My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

It's supposed to be super hot today, and I'm still cosplaying the Crimson Horror from last week. Well, of course I forgot my sunscreen when off to Sculpture by the Sea. Remembered the hat, but not the sunscreen. No worries, I'll pick some up on the way, right? Nope. None to be had, for love nor money. So, ignoring my sizzling skin (where my 90% redheaded DNA will out) I trooped around the cliffs in bright sunshine.

It was quite nice, despite the difficulties in getting there (the promised public transport was a lie), and while a good two thirds of the show were same old, same old (a frequent complaint I overheard, and not just on the day), and, really, a couple of artists need to try stepping outside their comfort zone. I don't know why, but sculpture seems to be the most samey of the arts, and the one branch of the arts where you don't want samey. Especially in a forum like Sculpture by the Sea. It should be big, loud, silly and surprising because it's a walking picnic, with art. No message, no metaphysics, just something that delights the senses, full of whimsy. Not too big an ask, is it?

There was some cute, like the papier-mâché bugs on the cliff wall, and creepy, like the enormous faceless brass babies climbing up the hill - good use of site. I just loathe artists who don't take into account the site. It's like doing a Tropfest film without the theme item, in other words, pointless and lazy and speaks of trying to shoehorn something they had lying around in the back of the garage into the exhibition with no sense of context. It's Sculpture by the Sea, everyone should know what to expect, and what's expected. I always like the ones that make the fact that they're on the ocean walk as part of the art experience somehow, whether it's reflections, tones or cheesy seaside imagery (cheesy is allowed, what part of seaside picnic with art do some of these serious beret wearers not get?).
( more: photos within )

There's so much to tell you. On a personal level, things are not as I've still not be able to find a new job. all tips and suggestion will be given careful consideration.

I could tell you about the spider bite on my arm that looks like I've grown a third nipple. Should have caught the bugger and maybe had a new species named after me, but I was rather too involved doing the GEORF dance, alas. We were putting in a few new fruit trees to replace the poor old lemon which finally tottered over. Not that I'll see any fruit in my lifetime, but behold my optimism. Ah well, I like to think we were rescuing the wee trees from the supermarket and I'd rather see a shrubling than bare earth (unlike the neighbours whose Agent Orange scorched earth policy has to answer for my upwind dead lemons, oranges, quinces, plums, mangoes, etc).

So, theatre. At least I've still got pre-purchased tickets through to next year (though I'll have to sell my Hamlet ticket, such a cursed play for me, what with Toby Schmitz abandoning his long anticipated run as Hamlet last year, thus cruelling Toby Fest '13 forever and ever). I'll let you know when I pop it on Ebay (still holding out for a few more months, ever the optimist).

So, recent to last? Let's see if I can remember them.

There was the much anticipated and oh my god it's actually good Luke Mullins turn in The Glass Menagerie at the Belvoir. It was so well done, proof that the Belvoir doesn't always have to be a draining experience of uncomfortable silences. Just for once a little inventiveness actually worked, not clever for the sake of being clever, but bring that proper MAGIC theatre moment that so rarely happens. Here they had a set with 30s props and curtains, but they also had cameras set up and two screens, and with a fan blowing the lace curtain past a tear streaked actor gazing heavenwards, the screen would show an image that was such a piece of perfect 30s film, it was just really place and time setting more than a complete set (which the Belvoir really can't do, by simple logistics of being an old factory space). So wonderful, so atmospheric. The gentleman sitting next to me and I swooned over the effect in the interval.
( more: there was an ick factor )

So I did the whole Hugo A Go Go thing on the weekend. We were studying Les Misérables in philosophy class as part of our examination of what is a 'good man' and I heard about the exhibition, so, ticking the 'educational' box, off I went.

I think it's really cool, these cities that tie together exhibitions, in this case, Les Misérables, the musical, was playing down in Melbs, so the library down there is hosting an exhibition on the man, the manuscript and the musical.

Yes, the actual manuscript of Les Misérables (gosh and golly!) with scribbles, and the inky quills used to write it, and photos of the man bent over his desk. Wow (though my favourite photo was of M. Hugo straddling a chair ala Christine Keeler, it bemused).

There were also old maps of Paris, photos taken by the Hugo family, books of like minded contemporaries (Dickens, Dumas, etc.), posters of film and theatre versions (the drawing of the 1920s Japanese actor as Jean Valjean will be haunting my nightmares for days to come), copies of international editions, a really cute mashup of all the various film versions to make a ten minute movie in the theatrette, costumes from the film and stage productions, videos, music, props, more posters. Yep, everything you ever wanted to know about Les Mis and then some.

I thought I'd have to elbow people out of the way to get a glimpse of the cabinets, but no. How sad. People, they have the frickin manuscript there. The Actual Book.
( more: elementary )

The biggest worry, for me, of course, was the extreme likihood of me flipping a feminine hygiene product out of my bag and into the lap of the King Slayer as I fumbled and flustered upon approach (I have form in this area, sad to say). Fortunately events conspired to make this scenario impossible. Ah, well.

So that was Sunday, all effed up, and I was so unwell, too. Should have stayed on the couch wrapped up in fluffy dressing gown, with a nice hot cup of tea and a Smash marathon on the telly. In my heart of hearts I knew it was the one true plan for Sunday. Everything else was stuff up city.

Still, it wasn't all bad. I did buy myself a replica leather flying helmet, just like I've always wanted. And I owned all of, what, ten seconds. Then Himself put it on, and it seems I'd bought Himself a replica leather flying helmet (and goggles), just like he's always wanted. Le sigh.

At least Friday was kinda cool. The usual departure lounge cake at work, then I took my time in lieu and bunked off early to the con (who does cons on a work day?) and queued up for ages, but I did see John Barrowman and Stan Lee, both very amusing.

I think the highlights were Stan Lee correcting everyone's grammar (in between being the coolest grandpa you never had) and John's shitty cat story (made perfect by Scott hovering nearby, thus I could turn to see his reaction to everything John said, much pained face palming, tee hee).

John was bouncing all over the place, and yes, Stan Lee's patter was well rehearesed and polished, but as I heard him answer the same question three times in the weekend, never once telling the person he'd already answered that, I can understand why he has his routine down. And yes, there aren't too many people around left to refute Stan's versions of events, but who cares. He was funny, the way old New York guys of a certain era were (we'll never see his like again) and he's body of work is massively impressive, so three cheers for Stan the man. He was sweet, joyful, excited and seemingly happy to tell the origin stories, and I did so love the bitchy asides at editorial or creative decisions by others he's still not happy about. Heh. (Holds a grudge, old Stan).

The queue for autographs was less fun, three very cold and crampy hours. Hey, I wonder if my unused tokens will ever be collector items? I doubt it, but I'm saving them in any case.

I also finally saw, and met, young Jamie Bamber (he of Hornblower fame) and he was really sweet when I told him I'd once seen him on stage in Liverpool, of all places.

Michael Rosenbaum, late of Smallville, and precious little else, was really fun, doing his own thing, wandering amongst the crowd, winding up the con organisers (I think I enjoyed that almost as much as young Rosenbaum did).
( more: boys will be boys )

How to make a thunderstorm: stand up and declare that one is off to a) get online and b) watch Elementary. The first flash and crack sliced down before I'd even finished my declaration, and this with my weather app still showing 'fine'. (If my tablet camera still worked, I'd post you a series of selfies of me standing in teeming rain with that f@#king app still showing happy smiley sunshine icons).

Yeah, sure I had my tablet, but I was off to wrestle with flash/java sites, and as my poor wheezing Dell no longer has sound or battery power it can only be operated plugged in, and, as I clearly can't afford a new PC right now, that wasn't happening.

Call me crazy but there it is, and, as we took a direct hit (Kapow!) about ten minutes later, I stand by my nervous nellyness. So, couldn't watch tv either as alas my year old tablet is too old to download any video players (and museum worthy old tv was turned off, too). Le sigh.

So I finished off my Wilkie Collins book (or tried to, the direct hit threw me out of bed and made for a somewhat restless night, as I'm a slave to the fight or flight response).

That's how the weekend ended. And here I was going to tell you, not about going out, going to class, or dangling from ladders, because I did none of those things. I was still suffering from the week that was, so I decided on a course of cheap wine and a dvd remote. (Hey, it almost scanned).

Ok, no cheap wine, but a disturbing amount of 70s SF telly, and I do mean disturbing. It wasn't just one episode that started out so Charles Carmichael I was giggling, and that's before we got to the tuxedo that turned inside out into a wetsuit (flail!) and the secret lift that went down to the supervillain man cave under a cemetery (yeah, baby, yeah).

Oh, no, that I could cope with, ditto anything the good Doctor wanted to through at me, up to and including the Loch Ness Monster (just when I decided to spend Sunday in pure works of goodness I found a marathon of Tom Baker episodes on SyFy, hello couch, ta ta good intentions).
( more: livin' in the seventies )

Disorders of macadamias, it sounds like some fiendish Booker prize baiting wankery, soon to be adapted by S. Stone for the stage, a bare stage, with lots of shouting.

Sorry, another Sisyphean task of indescribable soul sucking repetition and pointlessness, and thus my mind wanders. Why, I ask, again, am I always the one to be stuck with these jobs. Always.

Dear Past Me, thank you so much for remembering to buy the box of peppermint tea I totally forgot to buy this morning, and for putting it away properly so I wouldn't find it until I was really desperate and scrabbling away in darkest cupboard corners. What a treat, surprise tea. Most excellent, dude.

Ah, senility, every day is like Xmas. I'd like to say it's just chronic lack of sleep, but no, I'm probably dribbling out grey matter onto the pillow every night.

It probably explains all the trash tv I've been watching lately. I should be so ashamed. And yet, and yet, on the run through the tunnels this morning (actual subterranean malls I run through to cut a few corners off my 2km walk from where the bus dumps scum like us, on the city limits, lest we rabble sully their hallowed halls, and where I actually work, within the gleaming citadel) every other shop, still shut up but nevertheless blaring out the MOR pop and rock, all of it from the 70s today (one day it was 1982 from point to point and I was totally having an Ashes to Ashes experience), and, anyway, I smiled. Just a little smile.
( more: )

I just loved the Grimm xmas episode. Best xmas tv episode in a very long while. Just silly enough to edge out the sweet, and even 'the message' wasn't ott, just a bit about treading a middle path re xmas expectations and making the best of whatever your deal is, which is kind of nice and practical, rather than all those 'best xmas evers' one has to sit through that just make one wrtetched. Yeah, I liked it. And Nick beat up Santa, twice. Well, once was the Krampus, and kudos for using real mythology, and, better yet, having to actually tone it down a touch for telly.
( more: holiday photos, travel grumbles, holiday fugue )

Even cranky one eyed parrots get the blues. Or maybe he was all sooky and wanting to snuggle because I had the blues. Big time. It's work. I know I'm not meant to talk about it, but to end up with the stuff I was trained at and liked to do given to others, and back with the deadening filing and errand running I used to do when I was 17, it's just destroying. Utterly destroying.

That said, wasn't Ripper Street a treat last night?
( more: enterprises that were service for all mankind )

Bard busting, big time. First I went to see a screening of NT Live's Othello. It was everything they said it was, and more. Man, that was shattering, a relentless landslide of vicious, petty, insecure men, flustering over pride, all hemmed in the pressure cooker of an army base. Of course, it's the women who suffer, they always do. Would that there was a little blue pill for male insecurity.

It was relentless, yet funny, too, until the final act, as Iago winds Othello tighter and tighter. Such an easy target, and it's cool that being non WASPy is so integral to the part, as Othello is so conscious of his outsider status, that he is resented, that his position is precarious, that he is so easily undone by a few whispers, tugging at ideas and fears that must have been already squirming there to be plucked at.
( more: the only way is verona )

As I said, if I need a reason to smile today, and I will, I can think of last night's Boardwalk Empire. I'd had a frankly dreadful day and was in the mood for a bit of orchestrated violence, and, well, Boardwalk delivers. There were some darkly comic moments, all concerning that merry band the Capones, but I did giggle and smirk. It was cathartic.

Today I'm in dazzle camouflage, because the mousey blacks and browns weren't working as far as deterring threats go (and there were/are threats), so I figured be loud, be a bigger target. Not sure it'll work, but man, this dress is crazy when you stand in sunlight. Heh.

It was either that or stay in bed, and that was option 1 to a gazillion, but I did get out of bed. Don't know why, I'm sure to cop it again today. I'm rather tired of people being horrid.

So, plays? Yes, sort of. Despite the ruination of my weekend I did slip out to see a screening of The Globe's Twelth Night again, because it's too funny (and having begged them to screen close by, I feel morally obliged). It was partially ruined by two idiots who staggered in late, climbed over just about everyone to get some seats, then talked loudly to each other, you know, all 'who's that' and 'why is he doing that' and everyone else is grinding their teeth and wishing they'd shut the fuck up for five seconds and maybe they'd catch a bit of plot, but no.

We thought maybe they'd just come for Stephen Fry, but no, they talked through all of his bits, too.
( more: who da man? )