At least, I was told that one should properly have it with jam down at that cafe in Canberra, the one I like, and I figure they'd know, Canberra being much more of a cold war hotspot than I was ever led to believe, the official version as I was taught being that it is a remote rural backater were nothing ever happens, but I feel local prejudices may be at play. Certainly recently declassified files point to a far more entertaining level of spy vs spy shenanigans going on, so, I figure I'll accept Canberra cafes as an authority on things Russian.
I'm also thinking of Arkady again. I'll never spin him off to his own adventures, but I should. Only lack of opportunity and talent stops me, and that I fear his adventures would appear dreadfully familiar as it seems no matter how wild a scheme I fancy for the boy, it'll be in the papers or on screen the very next week. I swear, if I packed him off to the moon to fight aliens while clad in a silver mini and go go boots, sure enough...
But I digress. This has been a rough week, the solace of tea, Wodehouse, the boys from The Hour, Poirot and his BFF Hastings (I do try not to watch it wrong, but they will carry on like a fussy pair of elderly queens, and then some) and the chocolate bar the chap from the convenience store downstairs popped in with my massive bandaid purchase the other day (battered and bruised, the week has rendered me), on account of my being so miserable, bless him, anyway, aside from that, a shitty week.
Okay, not strictly flooded but there was a lot of water damage, as the eejits who built the house, in their great wisdom, ensured that any and all heavy rainfalls rolled down the steepish hill, whooshed down the driveway, to pool darkly on the concrete patio and then seep under the door and through the floor no matter how much I try to sweep it back (world's most futile activity, I am no net nanny troubling Cnut) and so I've had the rugs up and hung out at every opportunity, all the doors and windows flung open, ditto cupboards, as a roof leak (thanks, possums) got the linen closet so the poor old tumble drier is now squeaking and flailing with imminent collapse.
Then there was the tea and the tea cup. The day after trying to dry everything out I was wishing for a nice cup of that lavender earl grey T2 do, and lo, they sent me a free sample in the mail. Yay. Then I broke my favourite cup (hands still shaking). Not yay. Sure, it was only a trifling thing, but you know about straws and the load bearing capacity of camels.
Why I was so upset to start with was of course, after a jolly night out, being roused from my bed by the local constabularly on charges of malicious damage, of which I am entirely innocent, but every man and his dog and even the twink in the cafe think I did it. I did not, and even if they annoy me most dreadfully, there was no way I could, as it was a hotwater bottle night, which means I'm not up for anything, not even watching telly, and certainly not the sort of mischief that requires me to be harrassed by da pigs while I'm still in my pjs.
And, also, overreaction much? Guilty until proven innocent. So, as you can see, it's been a distressing time. Oh yeah, passed over for promotions and positions at work by people who can't use photocopiers or open emails, and the mean cleaners have ragged me every day on the bus for being fat and ugly. Seriously, I do not enjoy my life.
It certainly feels that I must be punished for every drop of fun I try and wring from it. Like going to see Mr Gaiman. He was so lovely. And dinner. We went to Prime at the GPO, which is so close to the recital hall if you use the sekrit alley shortcut, and it was very nice, white table clothes and everything (I rarely splash out for white tablecloth restaurants, oh, if I only knew, eh?). We ordered off the theatre menu (that they had one, I thought, was an encouraging sign) and we had the Terrine of Wild Rabbit with Pickled Cherries, Walnuts and Radish for entree and the Herb Crusted Rump of Lamb, Smoked Aubergine, Onion Marmalade, Olive Paint and Casuarinas Feta for mains, and very nice it was, too. V. posh. Well, I thought it was posh. Anything that isn't a $5 pho is posh for me.
At least there is The Hour on tv. Man, I love that show. I love the boys, especially Peter Capaldi, whom I have long had a thang for. Imagine my delight when he popped up in Poirot the other week. Sigh.
Before that there was the Nigella cooking show, for whom I should give great thanks as she taught Himself how to make icecream armed with only a bowl and a beater. So far we've had coffee and rum, coconut and rum, and for what would have been Australia Day, a lamington chocolate and coconut icecream on a cake base. Or maybe I shouldn't thank her, and no wonder those mean cleaners are ripe for material. Ah well, this was not the week to say no to chocolate icecream, when I could manage to actually eat something.
Anyways, she was banging on about being in Italy this and being in Italy that and I snorted and was sharply reminded that I'd been to Italy. Twice. I guess I have, though neither trip was without its pitfalls and pratfalls, but yeah. Bits remain sharply dileneated, feeding the sparrow with crumbs in Florence, the gentleman in the trilby raising his expresso cup to me in a smiling salute in that little museum in Rome. Ah, he was dressed like Neal but looked like Mozzie. He worked there, I saw him wandering about in that proprietary way gallery workers have, standing by some tapestries to die for, and then he was in the cafe, and we smiled.
And there I left it, even though he looked fun and nice (but working in the gallery, yeah, right, probably saw the big walking boots and assumed I was a rainbow sista) but I remember him, still. Maybe in an alternate universe I'm married to a quirky gallery dude in Rome and we sit in cafes a lot drinking expresso and being ever so cosmopolitan. Maybe.
That was the very rainy day where I did a string of wee museums all over the place, including a few crypts and a collection of Chinese artworks that include a creepy doll that reminded me too much of the evil little homunculus in The Talons of Weng Chiang so it was especially unsettling, the way only mostly deserted dusty museums in Rome on a dark and stormy afternoon can be.
But yes, living beyond my means and my station, and for this I must be sharply corrected. Sigh. And I could really use a holiday, right about now, too.
Another Monday rudely announces itself with my many alarms (I have five, just how much do I hate my life?) Ouch. Anyway, I've done the two things I needed to do, including letting a colleague know I read his piece in the papers. He's actually someone I like, and not at all regarded by the showponies who don't even know what button to push on the photocopier, but hey, he got an important piece of work published. Of course, he was earmarked for redundancy. This is why work I so darn miserable these days, noting but strutting showponies these days. All the interesting folk who used to show me articles they'd written are gone now. Everything I know about economics and a host of other things I learnt from proofreading these papers in my lunchbreak, instead of gossiping and backstabbing. Vale the quiet and interesting people, the eccntrics, the persecuted Turings.
Oh, it's gonna be wretched when I'm the only one left who knows how to fill the photocopier.
Anyways, Saturday we went out, even though it was sheeting with rain, and cold with it, as Himsef thought it best I not be home. We went to the Museum of Sydney to see the Wild Ones exhibition, about the history of the people who'd passed through the barn that was the Sydney Stadium, everyone from boxers to The Beatles, from Shintaro to Sinatra. Lots of American acts, too, including Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole and Harry Belafonte. You should have seen the happy photos. This is so not America. And it wasn't. So unsophisticated, but so much heart. Loverly stuff.
Then it was off to the The Magistrate at the Dendy, part of the NT Live programme. I'd bought the tickets just on the strength of the poster by Gerald Scarfe, which evoked nostlagia, and my firm belief that John Lithgow would never disappoint me. Nor did he. Marvellous man. The whole cast was spot on, and the amazing sets, based on pop up picture books, still have me wondering how on earth they did that, even though they tried to demonstrate in the short they showed in the interval. It was a fine farce, very English (as if the French would worry about closing times) and a surprisingly feminist tract, the whole endeavour spinning out from a white lie a window told about her age in order not to fright the horses or her prospective second husband. Or, as the lyrics from the songs they introduced to cover the transitions said, a woman is wanted for biology, not history. The play was entirely sympathetic, so well done sensitive new age nineteenth century guy. Consider how many 19thC plays and novels revolve around the limits society places upon women, from Pride and Prejudice to Pygmalion.
But never mind that, Mr Lithgow, what a joy. I particularly laughed when he pulled the twigs and bat from his hair after a night of misfortune (so my last weekend). The poor, hapless, good hearted man.
Anyway, I love a good farce, I laughed away, a jolly time was had. Finished off with a late lunch/early tea at our new favourite place, Searock Grill. There should be a name for a late lunch, like brunch, only later. Anyway, I had the spatchcock and Himself had the lamb with a lemon tart to follow, which he was still digesting on Sunday - not mean portions these. Anyway, allow me to rec the resturant, as it's not crowded enough for my liking and the food is good and the staff okay. There are so few actually decent places to eat down at the Quay (as opposed to overpriced swill, see also Seattle and San Francisco waterfronts), I'd hate to lose one.
Sunday I spent sulking in my room (well, I made it as far as the back door with a basket of laundry but there were the blackest clouds and a rainbow over the back fence so I gave up that game, forgot to do the ironing as well in my retreat). Watched back some stuff I'd missed on the pvr, caught up on the inbox, which took forever given the usual .07kbs non speeds, and then, tired and cold, just curled up and watched Tomb of the Cybermen on UKTV, and Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Seriously, Sherlock Holmes with Jude Law, followed by Elementary with Jonny Lee Miller (ep 101), and finally Sherlock with Dame Cumberbatch, back on UKTV. Sure, I didn't get any sleep, but I hardly sleep these days anyway. Wicked, but it was cold and damp and I was in sulk mode. Or at least, some form of unhappy when I didn't have some Holmesian figure bestriding the tv (and I include the Doctor in that genre).
So that's me. Tired, clinging to childish comforts and just doing a really shabby job of getting on with it.
PM update; after a day of what they call challenges and opportunities but I call fuckwits and fuckery, I came home to find a very odd postcard from the rubber duck (see also Sydney Festival) in his ducky exile. Whoever sent it, you're
Also, Spike on telly. I love Spike and his tell it like it is-ness in ye olde S4 Buffy.
Pride and joy
Watch This: Neil Gaiman's Imaginative Favorites
Joss Whedon would love 'Firefly' to take flight again
Jeremy Renner releases his inner child
Hollywood star faces witch-hunt (Jeremy Renner is now getting reviewed on his performance in interviews.)
Supernatural Scoop: Felicia Day Books Third Visit
'Supernatural' clip: Sam and Dean check out their new home
Supernatural 8.12 “As Time Goes By” TV REVIEW
Richard III: tests on skeleton could "rewrite history books", says lead scientist
Penguin head-cam captures bird's eye view of hunt
The World’s Tweets Light Up the Globe in Stunning Live Visualization
£100,000 for whale vomit? That’s sick
Australia floods: Queensland beachfront swamped by 'sea foam'
Parrot steals $1100 from unsuspecting tourist
Hobbit artist captures Mt Vic moonrise
'Gomer Pyle, USMC' Star Jim Nabors Marries Partner of 38 Years
Advice for Dealing with Internet Haters: Assume They All Wear Fedoras
That Cuddly Kitty Is Deadlier Than You Think
Who Could I Be Now
Neil Gaiman's Journal: The Best Advice
ABC to change Hottest 100 voting system to avoid spoilers
The inside story of how four techs broke open triple j's Hottest 100
Lollies we love
Can States Exile People?
Security fears over exposure of web-accessible printers
The Glades boxset is just the right side of obnoxious
Matt Bomer: Being molested by an extra on Magic Mike was a happy accident
'White Collar' New Episode: Jeff Eastin Previews Midseason Return, Neal's Daddy Issues And An FBI Conspiracy
'White Collar' Season 4, Episode 11 "Family Business" Recap
White Collar Episode 11 Preview- Family Business
'Fifty Shades of Grey' Film Update: Matt Bomer Speaks Up on Christian Grey Role
Matt Bomer, Nina Dobrev, Ian Somerhalder & Way More Stars Get Their Beach Football On
'Fifty Shades of Grey' movie: Matt Bomer opens up on Christian Grey casting
White Collar, Season 4
Matt Bomer: 'Da Man' Magazine Fashion Feature
Matt Bomer & Ryan Kwanten: Celebrity Beach Bowl Party Guys!
'White Collar' Season 4, Episode 12 "Brass Tacks" Recap
'50 Shades of Grey' Movie Hopefuls Matt Bomer & Ian Somerhalder Face Off in New Orleans
Matt Bomer Proven Nicest Man on Earth in New Interview
DC's SUPERMAN UNBOUND Trailer
Sofia Vergara & Nina Dobrev: DirecTV Super Bowl Party
Matt Bomer & Ian Somerhalder: Lacoste/GQ Super Bowl Party!