Tags: the prisoner

Dean

wet wet wet

Oh golly, this week. Where to start. Well, the good news is that we're not under water, nor likely to be, as we're on top of a hill, which I curse every time I trudge back with heavy groceries in the rain, but yeah, it all runs downhill.

And I'm sorry I'm posting these one after t'other. Type them up on notepad I can, post 'em, not so much as I've not been near my PC since Sunday, tsk.

Anyways, off to Canberra we went, in one of the wettest weeks Canberra has ever had, but we booked this ages ago, so it's just one of those things. At least, that's what I kept trying to tell people.
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Carravaggio

a pilgrimage of paint

Hello, just back from a weekend in Canberra where I managed to pick up an elusive magazine I'd been looking for everywhere (and never finding) and a whacking great cold with a wracking cough that at least gets me my own seat on buses (if not an exclusion zone). Oh yeah, saw some Van Gough's, Monet's, etc etc.
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Carravaggio

yet each man kills the thing he loves

I hate to mention this as a dear friend was bemoaning her empty weekend, and would it help if I said it was absolutely pissing down when I set out and I got soaked to the skin despite feeble umbrella and damn nearly ruined my shoes fording gutters that were running like creeks? And it took forever and forever again before a bus finally turned up and the trains were out? But we did have a massive sushi train session and while certain mgazines elluded me I did find an old edition of US weekly featuring a certain American actor I dare not mention. And a lovely bound edition of Bill's sonnets and A Lover's Complaint which I was peversely reading while waiting for the show to start.
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DeKay

sticky fingers

I had a day off and I made marmalade. Which all sounds very Martha Stewart so I need to disabuse you of that notion immediately. I lean more towards the Lucille Ball school of domestic science. One hundred percent Lucy, in fact. Whaaah! Or in my case, ouch, 'cause you know that episode of White Collar where Neal informs us you can spot anyone who's tried to melt down gold by the burns on their arms? Much the same with my bubbling napalm, although not so much this time because I had two whole days to do it so it simmered along nicely instead of trying to boil it to buggery quickly.
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lom can't win

secret agent man

This morning I was walking to work with the Bond theme blaring away from somewhere. I've always wanted to be fanfared by the Bond theme as I walked down the street. At least, I hope it was playing inexplicably loud from some speakers somewhere. Either that or I've been watching way too much Bond lately (it's just been Bond, Bond, Bond with Fox Classics Bond marathon which I've been wallowing in and I finally got to see Q of S, but more on that in another post I promise to finish typing sometime soon - work has been full on lately).

Then I read that Patrick McGoohan was dead. Bummer. Seriously. I mean, you can't get in the front door of our place without tripping over the box sets of Danger Man/Secret Agent (we have both) and The Prisoner. Oh man, he was cool. Grumpy, but cool.
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Carravaggio

sod the historical detail or how I learnt to love The Tudors

Bemused by the description for next week's Lewis (btw, Evil Channel Seven isn't running them in order, which is hardly surprising and quite typical, but I did think it odd that Lewis had apparently cooled on Hathaway considerably after the great stagger through the flames bit, but never mind, now I know I'm watching them wrong, or in the wrong order, at any rate).

Anyway, the description runs thus: "teenage girl is found wandering naked on the Oxford planes [sic]". Firstly, I think they meant plains, but mostly I am bemused because even though he is in no way credited as being any where in the vicinity of the script, it is very much the motif, shall we say, of one of my favourite tv writers and it's a device that pops up quite often (Danger Man, Thriller, The Professionals).

Basically, it just means score! because if an episode ever starts with a lone scantily clad disorientated female staggering across the landscape it's a bonus jackpot round on our ongoing drinking game. Yes, we have no lives.
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Carravaggio

down the rabbit hole

Sigh. The headache lifted, Sam Muse was actually on board and it was looking good. Sadly, Real Life had other ideas. Real Life needs a kick in the balls.

Remind me that Gene's imagination was going to run away with him and he was going to drop a few of those all seeing all knowing quotes of his.

And Sam was going to stop being such a big girl's blouse.

It came to me in a flash night, that I'd turned Sam into Sebastian. Why I will never know, but oh boy, suddenly I knew where I'd got that scene from.
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