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

We are now past peak purple, the sad time when the jacaranda blooms wilt and fall. Sigh. Of course, some people hate jacarandas because of the fallen blossoms (slippery when wet), but these are not people, as they cannot appreciate a magnificent purple tree. Nor would they ever stop and listen to a stolen wisp of music floating down from a building. No, these creatures are just so consumed by the basics of rutting and feeding and preening that they make my wild creatures look like poets and philosophers.

Sorry, being cranky again. Tired. Rough nights. Speaking of creatures, you know what you don't want when you're home alone? A large parrot thumping and rattling the door handle because they want to get in the kitchen. Think The Birds meets The Shining and you just about have it. (Didn't help that there was a stranger in the yard a short time later, upsetting everyone).

Speaking of creepy old and classic films, as I was abed all Saturday doiing the Victorian invalid thang (well, at least it wasn't a work day or night) and I was going to watch the dvds I had lined up but found instead such a cracking line up of films that it's like shall never schedule again. The Three Musketeers (1948), Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder and Gaslight. Whoo.
( more: the sunset clause )

Tuesday: Ah, Game of Thrones. Yes, I know, you spoiled me. Still, there was my Sean, doing the old Sharpe look, being chippy to popinjays and generally being surly to all and sundry, because he is The Sean and you invite his wrath and mockery at your peril (I understand this allegedly applies both on and off screen, but it's neither here nor there when I'm just hunkered down in a freezing cold room to watch the freezing cold wastes of the wall).

I'm glad I ripped home early/on time so I had all my faffing about done in time to watch it. Oh, and there was faffing about, especially as I seem to be blessed with extra special allowances of clumsy and stupid this week. I'm going to tell myself I'm just coming down with something and not ready to fling myself on the knacker's cart just yet.

Popped the telly on just in time to see the Lotus roll up on the beach in Spy Who Loved Me, which really is the money shot. After that it was just You Only Live Twice redux, now with extra Shane Rimmer (as if all the Thunderbirds sound effects weren't enough, let's throw in Scott Tracy while we're at it).
( more: the pigeon did a double take )

Oh, boys. You might be nazi loving schmucks, but you're gosh darn cute adorable evil nazi schmucks. I don't know or care what the lazy writers of White Collar are up to. This is my Neal and Peter.

Oh, and nice work, interwebs. I've only just seen the first ad for Game of Thrones. Now, if/when it finaly gets here, now I don't have to watch. Thanks ever so.

Clearly, there should be special circles in hell for lazy tv writers and the folks who put major omg spoilers in the H1 tags for news stories (yes, TV Guide, I am glaring at you, you schmucks).

The cigarette case of evil! Sorry, Mitchell and Webb are deconstructing the ITV Poirot. Wheeze. Chortle. Bigger tits does = evil. Well known fact.

Another well known tv fact is how gosh darn freaky Wales is. Simon Templar was in Wales in today's episode, which can only mean giant homicidal ants. I love the required pub scene where the locals muse over what beast is rampaging abroad this week, with werewolves, vampires and aliens being the most likely suspects. That's what comes of living in Wales I suppose, a greater than average chance of being munched by something nasty.

That was a reference to Doctor Who, Torchwood and Being Human, btw (though the locals really do have vampires, werewolves and aliens as the most likely suspects). Thought I should mention it after yesterday.

The elderly Boomers I work with were chattering on about Beatles memorabilia and I was smiling and nodding (and sneaking looks on ebay on my phone) and then, to add in my two cents worth (they remember copper coins, hell, they remember shillings) I mentioned the still vexing matter of the lost Han Solo figurine.

Three aged faces craned blankly towards me. Who, they asked in all seriousness, was Han Solo?
( more: better angels )

The BBC is out to rid the land of male tv detectives, much like the pied piper, one assumes, and yes, I've gone to The Goodies place already, and really, why? Certainly the Guardian poll showed this was a misguided move, because, like, what else am I going to watch on the weekends now that I'm too old and embarrassing to go out? And Zen wasn't that bad, not really. I kinda liked passive aggressive Roofy Babes and the crumbly Italian architecture.

But really, when I first heard this news, I went straight to the Detectives on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown place. Oh yes, indeedy.
( more: gods and detectives )

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 )

Wed: Captain Awesome from the coffee shop had Kid Awesome serving with him today. They're from the Eastern suburbs, natch, but it doesn't disqualify one from looking, surely not. Never has 'under new management' been on happier terms. And they've really turned it around, too, actually serving very, very good coffee and having things in the glass case that actually tempt me on occasion. Okay, lots of occasions. If only 'look, but don't touch' applied to muffins as much as it applied to pretty boys, eh? It should, but my willpower only goes so far, man. Sublimate, sublimate, sublimate.

In the theatre of my imagination, the reason they shut up the shop early in the afternoons isn't because of the lack of passing business but because they have to go and fight crime. In tight fitting outfits. Okay, so my life is as dull as dishwater, so sue me.

Meanwhile I ended up perched on a seat next to a male self marinader on the bus this morning, and now I reek of cheap aftershave. I feel like I should have the hairy chest out with the gold medallions. I smell like a sleazy used car salesman. Not good. But that's not the worst of it. Some bastard sneezed on me on the way home and now I am awash with the dreaded lurgy. Whimper. Sneeze. Sniffle. Bastard.
( more: the reject shop )