step on a crack

I do not know why I wore this top, other than the fact that it looks simply stunning on the hanger (far less so on me but that's because I lack the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a man, which could be said for all so-called women's clothing these days). But aside from the whole all women's clothing is made by vicious misogynists (I mean, bat-wing sleeves on this year's cardigans? It could only be thought clever by someone who pees standing up), this a disaster top. You know, those cursed or at the very least ill-fortuned items of clothing (like my beloved skirt with the large beaded flower on the hem that demands I be soaked to the skin in a passing thunderstorm every damn time I wear it).

I realised, too late, that twice now this ill-starred top has caused me misfortune, okay, once just an unfortunate cancellation that I'd had my heart and soul set on, but the other a true Hollywood disaster film misadventure of misery. And yet, here I am, wearing it. So I will ascribe to it nearly missing the bus this morning as it arrived the same time as the garbage truck and went round, meaning to miss me and leave me stranded but pulled up with a sudden pang of guilt, perhaps, two blocks up the hill. As I ran, the button pinged off my cardy (and I'm going out tonight and also being called upon to curtsey to big bosses today). Fabulous.

I suppose I can swing past the haberdashery this arvo, if there's time, but as for the rest of the day, stuck with my odd number of buttons. Bugger.
( more: electrickery, tents and tea )

days and knights

We are now past peak purple, the sad time when the jacaranda blooms wilt and fall. Sigh. Of course, some people hate jacarandas because of the fallen blossoms (slippery when wet), but these are not people, as they cannot appreciate a magnificent purple tree. Nor would they ever stop and listen to a stolen wisp of music floating down from a building. No, these creatures are just so consumed by the basics of rutting and feeding and preening that they make my wild creatures look like poets and philosophers.

Sorry, being cranky again. Tired. Rough nights. Speaking of creatures, you know what you don't want when you're home alone? A large parrot thumping and rattling the door handle because they want to get in the kitchen. Think The Birds meets The Shining and you just about have it. (Didn't help that there was a stranger in the yard a short time later, upsetting everyone).

Speaking of creepy old and classic films, as I was abed all Saturday doiing the Victorian invalid thang (well, at least it wasn't a work day or night) and I was going to watch the dvds I had lined up but found instead such a cracking line up of films that it's like shall never schedule again. The Three Musketeers (1948), Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder and Gaslight. Whoo.
( more: the sunset clause )