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

I was just reading about profiles and segments and I was thinking, yeah, well, I'd like to see an algorithm keep up with my ecclectic tastes. I swear I must have done some damage to the poor Amazon filter by ordering Jane Eyre and Nabonga (smirk). Mind you, my latest purchases have removed all the Shakespeare and Dickens from my recs and re-instated The Mighty Isis.

Sigh. I will keep doing that to myself. Or the truth will out, or some such. It's like the playlist you never want anyone to ever see, the stuff that you love that is so deeply, deeply uncool and indefensible. Or maybe that's just me. There's my profile, daggy down to my dirty boots, never mind my pretensions to trying to reading Victorian novels, which are only just a step above penny dreadfuls anyway, if at all.

Still, that young lad I saw on stage in Othello and Ivanov now ponces about in Marvel movies wearing a very silly hat. And even my two latest dvds, one of which I will admit to featuring a certain Fitzwilliam Darcy, couldn't possibly have anything, anything at all in common, until I thought of that one word: pond.

Oh dear, I do have a type. I am a profile. Insert the usual rant here.
( more: who is number one? )