Sorry, another Sisyphean task of indescribable soul sucking repetition and pointlessness, and thus my mind wanders. Why, I ask, again, am I always the one to be stuck with these jobs. Always.
Dear Past Me, thank you so much for remembering to buy the box of peppermint tea I totally forgot to buy this morning, and for putting it away properly so I wouldn't find it until I was really desperate and scrabbling away in darkest cupboard corners. What a treat, surprise tea. Most excellent, dude.
Ah, senility, every day is like Xmas. I'd like to say it's just chronic lack of sleep, but no, I'm probably dribbling out grey matter onto the pillow every night.
It probably explains all the trash tv I've been watching lately. I should be so ashamed. And yet, and yet, on the run through the tunnels this morning (actual subterranean malls I run through to cut a few corners off my 2km walk from where the bus dumps scum like us, on the city limits, lest we rabble sully their hallowed halls, and where I actually work, within the gleaming citadel) every other shop, still shut up but nevertheless blaring out the MOR pop and rock, all of it from the 70s today (one day it was 1982 from point to point and I was totally having an Ashes to Ashes experience), and, anyway, I smiled. Just a little smile.
It was, afterall, just for a short time, a respite for me, that moment in the 70s. I'd had a terrible life, before and since, and I can show you my busted limbs and head and other broken bits, but then, just then, my tormentors were removed or restrained. That psycho bitch of a teacher, who threw a desk at a fellow student, the formerly stationary object actually achieving flight in its arc, went on sick leave (as a child I'd hoped that karma had caught up with her and she'd walked under a piano but now I understand it must have been a 'rest cure'). In the meantime I was working in, if not actually running, the school library, so playground bullies found me hard to get at, and my grandmother was visiting, which means my parents had to restrain themselves and, worse, actually treat me as a human being, allowing me to sit at the table, even (just then, I still go off and eat on my own, it's ingrained).
So, for one glorious summer, I was free of pain, and I watched these shows. No wonder I sought them out after another grim birthday of grimness. I guess I wanted to remember what it felt like to be happy and free. (Then it started again and I was so shocked after my taste of freedom I pretty much stopped one terrible day, and I haven't moved on since).
Miss those shows, miss that summer. Miss not being everyone's bitch. Aside from tv, really, really not happy this year. Situational, though. Like that glorious summer, you take certain arseholes out of my life and I will start singing and picking daisies in fields. Truly.
Like today. Hooray. I might be clutching a hot water bottle, drowning myself in tea and deaf in one ear, I might have 99 problems, but the bitch ain't one. Just for today.
Even yesterday, while I might be normally annoyed or feeling guilty about missing a performance I had a ticket to, but giving up stark and nasty local theatre grimness for a night of Chinese takeaway and cheesy dvds? I was happy. It was the Bendy Wendy Trek travesty, if you're asking, just for the resident Cumberbitch who hadn't seen it, and I was tired of keeping schtum over any and all possible spoilers. It was, after a couple of rough weeks, a fun night.
And the local Chinese shop, the one shop to remain from my childhood, does a fine lemon chicken, just the way I like it (unlike another place I tried where it tasted like they'd used lemon dishwashing liquid instead). And prawn chips. Love a prawn chip. Okay, if you've never had prawn chips, don't, because in truth it's like eating Styrofoam cups, and probably is exactly that, but I was introduced to this delicacy as a child of the 70s, when everything was made of Styrofoam, and therefore have an unhealthy nostalgic yen for the things.
Also they'd taken Warehouse 13 off the schedule (boo, hiss) and the vintage Doctor Who has now gone off like a raw prawn, which was, incidentally, the episode I caught the end of (hence the prawn chips = let's order takeway discussion). Le sigh.
Okay, so I could have used to the hint to go out and do stuff, but I was weary yesterday. Let me tell you why. And why I'm suddenly of an age that when people tell me I'm being 'brave' or 'courageous', I should probably take note. So sad that stuff I did last year easily is now a slog. Mortality: fuck it.
I did White Night in Melbourne again. And it was fun. Bloody knackering, and it was so crowded I didn't see 80% of what I wanted to, but still pretty damn amazing. Right about now I'd be posting my pics below but the 'good' camera crapped itself so I only had my wee pocket cam and it takes shit night photos, so, 150 pics and not one of them in focus. Except the martini pics, at the start of the evening. Um, yeah, I'm going to totally blame the cameras. Bad cameras.
So if you want pics, you're going to have to go search 'White Night' on Tumblr. Sorry.
So I got up at ye gods o'clock, got the airport, got upgraded (huzzah!), got breakfast (huzzah!), landed, couldn't book into hotel (shrug), found my favourite shop open (huzzah!) so I did some shopping, then it was off to the Nova to see NT Live with the Hiddles.
Talk about a tale of two cities. Himself went to see it locally, and said it was so packed with Team Tom, and a few scattered representatives of Team Mark, that the usual old biddies fled at intermission, though he found Team Tom much better behaved than the Cumberbitches and their enthusiasm endearing.
My viewing was wall to wall old biddies who wouldn't know Tom Hiddleston from a sack of root vegetables, and so, it was such a different experience, and I think I missed all the appreciative audience participation, as I had to stifle my enjoyment. And I did enjoy it. Okay there was a bit there when my chronic lack of sleep had to be fiercely wrestled with, and I thought Mr Gatiss played the fool a little too freely (it's the Donmar, dearie, not the Globe), but yeah, now I'm double bitter I couldn't get tickets because I had actually forgotten how good a stage actor Hiddleston is, and I wish I'd seen him there, at the height of his powers, but it was not to be.
So, that was pretty ace, and the decor at the impossibly hard to find Nova made me laugh, all black leather, purple carpets and clear perspex seats in Micronaut orange. So 70s it hurt.
Back to the hotel to check at bloody last, then a quick bite before onto the last 86 tram of the night up to the Melbourne Museum for the 007 exhibition. Now so far every 007 exhibition I've been to has been more often sad than not, so I'd not raced down there. Big mistake. This was...so excellent. Everything from Oddjob's hat to Ken Adam's designs and Derek Medding's model of the Lotus, to Mads's tux from Casino Royale to Ben's cup from Skyfall, Q's radar rake, the exploding attache case, Jane Seymour's fortune telling ensemble from Live and Let Die, and, oh my, drawings with captions that read 'Interior, Volcano, pen, ink, water colours on paper'. Squee!!!!!
Okay, so they didn't have Little Nellie, but I saw her, or one of her, at the IWM, but other than that, it was, well, cue Carly...'Nobody does it better...'.
Oh, yeah, baby, yeah, this was my exhibition. I was in paroxysms of delight and fangirly squee. So happy, so very, very happy. One woman asked me if I was with my husband. Fuck that, bitch. Bond fan since I was four (no other man will do).
And it was a damn good exhibition, too. Beautifully laid out and presented, and lots of AV, like the Bowie exhibition, so you could see the prop, costume, design or model, and then see the clip it was from (not that I needed to, you understand, but still cool). Oh, so much fun. Like the Bowie exhibition, I spent hours in there, absolute hours.
Then there was the Bond bar they'd set up, which was serving martinis by the bucket load, shaken not stirred. Okay, possibly too much fun there, but I had to walk back to the library so it was probably good that I couldn't feel my feet.
By then it was getting too crowded to see and do anything so I stopped off at the hotel for a bit, I'm ashamed to say how long, but I dutifully re-emerged and carried on, past the Scottish church, and only a Scot's kirk would have an installation all about Death Death Death.
Down past Fed Square to the lit up buildings (wonderful) and the acardian gardens (a bit wanky, but each to their own) to the NGV and the 30s fashion and photography exhibition, which was the bees knees.
Okay, the young bimbos who staggered in and demanded to know who the portraits were of, because they'd never heard of Noel Coward, Fred Astaire, Douglas Fairbanks, Greta Garbo or Gary Cooper (For shame!!! I was so angry because of them. It's called Google, dipshits).
Cooling down, I was pleased to see the Jantzen costume, having only read about it being one of the very first branded fashion items ever, and the dresses were all to die for, and as for the monkey fur dyed acid green for dramatic effect, really, you had me at monkey fur (and oh, probably it was those very same idiot girls who were trolling some celeb on Twitter about wearing faux fur, without realising, due to their congenital idiocy, that a faux isn't an animal. End of days, my friends, end of days).
The rest of the gallery was actually open this time, which surprised me, though I did note they had a guard on the Picasso, because once is a misfortune, twice would have the insurance company asking serious questions - grin.
Anyways, rather diverting to see people passed out in the tiny Greco-Roman crockery nook, and bright orange chavettes just out of the clubs tottering around drunkenly on enormous TOWIE heels and sparkly skirts that barely covered their knickers (cheap at half the price). So, those vases you've got there, propped up loosely on plinths, not worth too much, I hope?
Not that the guards seemed to care. As usual I had three following me around while everyone else was left to make free with the artworks, and the plods didn't even notice they'd had a substantial rehang, despite the absence of well over two dozen of my absolute favourite pieces (and more), including the Pamelas (and I was so upset because I'd seen the ones in the Tate and I do like to try and see the others if I can). Bah, no wonder their paintings go walkies if the guards never notice they're missing (I did ask if they'd been moved elsewhere, was greeted by dull amazement that there was anything amiss).
I could smirk and say a lot of stuff has been retired because it's dodgy (fake or stolen/of dubious provenance), but I won't because I love the NGV and it was a delight to wander about the increasingly deserted halls as dawn approached. I did all of it, or all that was open, and then I had a quick cuppa to carry on my way as I wandered past brightly lit up churches that tolled the new day and everyone decided to stagger home at last.
You know, when I (finally) checked in, it was like that Trek episode, 'Are you here for carnival?'. The bells tolling and everyone slinking off at dawn did nothing to dispel that impression - grin.
Two hours sleep (!) and then out of the hotel, an obscenely big breakfast (the full english, sorry to say, but it was bloody marvellous) and I'd almost convinced myself I wasn't hungover until I asked myself if I wanted to go to ACMI (which I couldn't get near on the night) and I felt myself recoil like Nosferatu in daylight. Ok, quiet, peaceful landscapes at the Ian Potter, then. I wanted to make sure my faves had made it back ok from the RA anyway, and they had.
I'd planned to go to the other Ian Potter after lunch (Melbs has two Ian Potter art galleries, diabolical) but a dear friend of long standing phoned so we met up for a long lunch instead, then they dropped me back at the airport. Very kind of them.
Back home in time for Rake, but with a massive cold and a painfully unpopped ear, which would combine the next day into a mountain of misery, but you don't want to hear about that (if I could hear anything out of my left ear I'd be well pleased, stayed home Tues cause I slept through my alarm, deaf as a post, and was too upset about it all morning to do anything more progressive than throw a sulk).
But then there was chicken and Benedict. I don't mind. If the new neighbours are noisy I shall make sure I keep my window on my left. I shan't hear a thing.
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Harold Ramis obituary
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