Tourist of my youth

I forgot to mention in my review of The Finest Hours that Chris Pine must be a real little trouper, as he must have taken a bucket of cold water to the face for days while filming that. The dear boy.

So I suppose if he can put up with that, I can put up with this, though, like Renton in Trainspotting, I’m really feeling the ‘thirty more years of this’ ennui.

You might have noticed I’d not reviewed Newton’s Law, despite being a Toby Schmitz fangirl. There’s a reason for that. Oh dear. It’s such a bad 80s lawyer show, and it’s really kind of awful. Pedestrian scripts of limp mediocracy and acting straight out of an Aldi ad. Oh dearie me.

Not that I was watching it properly, or uninterrupted, but, yikes. Legion was a bit of a drag, too, a bit too realistically like a fever dream for me to really enjoy it.

And I was really looking forward to last night. I was supposed to have most of the night to myself so I tried to leave early (didn’t, but tried), but I blew past the shops to catch the bus and the sun was still up when I opened the back door, just. Okay, kissing the rooftops, but, you know. Not pitch dark yet (soon I’ll be going out in the black and coming back in the black again).

Instead of making dinner, I thought I’d order in Thai, and, as MenuLog have been sending me ‘are you dead’ emails, I thought I could tender those in court as proof that takeaway is a sometimes treat, and not eaten every night as we who live in the outer commuter belt are always accused of doing (usually because I’m commuting when I should be cooking). I thought it could be a treat.

What I wanted to do was wriggle into the corner for an hour, just one hour, and try and write something, anything, on the cheap nasty PC I’ve had for a year and have never actually used for typing yet. The keyboard is pretty bad, as it turned out.

So I decided to order Penang curry, and settled down to type away, the reviews in the previous post, and it was kind of nice. Just me and my cheap, nasty PC.

And I’d timed it so perfectly that Himself and the delivery guy arrived at the gate at the same time, and the curry was good, and I offered to wash up by myself, so I don’t know where I went wrong. But I did.

Much like a scene from Legion, I ended up with the contents of the fridge hurled at me. My milk, my marmalade jar smashed to the floor, my near empty packet of Tim Tams, my left-over rice. In fact, the only things I have in the fridge. At the time it just looked like everything in the fridge being thrown about, but no, just my stuff. I read once in an article on domestic violence that if it’s only your stuff that is damaged or destroyed, then the seemingly random violence isn’t quite as random as it appears. Whatever.

I still don’t know where I went wrong. I said I’d wash the dishes and asked if there was room in the fridge for my leftovers and suddenly my milk and Tim Tams are bouncing across the floor (the marmalade didn’t bounce). I’m fairly sure I’d remember saying or doing anything that’d make a Penang curry worth a face full of fridge contents.

So it’s midnight and I’m showering glass and marmalade off myself (I ate the Tim Tam). And I have to get up at 4am and do it all over again. I think of Chris Pine taking bucket after bucket in the face making The Finest Hours, and I button up my big girl’s blouse and get on with it. This, you see, is why I need Chris Pine in my life. Just something, anything, to take me out of myself. I need a reason to keep going, and staggering from film release to TV show to theatre ticket seem to be it for me.

Meanwhile at work I get blasted for letting a colon slip through because I’ve had no sleep and it’s still in the style guide so basically I’m offending against rules I haven’t been told about and an email smack down isn’t enough, no, I get a bent over the desk verbal follow up, too.

Other people decide they don’t like the heading styles in the template and it’s all that’s okay, I’ll change it for you, anything for you. I miss stray punctuation and I’m in the stocks wearing cabbage leaves. It’s always one, harsh, brutal law of made up on the day rules I’ve never been told about for me, and red carpets and free gifts for everybody else.

That Renton feeling, thirty more years of this? Yeah, I’ve got that now.

And I’m only telling you this so that if you read my previous whine about not being able to write because of other people’s shit, this is what I’m talking about.