I was just talking about Hammer horror, and my bedroom door swings open with a classic coffin lid rising croak.
Alas, no Peter Cushing and/or Christopher Lee waiting for my in my room.
A couple of weeks ago I lamented that no one drove cars in cool colours any more, especially a particular shade of racing green. Well, it turns out someone does. The exact shade of green I meant. On my exact dream car, my wee Matchbox car.
Who? Who else, fucking Chris Pine, that's who. So, he's been in Star Trek, has filmed Wonder Woman, is going to be in A Wrinkle in Time, does bitchin' westerns and is driving my dream car around LA (and being a complete bitch while doing so). Anything else you'd like to try, Chris, or shall we just call it now, while it's just faintly ridiculous.
Honestly, if he showed up in a blue phone box next week, well, I wouldn't put it past him.
Me, I've still got DORF stamped on my stupendous arse. And ye, I'm doing sweet Fanny Adams today because I got hit by a car, got up, made my 8am deadlines, worked all day, had two meetings and then went to a fillum.
Today I am aching in laces I didn't even know I had. And I wasn't just knocked down. I went flying. I landed about a metre away, skidded another metre, hence my arm, which would have been worse if not for the dreass/cardigan/vinyl jacket I was wearing. My glasses ended up in the gutter on the other side of the road (and traffic beeped as I staggered about trying to fnd them - help me? No way). The only reason I didn't break anthing is because I don't break, like some crazy Luke Cage thing (and I've been thrown down enough staircases, off cliffs and balconies to know it, and yes, I've lived with very abusive people).
I'd like to thank Marks and Spencer for that vinyl jacket, though. First, it's damn cute. But mostly I rolled and skidded up the road in it at speed and it saved me bleeding, well, mostly, and it survived (well, mostly).
And I was on the damn fucking pedestrian crossing, three-quarters of the way across. Because of my retina tear, I never saw it coming bcause real actual blind spot. Fucking end to a fucking night (9pm deadline, and yes, 8am deadline the next day).
So, film? Doctor Strange, as I thought some comfor Ben would cheer me up. The film? Meh. I was waiting for it to kick off and end credits already. seriously, I was chugging my drink like Thor was (is it just me or is Hemsy sounding Oz as of late, or is it just Darryl rubbing off on him - smirk).
I did get to play Benedict tic bingo, though. It was pretty much just Sherlock with a bad American accent and a big red cloak. His Hamlet was very Sherlock, too. Oh no, Cleaver Geene syndrome (where we described Roxy as reminding us of Cleave in every play we saw him in and a friend dared to suggest that Rox might, you know, be a one trick pony). Perish the thought I should say that about Benedict, but, but, maybe.
I couldn't say that about green dream car driving Chris Pine, because the three films he put out this year, Bernie Webber was not James Kirk was not Toby Howard. Boy can act (be a brat, but can act).
Ah well, Comfort Benders, hitting all the tropes, was pretty much all I was up for anyway, and two hours reclined in a gold class seat with a glass of vino was just what I needed, because I was in, pretty much, agony (have you seen that picture of my skinless arm, that fucking hurt, man),
Even manged to get home in time for Legends, which is a silly joy now that it's a Darvill free zone. Sorry, not sorry and true. I like the whole bunch of clueless maniacs vibe they've got going now.
Speaking of silly, one of my colleagues knits prawns. I love those goofballs.
Anyway, that me. Construction still thumpity bumpity next door so it's back to Galavant for me. I need cheering up. And more Advil.