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

Before I get dragged down by today, I have to tell you about last night. Rotten day, but, oh, the night. Ended up at The Spiegeltent in Hyde Park (our one, not their one) to see the one and only Amanda Palmer, who only just made it, having been snowed in oop north. For a girl who just got off the plane she was rather glam and very nice. She even came out to sign the merch, barefoot and in a yellow silk dressing gown. Gotta love her.

It was grand, too. Himself even broke out the red velvet jacket (how very Pertwee of him), the one that stopped traffic in London, but which I'd not yet seen, and the red embroidered waistcoat (whereas I was making do with my M&S dress, the one I loved but was put down so thoroughly at that other place, being told that if she wore it, the little miss, it'd be much too much and attention grabbing with her good figure and posh shoes and perfect hair, but scruffy old dowdy me dressed it down so much it was barely noticeable and very ordinary. Thanks for that).

So, red velvet, circus tent (eventually, and fie and fie on that ridiculous old woman who let an entire bus load of people in front of us in the queue, who'd never even heard of AP and would be better off sticking to box seats at the opera, harumph, but at least I could bitch and moan and talk Sherlock and Who and Hobbit with the girls I was squashed into behind me) and Amanda Palmer. On stage. At last. (well, it seems an age though it really isn't).

In she walked, just in yellow silk, ukulele in hand, to knock us back in our seats for a (mostly) one woman show with just a keyboard and the ukulele. What a set! What a performance! Sad songs to break the heart, silly songs to smile over, lots of Australian songs from her Australian set (she does seem to love it here). Himself hurf derfing over the Vegemite song, me nearly breaking down during the really downer song.

It was just a magical moment. Back in time for tea and Jack Whitehall on the telly. Ok, that was the best birthday treat ever.
( more: magic, rubber ducks, dwarves and dragons )

Well, that in my face self-righteous twat picking on me for her assumptions that I ate nothing but dessert 24/7 is well on the way to making her fictions come true. Gone is the green tea and fruit regimine, or the tiny portions of chicken and rice. Last night we had chicken pot pie, because it's winter, and, to use up the puff pastry, Himself made strawberry and rhubarb pasties, which well, they did have fruit in them, please note, but they were so damn good. I haven't had a dessert like that since I used to attempt apple turnovers in school (which surely makes it a sometimes food, at least, Himself laughed too long and too loudly over the idea that it would surely qualify as a sometimes food if I'd not had anything like since high school).

I am rolling and polling about the place today, though, for shame. Still, I needed cheering up. Maybe that was the idea. They kept talking dessert and I folded like a house of cards, cracked like an egg, etc, etc. Mission accomplished. Oh, but sweet, sweet dessert.
( media: snips and snails )

I met The Shat. Okay, it was brief, perfunctory and business like, at a (shudder) a Star Trek con, but I reckon it still counts as a big tick off the old to-do list. I mean, come on, Captain James T Kirk, childhood tv hero. And he was funny, too, in a weird, hyper-real kinda way.

But in truth, I'm still squeeing over meeting Chuck's dad. Yeah, Scott Bakula was there, too, looking mighty fine and such the gentleman, taking my fangirl squee with enormous good grace. What a professional, and, I sense, a genuinely nice man. And a hottie. I am relieved he's still a hottie because, adore him as I do, the role of Stephen J. Bartowski wasn't doing him any favours, hotness wise (but apparently he's not a man to shy away from abominable on screen haircuts). So yes, girlie squee.
( more: bromance is dead )

Tues: I'm still perusing all the Comic Con palava, and I must say, I'm kinda missing Supernatural right now. The boys look so cute. Damn you, show, where for art thou? (Certainly not in the Channel Ten schedule, that's fer sure). Oh yes, thoroughly spoiled now, but it was worth it for the pretty. Pretty pretty.
( more: if you go down to the woods today )

Friday: Our MPs rock, do yours?

Sorry, just am bemused. Not much to amuse a gal today, but that does.
( more: his master's voice )