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

I'm wearing my boots today, the ones I cursed and cursed myself for impulse buying and having to awkwardly lug all the way back from Canberra. I love them so, and they've hardly been off my feet since. I know what I like. Deep down, I do.

Had to go re-buy a book I'd reluctantly been made to relinquish earlier (why is it always my stuff that has to go in the skip), which I'm re-aquainting myself with (it's From Hell by Mr Alan Moore, if you're curious, a rather topical read for me right now, while I'm carrying Poe on the bus/train). I miss my older (more valuable) copy though.
( more: the speckled spinster )

I'm having Russian caravan tea again because I had a craving. The Twinings version is my least fave but the easiest to get, and I'm having it with honey, instead of jam like you're supposed to, 'cause I have honey in my desk drawer, but no jam (dreadful oversight, I know, but I do have to keep the odd paperclip and pen in there beside all my teas - grin).

At least, I was told that one should properly have it with jam down at that cafe in Canberra, the one I like, and I figure they'd know, Canberra being much more of a cold war hotspot than I was ever led to believe, the official version as I was taught being that it is a remote rural backater were nothing ever happens, but I feel local prejudices may be at play. Certainly recently declassified files point to a far more entertaining level of spy vs spy shenanigans going on, so, I figure I'll accept Canberra cafes as an authority on things Russian.
( more: law and disorder )

Precious little to report as theatre was cancelled and I bunked off my usual philosophy course. I was tired, it was wettish, and decided to wallow with my box set of The Hour instead. Good choice, imho. I love The Hour. Think State of Play in meticulous 50s drag. Except it's grim London 50s, not sparkling LA 50s. Makes it better, as far as I'm concerned. Also, crushing big time on Mr Whishaw.

It was all about the rain. Stood in the rain for about forty minutes or so outside the old State Theatre just to catch the most fleeting of glimpses of James Bond. Well, it was the dismal end of a miserable week and it was on the way to the bus stop, anyway, which is on the other side of town (scruffy reprobates from my zone need not bother coming into the city proper, they are neither welcome nor required, apparently those photocopiers fill themselves).

Anyway, I stood, I got soaked, I did but see him passing by. For a second, under an umbrella. Still, it wasn't that bad. The crowd where I was standing seemed to be made up almost entirely of British ladies of a certain age, and their withering comments, be it the weather or the fashions of minor soapie stars, was entertainment itself (British moaning does get on one's tits in the long term, but in short term exposures it's hilarious).



The monorail also provided a unique bonding experience, as we were standing right under the track in the rain and I tried to warn the tourists what would happen, but they pshawed (I wasn't wearing the grey cardigan of trustworthiness), until it did come around the corner and swept all the water from the track before it down onto our heads. After that their were cries of 'monorail!' every time it hoved into view. Well, I did try to warn 'em.

Never mind, good crowd of the very damp and the very faithful, and very British, and therefore very vocal. It was kind of fun. Reminds me of why I do the stage door thing there, but never here.
( more: the mad, the bad and the dangerous )

Friday: That storm I saw coming in yesterday looked very impressive in the weather radar, so I popped off early (there is no more loyalty or duty left in the tank, it has all been spent on arid soils) figuring if I was at least halfway home when it hit, I'd be halfway home at least. Funnily enough, ended up sharing a bus seat with Himself, so we kept an anxious look on the clouds that moved from CCC to 333 in the colour chart, while he showed my pictures of toy Daleks in shop windows and girls with Beatles balloons (quite the archive he has rescued, not unlike Oswald in Shooting the Past).

Anyway, it was dark and blowy when we got off the bus and there was much activity in recovering blown away recycling bins (and not small ones, either), stacking fallen branches (and not small ones, either) and battening down of hatches a good few seconds before the storm hit with a WHUMPF! and sent rain smashing into the back windows and lightning spearing down. Huddle, huddle.

Himself was out of the room when a mighty column of lightning smacked down, sucking the air of of the room in an instant and filling it with ozone, making the sky go white and the windows shake so hard I'd though they'd break. That was the end of it as it moved off with a pitiful drizzle and half an hour later there were clear bands of sky and sunset, but I was a little spent and there was no getting on the webs for me that night.
( more: the beat goes on )

To be positive and upbeat, on Saturday night there was a rare roast (in every sense) and chai hot chocolates and Tom Hardy romping about on the telly in doublet and hose and a rakish pearl earring (I had The Virgin Queen on telly). Friday night, as I was upset, I was treated to comfort food and poached pears in spices (which formed the pear flavoured syrup for the chai hot chocolates on Saturday).

Sunday brought Hawking to telly, the first in UKTV's 'celebrating the genius that is Benedict Cumberbatch' month. Oh, if I could only get a copy of that fangasm ad. UKTV goes Japanese schoolgirl strange for Benedict. It's so endearing (and a little creepy). Nevertheless, I was treated to some prime time prime Cumberbatch goodness, and this made me happy.
( more: sticky fingers and dodging bullets )

There was stuff I was going to say but this has been a waste of a week. Just an absolute non week of work, tissues, asprin and dvds. This is a plague ship here.

At least being dashed unwell has given me an excuse, or at least, I've given myself an excuse, to catch up on the stack of disks waiting viewing. Got my Fassy fix in Haywire, with bonus Ewan McGregor, and young Mr Tatum getting the snot kicked out of him as well he might.

Anyone who can't properly enunciate the name of my most beloved fictional hero, sacred to me since I was ten, deserves a good arse kicking my opinion, but this is what I get when Hollywood hires ex-strippers instead of someone who has been to drama school and done theatre and Shakespeare and television before hitting the movies, but Hollywood knows best. The sooner somebody properly discredits the American mumble school of acting the better. It's not deep. It just requires closed captioning.

Anyways, also got bonus Fassy fix when I found X-Men on cable. Yay Fassy. With added McAvoy, for good measure. J' Adore wee Jimmy McAvoy.

Doubled up on Peter O'Toole when I watched How To Steal a Million, which is a joy, a silly, daft, joy, and then found Lawrence of Arabia on cable. Swoon.
( more: all fall down )

After a particularly rough day, because I just love judgemental twats getting up in my face, it was a cheery evening with a barely bloody drinkable red and a big episode of Buffy (the one where Angel gets happy) and an episode of Law & Order UK, which wasn't cheery at all, but it had cute as a button Jamie Bamber in it, and they were wandering around my favourite streets (unlike other shows set in other cities, I could see them stroll past just one shop and know exactly where they are, hello shop, a couple of doors down from my Cafe Nero and I need to go back, I'm a few cups short of a freebie) and it's all old L&O episodes in English drag, which adds a further layer of meta hilarity to the proceedings, and there's Bill Paterson popping up to growl something in his brogue and, well, I am very easily amused.

Finished off with Once Upon a Time, which is freaky and does not bear close examination at all but I'm happy to waft along for the ride. It's all very daft but with the same sort of soapy stuff that kept me bouncing along with Buffy, so it tweaks that kink and I'm happy.
( more: roman in the gloamin' )