. Long queues, dreadful overcrowded and long, long, long bus ride home, only to put a hole in my very expensive tights, thus ensuring I have to wear the somewhat more eccentric leggings with my brand new dress today, as after a couple of (very small) festive mince pies and I have wobbly tubes of suet pudding instead of legs and they simply cannot be allowed to be seen by man nor beast.
I had to buy a new dress. I have a job interview today ('won't you come on down to my rescue') and I just felt unable to wear the clothes I'd been rejected in so many times before. So new dress it was (excuses, excuses).
I also bought a red dress, my first, only and last red dress that I shall ever own. It was a big, silly, fifties style red dress. It was the dress of my dreams (or nightmares, depending on your sensibilties). And I was going to wear it next week. Because I'd forgotten what week of the month it was. So no red dress for me. Ever. Also, a fine week to be indisposed. Lovely. Brilliant. Fabulous. Just peachy.
Thus you find me, grinding down my new filling as I grit my teeth. What a week. Worse for some, I'll wager, but I quite frankly don't care (in the words of the great Mr Weller, 'what you give is what you get'). Clearly, I must be the very soul of giving, because I sure am gettin' some.
Tuesday: Oh, Matty, if you only knew. There you are, walking right by the very table I sat at that day I felt the need to collapse at the Grove and restore the tissues, as Wodehouse likes to say, before pushing on to LACMA. Oh, if you only knew, what stories that table could tell. I had my notebook out, and you know what that means, but I will spare your blushes. Oh, my dear boy, if you had only wafted past that table when I'd actually been sitting there, well...in truth, it would have probably barely registered if at all. The 'flu was biting down hard by that stage, hence the unscheduled pit stop, and I had to give up on LACMA after a couple of hours and retire to the hotel bar, which was brilliant, it must be said, good old O Hotel. Very Sydney, in style and decor. Apparently a lot of Sydneysiders stop there. I liked it. But yeah, Matty, if you only knew.
Sorry, I am bemused when he wanders past a chair I've sat in and scribbled in. And he does that a lot, oddly, but always after the fact. So very long after the fact. You're safe now, kiddo. No more rec leave. Sigh.
No else seems to loiter near the scenes of crimes to writing the way Matt does. Not at all. Not even the usual suspects, though I would pay good money for a series of moody shots of the Cumberbatch draping himself elegantly along some of the seats I've occupied in Britain, usually overlooking castles, patterned gardens, bleak landscapes, romantic ruins or snuggled by the fire in a pub.
But no. Just me, as an ill omen of future appearances of the Bomer, like a crazed stalker with a time machine that's out of whack (and trust me, if I was actually stalking the boy I'd be doing a far better job of it than missing him by months/years). Sigh. Sorry, suffering another bought of everyone is living much more interesting lives than I am (see tinned soup, above).
The rules of the scene of the crime game have to be seeing the object of my admiration standing or sitting in a spot where I had previously and quite obliviously pistled epistles of a shaming and sticky nature involving personas they share a certain symmetry with. Plenty of scope for the Brit boys to roll with but they seem to be proving curiously shy and easily startled beasts. Oh well.
Oh, and Matty, don't order the chicken salad from that place, whatever you do (but tell that hubby of yours bon appétit. No, that's not entirely fair. If anything, the shockingly brusque series of emails from Simon Inc. were at least a good warm act for what I have to put up with now, so I should thank him for that, I suppose).
Friday: So I cheered up a bit, which is good because I was ready to smack that caroller in the face, I was in such a filthy mood. The constant abuse, beyond my ability to absorb it all (including emails so scorchingly hot as to make even certain gentlemen exclaim 'I say' and 'Dash it').
Anyways, popped off to see a French film with my Swedish friend at Circular Quay. Cosmopolitan enough for ya? No, well, I tried. The film was surprisingly good. I had no hopes whatsoever, especially as the dry as dust elderly rels who disapprove of me so strongly had tottered off to see it. What, The Intouchables, with all the ribald humour? I laughed out loud, possibly more so, imagining the pursed and puckered aged lips. Heh. I liked it. Nothing more than the old Mary Poppins trope in new clothes, but I did like it, the two leads were charm itself, warming the screen with their glow.
Company was good, too, retired to a nearby cafe and watched sparkly lights on the harbour. My December treat.
Came home to find High Society on the telly. Squee! A nice hot cup of tea and sparkly tv flummery. Yes. Perfect. Just perfect.
And just what I needed, though I ground my teeth at Grace Kelly's dresses, as my very own flouncy dress will have to stay on the hanger (wail, gnash, weep). Oh well, I can't win 'em all. I was so tired this week I didn't even notice. Oh well, I suppose that goes some way to explaining the urgent need to punch carollers in the face, aside from the obvious.
Today though my milk of human kindness has gone off like the lumpy milk in the fridge and I'm drinking the black and bitter brew of misery, antipathy and misanthropy. Roll on apolcalypse.
Did I mention my hat full of spiders? No? Just another day for me, remembering to grab my down the shops hat for the second run, having come back beyond beetroot on the first run, plonking it on my head without checking and instantly realising something was very amiss. Remove hat, peer into depths, and the entire hat is crawling with hundreds of freshly hatched spiders crawling every which way. Spiders that are now swarming all over my head. Rinse and repeat until my hair starts to fall out.
Neal Caffrey never has days like this. But he should. I swear, just a few hours would knock the stuffing out of him, never mind a week. Hmmm, somebody send me a box set of Oz for xmas and I'll pretend it's Neal in the lipstick. Yes, I'm in that sort of mood. It's December, like, who isn't?
There's certainly a case for just grabbing a bottle of wine, the Magic Mike dvd and bolting the bedroom door and not coming out again until it's all over.
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