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

Off to the theatre again tonight. Yeah, I know. It's something like one part boredom, two parts desperation. A bit of rage against the dying of the light, a strong need to have something in my life that isn't getting yelled at or washing dishes, and a weariness of having wasted the better years of my life into being bullied away from going out and having a life.

Still a bit bullied about going out to see films, so I usually wait for dvd/cable releases, unless I do sneak off to the flicks, and then it's usually not something I want to admit to. You know, those films made by middle aged men for six year old boys, and that's always a bit creepy and sad, if you ask me, the whole little boy bait thing/men who've not aged past six. I mean, you never see female film executives/producers/directors, but if you did, they wouldn't be desperate to make that My Little Pony movie they've always dreamt of. Nope, it seems to be a peculiarly male obessession, this need to inflict their sandpit Tonka truck greased up action figure fantasies on the rest of us. Well, the greased up action figure part I can at least get on board with, if he's cute and has a cute friend. Yes, I am that shallow.

So, the play. I actually enjoyed it, and considering I'd had a horrid day and had to run (uphill) all the way from work to the theatre, with no stopping for tea on the way, that they won me over is a pretty big deal.

Twas The Seagull, yet another Russian play. I tell ya, but the end of this month, I'll be all Russian-ed out. Once I used to race around the world to see a performance. These days I can barely raise the enthuism to catch a bus (though I've walked to every performance so far).

Too much, too much, but who could resist the urge to see David Wenham or Judy Davis on stage? And it was a very good production, Oz-ed up to a near ridiculous degree, modernised, with current jokes thrown with nodding winks out to the audience, and a great deal of farce, especially Ms Davis as the extraordinarily self absorbed aging actress (if that's not a tautology) and Mr Wenham as the equally self absorbed writer.
( more: shoot all plot bunnies )

The server's down so here I am again. It's been a less than stellar day/week/month/life, but what else is new, eh? I am all caffeinated, in a rather desperate attempt to kick the old muse up the arse, though the fic has been moving a bit since I discovered that Lewis, the sly dog, isn't entirely adverse to a bit on the side afterall:

"Have you ever had another woman?"

Lewis smiled. An old memory stirred and swam to the surface of his mind like a bubble in still water. "I daren't tell you, sir. After all, I wouldn't want you to kick me out of the force, would I?" - Dexter, Last Seen Wearing.
( more: sex, lies and videotape )

Heh, the links section is rapidly turning into a defacto Scandinavian Actors Weekly (Mads, Alexander, Viggo). Not that I mind one bitty bit (but no, keeping track of Brits is bad enough). But can you imagine? I mean, I could go so silly and include actors from York, and the north east of Scotland, which was once part of Norway. But I won't. That would be very, very silly indeed (doesn't stop folks lobbing Aussies, Kiwis and Canucks on the Brit list, though).
( more: posh people behaving badly )