I'll leave it there to come down as it wilt (with or without blacking out the street) because going up a metal ladder by myself to tease it down strikes me as foolhardy. Maybe I'll call the people responsible for powerlines, if I can find out who is actually responsible for powerlines, but for now, I'm just, whatever. I'll only make it worse, whatever I do.
This miasma of mehness is caused, in part, I think, by the neighbours killing everything below the clotheline again. I'd normally blame my lack of attention to the garden but this has not been the case in the last few months and when even the indestructible weeds die off overnight (and I mean overnight) I know they've been splashing the defoliant about. Well that and me collapsing from fits and bleeding out of every orifice when I went down the back to see. That, too. After working hard to get the garden in shape for summer, it was, well, why did I bother? And man, I feel awful. Really bad.
Then, of course, it's all Tom Hiddleston's fault. That little pimpernel has proved as elusive as ever, and again, forever and always I failed to get any tickets for any of his appearances in town (because, as always, by the time I can get to a non firewalled server it's far, far too late). Right now I could out sulk Loki right off the planet, I am just so not happy about it. I know, it's just some actor, but I care. It matters to me.
So now all my hopes are pinned on Luke Mullins. He had better live up to the hype. No pressure here, boyo, but you are the difference between light and dark this week. Much more of this and I'll be up on the ladder prodding that branch just for the hell of it.
After six calls I finally found a company willing to own up to owing the electrickery some sort of basic maintenance, and, actually, once I found them (sub, sub, sub etc contractors) they were quite good and the offending branch had been taken down and Sleepy Hollow was chugging away on the pvr when I staggered in. Wasn't that taken with that ep of Sleepy Hollow, at all, but I had a crashing headache and lots of scenes of chicks arguing was like nails on a board, it really was.
Before the headache, it was okay. Had a nice snack in my fave tapas bar, and then off to see Small and Tired, a retelling of the Orestes tale, updated to inner city Sydney, to make it relevant (in other words, even more elitist). It was downstairs, in once of those actors in your laps 'theatre spaces' that could be accomodated in a wardrobe, and often feels like it.
That said, I liked the lawn set (how did they keep it going in that dungeon?) and I liked that it was short (those seats were Calvinist) and the whole Electra thing and the cold rejection of the daughter by the mother hit the bullseye (yikes), and the way Electra was carrying on, and if I didn't see myself, I saw former friends of mine, very much so. So that was effective.
Mr Mullins? Not so much the anchor around which the storm whirls as in Angels In America. Here he seemed to be far more passive, almost, if not actually just a cipher, just standing there while people screamed their issues at him. I do love Luke, and he has to be my new theatre darling now that my beloved Toby is going Hollywood (overheard two other people gushing over Toby in just 24 hours, the boy has his fans). So yeah, I like Luke, but he was a very passive (passive aggressive?) Orestes who seemed to be more of a witness than an active participant. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to go (dunno, crap education, haven't gotten around to reading that one yet), but I thought he could have, I dunno, pushed back a little instead of just shrugging and wandering off. Like I said, maybe that's the way it's supposed to go.
Unexpectedly, the play belonged to Electra. That's not the impression I had from my pre-reading of reviews and the programme, nevertheless, she was the centre of everything (and I suspect that would have pleased her).
Oh, we discussed so many things, the bad choices people make in grief, the selfish cold fish actions of the mother in removing herself from her children because it was easier for her, yet also how much heavy lifting women have to do on the domestic front to try and keep things together.
We? Yeah, I went by myself and met this chap briefly in the usual exchanges of excuse me and no, after you, and then, afterwards, I went to hail a cab, and it was him. Driving the cab. Yep, his day job is a cabbie, but he's also a season ticket holder. Could be creepy but he was so fantastic to talk to that I'll just call it one of those kismet things and a nice aside in a week of meh and disapointment.
We discussed the themes of the play, other plays and themes - I cracked him up getting on the bridge when I complained that the Macbeths had no stick-with-it-ness. You know, stick with the plan. They've killed Duncan, they've gotten away with it, just ride it all the way home, fer fek's sake. Useless pair of also-rans.
Anyways, he chuckled over that, and I mentioned my usual admiration for Shakespeare's ability to discuss corruption at the big end of town (here I drew on real life paralells which I must refrain from repeating) and also his way with a knob joke.
Which of course put us onto Blackadder, renditions of our favourite lines occupying a good few miles. Finally drew up at the shops. I figured I'd get my cabbie to drop me at the shops for safety's sake and I needed to see if the shop had cured itself of empty shelf syndrome - not quite but I did pick up a geranium. It's probably dead now.
Anyway, he said I was such good value he was going to round the fare down, but I rounded it up for the same reason, and we parted friends. He said he'd picked up Toby himself the other day and they'd discussed his upcoming role as Hamlet. Apparently he's deep into a book on previous portrayals of the Ham, and is struggling to find his own way. I would have said 'just be Toby', but apparently actors have a process to these things. Sounds like a lot of twaddle to me, but I'm sure it'll be alright on the night. I have great faith in the Toby brand of theatrical magnificence.
It'll be the last time I see him. The next time he'll be a big star and I won't be able to get tickets to even view him from a distance. (She says, still sulking over never getting a chance to see that boy who skipped onto the stage, the one that made me lean closer to see, because I was right at the back, standing. That boy, whom I can't ever see any more. Heartbreaking. Damn you, Tom Hiddleston).
So that was my night. Wednesday was effed up (four hours and all I got was this lousy poster), had another headache, decided to thrash it out like a teenager. Or my interpretation thereof, which largely consisted of actually playing music, music that I liked, at a moderate volume, and not doing any chores, because there was no one there to make me. That was my tantrum, just sitting in the shade and listening. It's what I used to do, when I had the chance, way back when, and, what do you know, it still works.
By the time Doctor Who came on telly (Horror of Fang Rock) I was, if not happy, then somewhat more recociled. Enough to make a roast and steam some veggies. Missed White Collar but caught SHIELD. Still very the sort of show I used to watch as a kid. Apparently tanking in the ratings, so, just me, then. Oh well. No standout characters, and/or no standout villian to propup said cardboard cutout characters, in a pinch.
Everyone is being 2D this week, except Elektra. Now there's a thought.
So, as I said on Twitter, breaking in a new pair of Doc Martens, and yeah, pretty much don't have any skin left on the old toots, but it can't be helped. The problem with DMs is that when I've just about broken them in and they stop giving me the world's worst blisters is usually the week they fall apart on me.
As is the case with my most beloved shiny silver patterned Docs. Oh my god, I loved those. Not just because they were cool, and they were, even as I wasn't, but the adventures we had, the conversations I've had, just because of them, being invited into that African resturant in Paris, to sit at the owner's family table, just because he loved those boots. crazy night. Thank you boots, winning friends where I never could (they made me seem more interesting than I ever could be). Oh, the places we've been, walking up the Uffington White Horse, the one from that XTC cover, top of the Empire State Building, coast to coast across America, sloshing along the Thames in the rain, riding the 86 in Melbourne, tramping through the snow in Inverness.
So many memories. I'm gonna have to see if they can be mended in some way, otherwise enshrine them atop the wardrobe. I hate to lose them. They were the business. Those boots, they were made for walking. And they did (and I have the blisters to prove it).
If you're wondering why I keep wearing these darn boots, it's because they're sturdy enough to stride through cow pastures, snow and up hills and down dales, yet not so ugly I couldn't just about get away with wearing them to the theatre, and given the luggage restrictions when travelling from Oz, I need a boot that does both, as I can only have the one pair (I still stagger at the site of Yanks dragging bags as carry on almost twice the size of the one I was permitted to put in the hold on the flight over, harumph). Yep, our founding fathers weren't messing about with the middle of friggin' nowhere requirements for the colony. No, sir.
So, new boots to break in. At least buying them gave me something constructive and useful to do in the whole no Hiddleston imbroglio. I had a new purpose. I had boots.
All the apple trees have new shoots on them now, which means I've nursed all six through a year of record hot, record cold, record wet and record dry. Which is why I was giving myself sunstroke and heatstroke, out there in the worst of it, hosing my darlings down. They're still just sticks, but They're Alive! Or, at least, they were (insert mutterings about insane temps in October here).
Dont know why I'm over investing in those trees, but I've always wanted an apple tree, and it won't be for want of trying. Gave them all a taste of the dripping from the roast the other day, which they seemed to like.
Yeah, I made a roast, just a little store bought one, but it worked, and better yet it meant I just had to make a sandwich last night, which was all I was up for, because it was way too hot to turn anything on in that tiny worker's hovel of a kitchen.
I really should be working on my writing, or at least catching up on my reading instead of making myself sick eating all the stuff I'm usually not allowed to have, but it's been a week, and comfort food is go. Besides, by the time I'm done the shopping and watering and sundry other jobs it was Sherlock time on telly and that was the definitive ticket. Just what I wanted and needed.
Two treats, because, oh, I shouldn't tell you this, but I snuck my very favourite, hat I rarely ever get to sneak, a little bowl of chopped up banana with condensed milk drizzled over it. Okay, my hand might have slipped a little during the drizzling process, tsk.
My hand just slipped, so I'm told, was a favourite excuse of my maternal grandfather. Should be the family motto, covers just about everything. My hand just slipped. I wonder how much is nature and how much is nuture? All I can say is, it's way harsh to get the powerful sweet tooth from the stick thin side of the family, and the fat arse from the dumpy side.
So I know I did wrong last night, but the narnies were going off in the heat, and I needed a sugar fix. Funny how it's so much worse and socially daming than if I'd admitted to more illicit ways to ease the pain than sugar and Sherlock. Funny that. Strange days are these.
Slept like a baby, though, even though sweaty, and the fic in my head has finally dragged itself back up and is staggering onward. Of course, now I'm too busy to put pencil to paper. Ain't it the way?
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