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

The biggest worry, for me, of course, was the extreme likihood of me flipping a feminine hygiene product out of my bag and into the lap of the King Slayer as I fumbled and flustered upon approach (I have form in this area, sad to say). Fortunately events conspired to make this scenario impossible. Ah, well.

So that was Sunday, all effed up, and I was so unwell, too. Should have stayed on the couch wrapped up in fluffy dressing gown, with a nice hot cup of tea and a Smash marathon on the telly. In my heart of hearts I knew it was the one true plan for Sunday. Everything else was stuff up city.

Still, it wasn't all bad. I did buy myself a replica leather flying helmet, just like I've always wanted. And I owned all of, what, ten seconds. Then Himself put it on, and it seems I'd bought Himself a replica leather flying helmet (and goggles), just like he's always wanted. Le sigh.

At least Friday was kinda cool. The usual departure lounge cake at work, then I took my time in lieu and bunked off early to the con (who does cons on a work day?) and queued up for ages, but I did see John Barrowman and Stan Lee, both very amusing.

I think the highlights were Stan Lee correcting everyone's grammar (in between being the coolest grandpa you never had) and John's shitty cat story (made perfect by Scott hovering nearby, thus I could turn to see his reaction to everything John said, much pained face palming, tee hee).

John was bouncing all over the place, and yes, Stan Lee's patter was well rehearesed and polished, but as I heard him answer the same question three times in the weekend, never once telling the person he'd already answered that, I can understand why he has his routine down. And yes, there aren't too many people around left to refute Stan's versions of events, but who cares. He was funny, the way old New York guys of a certain era were (we'll never see his like again) and he's body of work is massively impressive, so three cheers for Stan the man. He was sweet, joyful, excited and seemingly happy to tell the origin stories, and I did so love the bitchy asides at editorial or creative decisions by others he's still not happy about. Heh. (Holds a grudge, old Stan).

The queue for autographs was less fun, three very cold and crampy hours. Hey, I wonder if my unused tokens will ever be collector items? I doubt it, but I'm saving them in any case.

I also finally saw, and met, young Jamie Bamber (he of Hornblower fame) and he was really sweet when I told him I'd once seen him on stage in Liverpool, of all places.

Michael Rosenbaum, late of Smallville, and precious little else, was really fun, doing his own thing, wandering amongst the crowd, winding up the con organisers (I think I enjoyed that almost as much as young Rosenbaum did).
( more: boys will be boys )

Such a cosy gathering at Chez Munroe in Grimm last Sunday, the gang all together, happy days. Except Juliet rattling around alone in the big empty house slowly going nuts. Can you say entirely surplus to requirements? Good thing, too. No tv show ever needs a whining girlfriend.

It's about time they got rid of her, anyways, as Nick is starting to enjoy it way too much (I saw that smile). There's always a paying of the piper in tv shows. Get rid of her, give Nick some new reasons to feel all guilty and angsty, hit your tropes, move on. Not original, I know, but she just does not fit in with Nick's wee Scooby Gang. TV time is limited, give her the flick, I say.

Nothing worse than having valuable screentime gobbled up by characters I cannot stand in shows I like. If you wanna do a buddy cop show, do a buddy cop show, ferkrissakes, and stop dilly dallying with pointless, story slowing domesticity. If I want domesticity, I'll watch Munro in the kitchen, thank you very much.

Okay, rant over. And I'm not even going to mention the maggots. Ick.
( the joy of cowboys )

It was bitter cold last night. I remember being out and about last winter, and it wasn't as cold as this. At least it's not raining, I thought to myself.

One day there'll be an app that delivers a short, sharp shock everytime I dare think something like that, because sure enough, it started to rain, and heavily, a mere second later.

So I found a convenience store open that was selling brollies for $10, brollies that weren't a jot on my beloved big red New York umbrella that was so fine and only cost me $5 USD (so less than $5 at the time). This piece of junk was coming apart at the seams just one block later. I miss my New York umbrella. Lots.

Anyways, off to see the Belvoir version of Death of a Salesman. The stage was bare bar a Falcon, as advertised, sitting squat in the centre. It was a lot more shouty, boofy, blokey and angry than the American version, but that's local actors for you. Colin Friels was a far angrier, much more deluded, less sad Loman than Mr Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Biff was more a blustering football playing thug in the mould of a young Russell Crowe, that the fragile and weaselly Biff young Mr Garfield gave us. But there was Hamish there, so I was happy, and the stunningly named Blazey Best playing the hooker had a cackle that could wake the dead, which worked on the bare stage (like I said, bare stages encourage actors to take it big, imho).
( more: go away or give me sunday off )

Oh, what a week. And still the Dr Who Xmas special eludes me. Ah well. At least we've got the phone and net back on - it's been off since Xmas day, which isn't the best day to go offline, especially with the bulk of living relatives off shore, but never mind.

That said, you probably won't be hearing from me much in the next few weeks. There's the move to the gulag which will cut me off in work hours, but given that I'm still being driven mad by this rash, I've put in for leave and I'm just going to, well, have an actual holiday, for once. So, yes, I will be ignoring you, but in a nice just taking a wee break from constant stuff kind of way.
( more: briefly... )

I got nuffin today. I will have something, as plans are afoot (too many plans, I fear, as it's one of those weekends where everything is on at once and I'd much rather curl up and watch dvds and dream but no, must go out and do stuff) but right now, no news.

Last night it was sort of a fridge dinner, ie I'm cleaning out the fridge (one of those jobs delegated and never done) and thus there was defrosted meats and not yet wilted beyond redemption veggies (though if you knew the standard of my local mart you'd be horrified at just how low my own standards have had to sink, once I wouldn't have fed pigs the slops I serve up now). See how boring it all is?
( more: they keep killing caesar )