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 )

You know, I could wring my hands over drowned polar bears and flooded islands as well as the next bleeding heart pinko greenie, but when I hear that pasty little Englishmen are contemplating wearing shorts in the city, this is where I must draw the line. No, no, a thousand times no. We must stop this outrage and do something about climate change and warming trends. Now. This instant!

No one should ever have to see an Englishman's knees. It's just too terrible to contemplate.
( more: look what they did to my show, ma )

Eee, but I have some great friends. Last night I found an enormous parcel awaiting me on the couch/lounge/sofa containing a wonderful ratty t-shirt, to go with the rat effigy sent by another dear friend, but also those elusive TH White books that could not be had, not even for money, in this old town. They are perfect, and old classic 70s issues, just like Dad's were, so they're better than perfect. Thank you so very much. You've no idea, just the smell and the feel of them...

Thanks also to the friends with the rats, Rome books, box sets and digital fun. And, lawks, I was even given a potted cycad by someone I'd never expected a civil word from, let alone a potted cycad. Whee! What can I say, I'm a complete child and I love presents.
( more: real life ramble )

Sigh. No more Unit One. I'd never seen the last two episodes before and was bemused at just how Cranford the ending was, though I don't remember Cranford dropping the C bomb quite so often (perhaps if it had been a HBO show - grin). Certainly Unit One seemed to be shooting for Deadwood's record, and surpassing it. Seriously hardcore, these Danish cop shows.

I will miss it though, and the Cranford ending was very telling, for it was terribly soapy, in its own way. Girlie tv in disguise.
( more: kiss kiss hykeeba )

Friday: Last night I was busy polishing me buddha and buffing me candlesticks, ooo er, vicar. No, it's not a code for anything filthy and fun, just filthy Dickensian char woman stuff. The usual. Also, Inspector Rex not so good to do housework to as me German ain't what it used to be.

Also scrubbed down the stairs, bannister and railings. The state of the stairs and bannister I get, but who swings from the railings like a grubby pawed gibbon, is what I want to know? Also, shoulda done this before I started decking the halls, unless you want to consider the dead roaches hanging from the tinsel as avant garde, in a Mortica Addams kinda way. Goes well with the Xmas floral arrangement I found all broken and snapped off, I suppose (who were the mad monkeys who packed away the Xmas decs last year?).

Oh, and they're taking away Heroes and my Euro cops. Wail! Okay, so they're putting Bones on next week (S2 looks like), but still.
( more: can I have a sonic feather duster? )

Last night I dreamt we were overrun with Nimons, though they weren't half as much trouble as those people down the street, but everyone was asking me how to get rid of them and I had no idea because I'd given up watching Who at that stage. Even in my dreams I'm complete rubbish and useless.

Anyhoo, I supposed you heard my shrill shriek on Sunday. Yes, it was a girlie scream. Having to go out and finish the watering at dusk (and dusk lasts 30 seconds here so it was night by the time I got out the door), I figured how big could the spiders be? Oh, that big. And fie on you know who not coming to my rescue, pinned down as I was by the giant spider. The giant angry spider (trying to hose/shoo him off the wall just made him fiesty). Wibble.
( more: bad sam, crazy sam )

Monday: Um, no scans this week. I had other stuff to do and it was hot. Plus I'm knackered. Running around like a blue arsed fly. Made myself sick on Sunday, but that's what I get for weeding in 38C heat after having yoghurt and berries for lunch.

Today I am weilding the holepunch. You know, I wasted my twenties going to uni at night just so I'd never have to spend all day holepunching again, but sans proper job, it's my "special project" of the week. They didn't even sugar coat it with "as you've got records management experience..." Nope, it was just "holepunch, bitch". So I holepunch (therefore I am?).
( more: 99 Luftballons )

'It's a horrifying, romantic, tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel. You know, with a bit of pornography, if you're lucky.' - Alan Moore on life.

Sadly no pr0n for me. Nope, I'm living in Calvanist House, as in up at 5am on a Sunday with washing, watering and weeding all to be done before breakfast, then more work, more paperwork and stuff until midnight.

Which is why I'm knackered. Okay, so I didn't have to do the scanning, especially as it's so out of date, nor did I have to stay up and revisit Dexter (although that I kinda did have to do, as homework), but I'm just knackered.
( more: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride )