It was my turn to do the shopping and cooking last night, and despite a broken shoe and several heavy textbooks in my bag, I reckon I did okay, and tea made me so happy I slept like a baby. I bet Diddums wasn't happy because it was so heavy on the dairy, but this is what happens when you make a mad hormonal woman do the shopping. I made fettuccine with smoked salmon, mascarpone and cracked pepper. So wrong and so right. I liked it.
There was fruit to follow, too, and more dairy, with a dollop of King Island yoghurt. Heh. Well, I slept the soundest sleep I've had in a year, so I was very happy.
Yeah, I know, I'm going to have to work it off, but all this packing of groceries/books/stuff across town and back again sans automobile should do it, and if it doesn't, what's the point of it? It's not like I don't go through several pairs of shoes a month. Either the Chinese are making really shoddy shoes these days, or we must admit that I do actually wear through quite a bit of rubber, despite appearances to the contrary.
So, TV? Just Justified and Supernatural, my two favourite tv westerns at the moment (Oh, and Hell on Wheels, but Supernatural ran overtime so badly I missed most of the episode this week, drat them). Supernatural was a touch on the meh side (the boys are seriously too old to be doing what was such a season one episode) and methinks Dean doth protest way too much. Seriously, that boy is so repressed and acting out it's painful to watch at times. All that letchery, it's just getting sad now, like a Toolie in a nightclub sad.
I swear, only closeted priests and polticians are more self-hating and damaging. Poor Dean. It's high time he accepted glittery unicorns into his life.
Meanwhile, over on Justified, Raylan is giving Dean a serious run for his money on best jaw clenching over repressed bad daddy issues in a television drama. Yikes.
I'd be more concerned if I, and the writers, weren't so obviously in love with that charming devil, Boyd. There's a real sweetness and innocence there that tempers out all the crazy and despicable things he does. One gets the feeling that Boyd is that most dangerous and unpredicatble characters, the disappointed romantic, and he kicks and rails at the harsh untidiness of life. I worry more for Boyd, and his tender heart, than Raylan, the brash, goodlooking screwup, far more than I should.
Please don't make Boyd too soft or too evil. Right now he's a pleasing mix of both, and there's a certain degree of Spikey swagger to make him my favourite tv character at the moment (and fast approaching immortality as one of my all time faves).
Also been watching more Doctor Who than is healthy or wise, but I had to catch up on a shitload of Hartnell, Troughton and Pertwee on the pvr, as UKTV are playing selected stories every Sunday as part of the 50th (ouch) anniversary. I think Jamie is still my favourite sidekick, just because he's so lippy (think Amy, if you've not seen Jamie, and you'd think the Doc would know better than to tag along with a Scot by now - grin). He's also good in a crisis (see also Polly, Sarah Jane, Ian and Barbera, Leela) and endures more shameful upskirting from the camera crew than any of the female companions (or how many times can we get Jamie to climb up a ladder).
Some cracking episodes though: Invasion of the Daleks, Tomb of the Cybermen, Spearhead from Space. Still my favourite show (I'll be finding something else to do during the 80s and 90s eps though).
I also think I wrote the last scene in the never ending, never to see the light of day White Collar fic. Not the last scene proper (because I never write linear), but I think it's time to end it. Especially as I think it's about to blown through a blackhole into an alternate universe from which there is no return, but whatevs, right? It was just something to stop me from screaming during my lunchbreaks, and for that it served its purpose well. Too bad, though. A couple of pages I actually liked.
Friday: Oh, it's a normal day today, all blue sky and sunshine now. Before, when I was coming to work, it was dark and creepy and yellowish grey and gloomy and creepy and it felt really weird and wrong, and I'm not the only one who felt that way (even Twinkles the cute cafe boy who put an extra strawberry in my juice because he's a sweetie was unsettled), and not just because the childe hairdresser last night gave me a fringe that makes me look like Damien from The Omen, nor because I'm in the middle of The Master and Margarita, which is a cracking read and three people mentioned it to me, including a taxi driver, so I figured I better read it.
The satire of Soviet life is entirely lost on me (either that or I live in Sydney, and you never realise just how much it is still run like a penal colony until you travel to other cities, like Melbourne, where on a night of revels I only saw two cops, in the gallery, guarding the Picasso, which has a history of going walkabout). But it's a cracking read. Creepy as hell. Loving it to bits. But yeah, it wasn't responsible for the creepy. The darkness. The howling dog. The creepy guys in the darkness. The lights being out. The dark clouds.
But now, all sunshine and blue skies. Those who slept in will never know what a troublesome time we had just before dawn.
So yeah, I have an awful new haircut, and the childe didn't get the Omen ref and made a face when I said it was a 70s film. You know, like I might as well have said 1370s, that sort of thing. Sigh. Creak.
Wish I was in as good a shape as Angela Lansbury. She totally rocks.
So, after a most trying day (PC totally kerflopped and crapdoodled for 70% of my working day, then the yelling and deadlines began in earnest) I trotted across the road to the hairdresser (really, really goona miss the convenience), then trotted back to the newsagent (ditto), then waddled on to Westfield to find somewhere open for the consumption of foodstuffs. Turns out all the food court bars were open. I settled on a hamburger because I was craving one. Wrong, I know, but the hormones have been loud and insistent this week and saying no just has me keeling over, so, burgers it was. It was okay, not as good as the one down in Melbourne which was so good, and the closest to one of Jeffrey's I've had in decades (the local burger shop, now a kebab shop, says everything you need to know about my neighnourhood) but the glass of merlot they served with it was way huge (to my secret and wrong delight). I sat and sipped and read my Russian satire (still lost on me, but I like the creepy) until the place filled up with brats (Mr Mac Book sitting over on the other side packed up the same time, too).
Then I just wandered across the road, after a fashion, through windy corridors to a pedestrian bridge, et viola, the theatre. The only theatre still in the actual city. All the others were trashed in the 80s and 90s by 'developers', boo hiss, thus the 2.2km march to the STC and 2.7km march to the Belvoir. I'll be flithy when we move, either uptown or downtown, I'll be close to one but miles from the other, and I fear blisters may subconsciously interfere with my subscriptions next year, if I subscribe (was going to be firm with myself this year but they brought out the big guns, damn their eyes).
Anyway, Theatre Royal, 70s theatre, sadly no longer wearing it's 70s glittery gold glam drag (boo, hiss) and the trains rumble through at the worst times, performance-wise, but beggars can't be choosers. By some strange happy chance, Angela Lansbury and James Earl Jones, whom I saw in ads for theatre when I was in NYC and wished I could see but didn't have time, came out to Sydney (this will stop, now the UK and US markets are picking up, but the high profile acts have been fun, while it lasted). I can't believe it, but they did. I saw them. Last night. On stage. They were fantastic.
A wholly American production of Driving Miss Daisy, right down to all the styles re sets, music, etc, so much so I could have been in NY (especially dining at the fake Noo Yark burger bar beforehand). And it was great. So very funny, despite the Serious Subject Matter (i.e. a romp through the slow moving civil rights movement in the south) and those guys, what troopers, what complete hams (you know I think Downton missed a trick because Ms Lansbury could out dowager the dowager any day of the week if her Miss Daisy was anything to go by).
I was so trilled to see Angela Lansbury on stage, because she is a legend, because she is still in cracking form, because she was in Bedknobs and Broomsticks which I saw when I was wee, and I've loved her ever since. It was such a thrill to see her on stage. At the end, I leapt to my feet, and so did everyone else, and she punched the air and waved, with a cheeky grin. That's how you do it. Legend.
Mr Jones I only know from tv and films (some rather obvious, and it wasn't until I was sitting in my seat that I realised I had now seen both Darth Vader and Obi Wan on stage, heh), but I never knew he could be quite so twinkly and warm and sweet and a real cheeky teddy bear. So much love. And such a ham. Yes, he got all the best lines, but few could have made such a meal of them, slapping them in bread with relish. Sure, it might have been a touch overdone compared to the bared, stripped down stuff we get here, but for an American production, it was exactly right. It was a broad comedy, and there's nothing wrong in that. (Funny how the broadest comedies often have the sharpest messages - discuss).
So, went, saw, loved, thrilled. A bloody good night. Hats off to both of 'em. (The guy playing Boolie wasn't bad, but he was essentially the straight man in a three hander with two larger than life legends, and he did it well, unsung jobbing hero that he is).
That was an impressive night, and it'll take some beating.
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