Friday: Gotta love the ending of Spooks. Nicely bleak and traumatic. Poor, poor Tom. I just loved it. Nothing like a life destroyed, utterly, to make great drama and oodles of angst. I also really liked the way they played it so you never knew if Tom had really turned or not. The ending was pretty damning, but there were a few tiny cracks left open, which was a nice touch. I can't see why they had to send the sweep squad after Tom. Surely they could have just gassed him and he could have woken up somewhere wearing a jaunty blazer. Bro reassures me that there was a Chinese sub lurking off the coast to pick up Tom, as per tradition (cf Harold Holt).
Saturday was meant to be Brit boy day but there was stuff to do and then an afternoon of 60s spies: Bond, UNCLE, Avengers. Yeppers, Illya and Napoleon on dvd at last. We put in Karate Killers and it opens with go go dancers. Yep, that's the stuff. Next we cut to a lab festooned with various containers full of coloured liquid. Science! Technology! cry the peanut gallery. Cocktails! Mad Scientiest is perfecting his recipe for a Manhattan (Project). Silliness ensues, with a cast of thousands: Boris Karloff, Joan Crawford, Telly Sacvalas and Terry Thomas, oh my! No actual evidence of Karate Killers either aside from the odd judo chop. Oy, it was so bad, but very, very enjoyable.
The Avengers was even better: The Hidden Tiger. It is just one of my most favourite episodes. So very, very Avengers and, so help me, the main inspiration to my second JP3 fic. Seriously. Only there aren't any pussies in my JP3 fic. Well, obviously, snerk (and thankyou, Mrs Slocombe).
Oh, my much travelled several times circumnavigated box of Sharpe finally arrived, after, like, what, nearly two years in transit? I'm amused that a series based on the Napoleonic wars requires a warning for violence. Alas the nudity only relates to Liz Hurley's tits. Bro asks if she has machine guns in them (ala Austin Powers). Well, there goes me ever being able to watch that episode of Sharpe again.
Thee was some Brit action afterall: Jack Davenport and Daniel Craig on Showtime (hey, I was sick, I did at least get to lie in and go to bed early). I spun some Sandro highlights and then there was Stargate: 1969. Gotta love Daniel's Cherman accent. Yes, he speaks 23 languages, badly, like he just does the bad accents. Being able to only ask for a root in 17 languages shouldn't count - smirk. There was discussion on one list I was on once about how ol George lost height between 1969 and 1999. Now I keep thinking he got cut off at the knees like Hank Hill's dad. Now there's a mental image that's gonna stick.
Sunday: Missed out on the dinner I'd been looking forward too for months, and rehearsing polite conversation for nearly as long. It wasn't the company so much as the fact that I never get to dine out or eat decent food any more.
My life is nothing but bitter and empty disappointment. I stayed home so I wouldn't be too sick to drag myself into a job I loathe for people I despise.
I hate my life. I wish I had the courage to just up and walk away but like Miss Price I'm too bound by a sense of duty and what's right. I know my place and my place is under everyone's thumb.
I lost a week's worth of mail, too. No great loss. I meant to get online but I was just too wobbly. Doesn't matter. The opinions of some half baked bint in Oklahoma are hardly reason enough to drag myself and Del Boy down to the cold kitchen at midnight (where the phone is).Besides, there are only three people left who talk to me and who I like to talk to and I'm sure they'll reprise their missives if I ask nicely. If not, ah well.
My soul comfort was television: Errol as Robin Hood (those tights, oh my), Soamsie (I do hope Damian isn't a method chap with that rod he appeas to have rammed up there when he plays dear Soames) and FOTR again. It's become a familiar and comforting companion these last few weeks and just as well as I have few others. I saw FOTR with a brace of associates. I saw TTT with just one. I shall no doubt be seeing ROTK with no one, such is my life. I'd like to be a better person but I just can't seem to manage it. As much as my former aquaintances may hate me, it can never, ever match the loathing I carry for myself. I hate my life.
Monday: Decided to sleep in for an extra hour as I felt so wretched. This did not work out well as two buses failed to show and the third was very late, causing me to be very late for work and I'd have rather not have had to stand for nearly two hours at the bus stop when I'm so wobbly. Now that hateful bint who is supposed to help me but knows no html is wearing perfume that's giving me migraines and making me wheeze. Did I mention I hate my life? I am like just this far from just walking out from the shore like Tom.