mockturle06 | Indy, why does the floor move? (Reply)

What I've been up to. Well, I've been yelled at a lot, that's fer sure. I wish I was invisible. I wish I wasn't such a screw up. I wish I had a gentle and supportive life coach at my elbow telling me the right things to do and say so I don't get yelled at so much. I mean, I try, but clearly falling well short of the mark.

It's depressing. If trying my best isn't good enough, then what good am I? No good, screams back the answer, loudly. Sigh.

Anyway, despite being an apparent walking human tornado of horribleness, I did go out to see Bill Bailey at the State and that was fun.

Before that I took any excuse to leave on the dot and I went off to see the exhibitions at the State Library. Bypassed the Patrick White one, because if I never had to read another Patrick White novel again I will be content on that count at least, because life is too short and miserable for Patrick White novels, and headed instead for the tiny fashion photos exhibition which amounted to a few printouts stuck up twixt the lift and the tearoom in the corridor of the back of the library, but there you go. All I could think of, given the extremity of the outfits chosen to represent the ages, was that it was a testament to mind over fabric that the human race survives at all.

Also popped down that stairs, in the corner of a darkened room, past the staircase and the lockers, lacking only a sign that said 'beware of the leopard' that was the exhibition of rare Wedgewood. Just a few colonial themed pieces, but I've a soft spot for Wedgies, so I duly drooled. Two of Joseph Banks and one of Mrs Banks, whom I suddenly felt sorry for (Mr Banks is one of the reasons Tahiti has the reputation it does, nudge, nudge, wink, wink).

Then it was a bored wander through shops until we alighted on Dymocks. It's been so long since I've browsed at Dymocks. How sad, as I do enjoy it, and may not have the opportunity to enjoy it much longer.

Then it was off to Chat Thai where I think I'd made a reservation. In any case we were rammed into such a tiny seat and so close to our neighbours that elbows in the sauce were a real problem, and, oh, we were hungry so we made complete pigs of ourselves with spring rolls for entree, I had the duck curry (because I wanted something I knew I'd like) and finished off with sticky rice custard.

So it was a waddle down to the State where we curled up in plush red velvet seats which were so comfy we both dozed off in turns waiting for the doors to open. We were right up in the dress circle because it took me longer than usual to work out the booking form only worked on IE and not Chrome or Firefox (which is all I had installed on the laptop), so I had problems booking, reflected in our seats way up in the heavens, but it was okay, most of the jokes travelled to the back rows.

The review, below, covers most of it, but the whole pantomine joke has kept us giggling for a while, ditto Final Countdown played on car horns.

A fine night out, even if we were tired. Thursday night I was supposed to go straight home, but I was kept back, and upset, so I raced off to the STC 2013 season preview and that was fun. Everyone was going through the books with pencils in a most industrious fashion, but I was just happy to watch and listen. I wasn't the one who stood up and actually asked if they had something against scenery or were strapped for cash, though I did laugh down my sleeve. Cate was not impressed, however, and gave a speech full of many valid points such as directorial vision and variety, which is fair enough, but I do feel local theatre has strayed so far into minimalism that the backlash has officially begun.

I have nothing more critical to say, as I have no real vested interests, and I was only amused at how the Herald coyly didn't print any of the more ribald or silly comments as the two frequently descended into a Lucy sketch, especially when, asked if she would be appearing in the 2014 programme, Ms Blanchett answered it depended on whether or not Mr Upton would give her a job. It then decended into farce as she described slipping notes under the door or even rolling out the old casting couch, causing Mr Upton to turn the very same shade of crimson as her jacket (worn no doubt to coordinate with the crimson palette of the programme). Well, I was amused.

Best of all, there was the programme. I said I'd not subscribe again. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Some things are too good to miss (I shall not say a word, not even if/when I have my tickets, given all the disasters that befell me before I saw Les Liasons, which I had been looking forward to so much, I am now properly susperstitious about breathing a word before the third encore).

Blah. blah, blah not happy and then there was the family function to which I was finally invited, as a plus one, I guess. It's been so long I did not recognise anyone and I'm sure I was dreadful, but I tried my best. I was properly nervous and anxious and I think they refilled my glass once too often, and I'm sure everyone is muttering about me, but I can't see myself doing anything obvious like falling face first in the 80th birthday cake, so I'll rate that a pass, but not much of a one, as I really wasn't up for it. And it came, the question I'd been dreading: how was I looking after my mother's garden. Dear god, imagine the image from Doctor Who of the wastelands of Skaro, as to what the gardens look like now, and then me having to lie my head off on too much wine and too little sleep. Yep, aced that one, fer sure. [Shakes head in dismay].

Oh well. I think I rated enough to be offered a lift home instead of being left on the curb, and it would have passed off as a passable effort if I'd not suffered from eating something I shouldn't have (go the chicken at these catred dos, always go the chicken). Oh well. At least I got to see most of Justified on repeat. Series three, mercy me.

That was all I watched. I figured it was time to admit defeat and try and sleep, only to have fever dreams all night. Pity. The other night I dreamt I was looking for that eternally searched for cafe that I can sit in the corner and scribble in, and I thought I'd found one, and lo, while I was walking to the table in the furthest corner, Mr Tom Hiddleston appeared like a heavenly creature and told me not to worry, it would get better. I hope heavenly Tom Hiddleston is right.

The night after the STC previews I dreamt I went and saw Bomer in a play and he was bad, like highschool production bad, oh dear, the poor boy. Here's hoping he's not quite that bad in reality (I can't tell, Toby is brilliant on stage but that one time I saw him on telly he was bad, like Linda Evans bad, oh dear).

Strange what too little sleep will do.

Speaking of no sleep, guess who was up at the crack of yesterday to watch Doctor Who. Well, I had to be up early anyway to make the luncheon date, and we ended up running late because the fraudband could not cope with multiple Who viewings, but I don't care. I know they have streaming tv in the US, but this is a novelty for me and it's My Favourite Show Of All Time (ignoring the 80s episodes, please) and it's there to watch only an hour or so after the UK screening (hence the wee hours watch) so I can watch without being spoiled, and jump onto the tag end of conversations if I so choose. You know, instead of waiting years and years for shows to screen here (White Collar, Justified, Being Human, Supernatural etc).

So, yay, the 21st Century finally arrives at my door. Well, a bit of it, anyway, and it's the bit that matters to me. Of all the shows, this is the one I most want (well, that and Sherlock and boo on the next season being the last but I knew it had to be) and yay, dinosaurs (and not rubbery handpuppets either), on a spaceship. With Rupert Graves. As a big game hunter (in full Rider Haggard mode), which should be alarming (I was sickened by the book), but hey, it's Rupert (j'adored since he was apparently a teenager in those early tv roles I saw him in, hello Return of The Saint).

There was the Triceratops that played fetch like a big dog (and licked, and sniffed), that was cruelly dispatched by the comedy robots, who sounded remarkably like Mr Mitchell and Mr Webb. Wanting to unfollow someone because they shot a cute dinosaur is such a first world problem, no?

Silly story, but the Peanut Gallery noticed they were ticking off towards the anniversary, not just the Daleks, Skaro, the Silurians, and the reference to the Doctor posibly being a Sagittarius. I missed that one. (The show debuted on 23 November 1963, not 1996 as the Saturday paper stupidly insisted).

So that was my highlight. Joy, it's Doctor Who that keeps me walking one week to the next.

Oh, and I bought big headphones to wear at my desk. Pathetic, yes, but it worked today, and that's the main thing. Hard to yell at me just cause when I've got the big cans on my head. At least it keeps all correspondence to just priority business. Probably not very professional but I'm in survival mode here.

Tuesday: I only watched three Doctors last night. Not even trying. I discovered that if I leave the very moment I've done my hours, instead of staying back and working for free and being called selfish and lazy, what never helps anyone, I can in fact, albeit multitasking like a fool, at least turn the telly from Pertwee on SF (deep in the Silurians) to Tennant on UKTV (Family of Blood) to Smith on ABC2 (the second Corden one). And, if that wasn't enough, once finally settled, having completed online and offline chores (except watering what's left of the garden because I couldn't mulitask with a hose in one hand, not that clever), I decided I need another Rupert Graves fix so it was off to see the dinosaurs on a spaceship on iView (which I can now watch on evil PC, even if the sound and vision on evilPC is rubbish, why couldn't they do this when I had my first laptop, it had a wicked cool screen).

Sorry, it was just a fun and silly thing to do, especially as I was mainly, I will admit, deep into online tasks and housekeeping. You know, pay bill, Rrrggh says the Silurian's tame dinosaur on the Pertwee episode. I used to have to do my homework during Doctor Who, so it's no surprise I fall back into established behaviours (bad though they may be).

Oh, and I've discovered that one great whatever uncle had the appelation 'notorious', followed by the title 'reverend'. That's what I like to hear. See? Genetic destiny. Those Scottish church elders, eh?

That's why the well known painting The Reverend Robert Walker is one of my favourite paintings. The idea of a Scottish church elder, dour fellows to a man, zipping about on skates, with his pink cheeks and just the hint of a Mona Lisa smile, strikes me as so much whimsey. Almost as amusing, and in the same gallery, once, was the wicked hang that had a group of the most miserable Scottish elders scowing at the gossamer nymphs who cavorted on the wall opposite. It amused me. I think it was seeing that, then rounding the corner to the Reverend that made it sink in as so delightful. I just like it. No, love it. I have the xmas tree ornament (onto my second), the scarf, the fridge magnet, the whole deal, one souvenir per pilgrimage.

How it ended up in Neal Caffrey's lair on White Collar I do not know. I guess some dopey set decorator picked it out of a job lot, because, if anything, the Rev reminds me of Peter, you know, strict, and stern, but giving in to boyish impulses every so often. I'll never know why they made Peter a catholic, as he's Presbyterian all the way: no, no, never and not now. And why the Irish name, he should be Scottish Calvanist down to his bootstraps. At least in the two series that have screened out here, where's he's all about denial and doing what's right.

Neal Caffrey, meanwhile, while invoking Dean Moriarty, is just about right, exactly the sort of skanky Irish catholic boy I used to know who's hoping he'll get to heaven before the devil knows he's dead. Does what he likes, pretends to be contrite and it's all groovy. Or so he thinks.

And what is with the spoilers for this week's ep? Peter keeps a few secrets and Neal gets to be all violent and nasty about it? Has he actually had a good hard look at himself? And not just to make sure his tie is on straight. Hypocrite, of the worst order. See? Catholic boy, through and through.

And just to show I'm an equal opportunity religion basher, the local Anglicans have been atrocious of late, sticking it to women and gays. Sigh.

It does go towards my feelings that religion is the cause of more bullying and human misery than most things in this world. I thought 'why can't we all just get along' was supposed to be the take home message, but apparently not. Once again I'm rather pleased to have been banned for life at age six, no, really, for heresy (asking difficult questions, of course).

Not that philsophy is any better, the supposedly secular 20thC saw quite a bit of argy bargy over philosophical views (though mostly it was about borders and resources, namely oil), but at least the more sane and welcoming philosophies start with a preamble that says, pretty much, 'okay, here's the thing, no one's perfect but we can try and be a bit better'.

Trust me to think 'better' means not treating others badly. But that's just me. If your religion works for you, I'm so happy. It's just the folks lobbing stones I don't like, or the weasels who think getting down on their knees makes bad behaviour okay.

Ah, Peter, I know why you can't give him up, but you really, really should. Or at least read Faust or any other cautionary tale. Oh dear.

Anyhoo, while I'm things that annoy me, before I get onto things I love, and I really shouldn't post these now, as he killed Tricey (weep), but still, he has a point (oh, the Peanut Gallery wouldn't even watch Mr Mitchell's episode of Who Do You Think You Are, muttering about him killing Tricey).

Going Forward | David Mitchell's Soapbox

Problems and Challenges | David Mitchell's Soapbox

On a positive note, the night after the big formal function I had a phone call from the aunt (see also Wooster and Aunts) and she actually thanked me for coming and, very vaguely, invited me down to see the new house, that they moved into two years ago. Well, I struggled to be on my best behaviour so much I thought I'd sprain something, but I think I passed. See? Trying. Trying so hard.

Oswin: Do you know how you make someone into a Dalek? Subtract love, add anger. Doesn't she seem a bit too angry to you?

Amy: Well. Somebody's never been to Scotland.