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

So I saw Hugh Laurie and his band last night, and it was fun, like jump up in your seat and dance fun. I heard somebody say a touch loudly and unkindly as we left the theatre that as a singer Hugh was a great actor. That, I thought was somewhat unfair. Okay, so he can't belt it out like the girls in the band, but who could, and he seemed so wonderfully happy to bash away at the piano it'd be churlish to deny him his very obvious joy.

Besides, it was Hugh, the Hugh I grew up with (ie, not House), so it was like 30% Bertie and 60% George (snerk). In fact I was midly disappointed he didn't do Minnie the Moocher, such was his rendition in Jeeves and Wooster I still sing it on occasion. So sweet, so funny, so goofy.

As was the show. I had a ball, I really, really did. It was just like that Caberet night last year with Barry Humphries and Meow Meow, both with sometime comedians, sometime actors taking the mic and belting out some very carefully curated and beloved vintage tunes that were quirky, darkly funny, sexy, silly or heartbreaking. It was just like that, so I was thrilled. It was like having two masterclasses with two puckish professors taking you through a very personal history of music. Only that sounds way more dry than it was. It totally rocked, like bring the house down rocked. Say what you like, but the man knows how to put on a show.

So that was fun, and I did like his admiration of the beloved old palace that is the State Theatre (where too much is never enough), and his very obvious dislike of modern boxes, the ones owned by accounting firms, and that look it. You know the sort. Ah, a kindred spirit. Not sure how much longer we can keep the State, but it's not like I don't love it with due reverence and awe every time I go there. Ya gotta see the Butterfly Room. Ya just gotta.

Anyways, that was that. What else? Took some photos of how I spent the hols (below), saw Benedict Cumberbatch up close and far away, and asked Andrew Upton a very silly question at a Q&A for Mojo.
( more: The Cumberbatch and creepy clowns )

I just loved the Grimm xmas episode. Best xmas tv episode in a very long while. Just silly enough to edge out the sweet, and even 'the message' wasn't ott, just a bit about treading a middle path re xmas expectations and making the best of whatever your deal is, which is kind of nice and practical, rather than all those 'best xmas evers' one has to sit through that just make one wrtetched. Yeah, I liked it. And Nick beat up Santa, twice. Well, once was the Krampus, and kudos for using real mythology, and, better yet, having to actually tone it down a touch for telly.
( more: holiday photos, travel grumbles, holiday fugue )

It's a cold, dark and wet morning and I have a little punnet of instant oats in my desk drawer. Huzzah. Carrying the thin plastic tub of boiling water all the way back to my desk was a bit Kung Fu, though. It was very Kung Fu, actually (ouch ouch ouch hot hot hot burny burny).

Meanwhile, I went and saw a play, yay, and did some courses (epic fail).
( more: twits and twats )

You find me miserable and sniffly today with a nasty horrible post holiday bug, and especially miserable as I had to miss something last night I had tickets for but there was nothing to be done (I was in no fit state and the weather was shockingly awful), but still sulking/grieving and annoyed, because, by hell, I didn't let anything stop me on my holidays.

Oh, that holiday. Loved it. Brief, too brief, but I packed in a lot for my limited time and though I missed hooking up with some friends and family, I had fun, I met many nice, kindly folks (especially north of the border) and I saw things I never dared think I would.

History happened, too. I always wanted to be in the UK the day She died, and so I was (and I have the souvenir editions to prove it). The experience on the street was entirely different from the way it was reported, just a lot of people talking quietly about how they or a loved one had had their hopes and dreams stolen. No wild parties, just on going lives, rudely readjusted.

I will type up the diaries later, but basically, wow. Just, wow. Landed at 1.35pm, was on the steps of the National Portrait Gallery at 4.15pm to see the Man Ray exhibition, whom I love. Sadly it meant trying to see tiny, tiny images over the shoulders of a rugby scrum, and they were built like rugby forwards, too, so I didn't see much, but what I did see I loved. I love his symmetry, his play of light and dark, his quirky. Also saw an exhibition of Native American portraits (only fair after last year) which were competent at best but as a record, outstanding, then I rippe through the rest of the gallery before cloding time. Hello, Drake, Byron, Jane, Charlotte, William...and, and the most adorable pic of Roger Moore from the set of the Saint.
( more: boys keep swinging )

You could just about ski down the side of the mountainous washing basket, resembling as it does the logo for Paramount Pictures right now. Oh dear. At least, for the sake of my sanity, it wasn't particulary adequate washing weather on the weekend while I was out and about, getting a bit of kulcha down the old gullet.

I could prove the inclementness of the weather if my camera, blighted beast that it is, didn't keep on insisting on turning the blackest boiling skies into little white puffy clouds, and the roughest of seas into the most placid of lakes.

I think I'll call it the Monet filter, as it turns every damn thing I try to take into lily ponds, and if anyone can tell me how to turn the damn thing off there will be some squeezy hugging involved. I want grim and black and dire. Thank you.

Not that old Monet was all lily ponds. One of my favourites of his resides at the NGV, and I love it for the little chap down in the corner, desperately clutching his hat. Not only does this give the picture a feel for the robust hat imperiling weather depicted, but also a touch of comedy, as Monsieur is about to lose his chapeau at any moment.

But the point is, when I went round the cliffs at Bondi on Saturday, it was a lot more dangerous to hats than the camera makes it seem, damn its eyes.
( more: the devil is in the detail )

Well, this week is just rocking, and not in a good way. More in a Titantic/Pompei kinda way. We were restructured yet again yesterday, and I'm not listed anywhere. They either forgot me or I'm retrenched, which, considering I'm so memorable, and they need to get rid of 5,000+ warm bodies, is probably on the cards for serious this time. I've wriggled and rolled through so many restructures but I guess the music had to stop some time. This is not good.

Anyone need an embittered and elderly web admin? Thought not.

Pity, because spring has sprung, big time. I lost count of the spiders, none as yet known to science, that crawled over me in the park yesterday. I wished for a bug catcher, so I could walk my prizes across the road to the AM and have my spiders named after me for posterity. Alas, no. The spiders, and I, continue on in our anonymous and unnoticed existence.

I've also been rocking my ever growing collection of brooches, though it was my little preppy short sleeved jumper that fetched a compliment yesterday. Yes it is preppy and I bought it in America, home of the preppy. It's a lot like the genuine vintage little jumpers I used to wear when at uni, when all I could afford was the local op shops, and I started my first vintage broch collection then, too. Yes, I was rocking the Audrey Horne look, but I was having fun.
( more: men who suck and women who cook )

Freeman described the show as a "love story" between Holmes and Watson. "Not just a love story – these two people who love and need each other in a slightly dysfunctional relationship, but in a relationship that works," he said. - The Guardian

Well, at least one of my shows isn't afraid to mention the friendship that dare not speak its name.

And lookit, my favourite tv grifter, getting some respect:

In 1957, he got a call for a humorous new TV western called “Maverick.” Garner’s job was to play a no-better-than-he-had-to-be gambler, a likeable rogue whose charm — and creative approach to the law — always saw him through.

That slippery character would be one that Garner returned to, but with a twinkle that set him apart from other, more anguished anti-heroes.

Garner’s guys were slick (which, not surprisingly, had been his high-school nickname) but they weren’t wounded, or wounding. Yes, they always snagged the best table, the prettiest girl — but they were so upfront about their schemes, you somehow didn’t mind.

( more: the owls are not what they seem )

Oh my. Monday. And it's definitely turning out to be one of those complete disaster and I haven't even caught the bus yet kind of days. But before I get into my grizzling, and the monkey incident, some piccies:
( more: tales of the stuffed monkey )

Matt Nix: Working on ep 1 of #burnnotice season 5. Michael goes new places, meets new friends and shoots at them. Also, explosions. Very excited!

Well, at least he knows what show he's doing.

Oh man, I should have written this earlier, only I couldn't, because I've been crook. Now I'm still crook, but grumpy with it. Oh dear.
( more: raindrops keep falling on my head )

Hey, Matt, is that an iPhone in your pocket or...well, you know. Man, you can practically see the playlist. Still, it's not as bad as Arthur's iPod in Merlin, because that's really bad. Hello, costume department? Way worse than the old packet of smokes forever shoved in noticeably and anachronistically in the pockets of cowboys back in those 60s westerns. And not that I was looking, or anything. Ahem. No, sir, not me.
( more: frogs )