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

Off to the theatre again tonight. Yeah, I know. It's something like one part boredom, two parts desperation. A bit of rage against the dying of the light, a strong need to have something in my life that isn't getting yelled at or washing dishes, and a weariness of having wasted the better years of my life into being bullied away from going out and having a life.

Still a bit bullied about going out to see films, so I usually wait for dvd/cable releases, unless I do sneak off to the flicks, and then it's usually not something I want to admit to. You know, those films made by middle aged men for six year old boys, and that's always a bit creepy and sad, if you ask me, the whole little boy bait thing/men who've not aged past six. I mean, you never see female film executives/producers/directors, but if you did, they wouldn't be desperate to make that My Little Pony movie they've always dreamt of. Nope, it seems to be a peculiarly male obessession, this need to inflict their sandpit Tonka truck greased up action figure fantasies on the rest of us. Well, the greased up action figure part I can at least get on board with, if he's cute and has a cute friend. Yes, I am that shallow.

So, the play. I actually enjoyed it, and considering I'd had a horrid day and had to run (uphill) all the way from work to the theatre, with no stopping for tea on the way, that they won me over is a pretty big deal.

Twas The Seagull, yet another Russian play. I tell ya, but the end of this month, I'll be all Russian-ed out. Once I used to race around the world to see a performance. These days I can barely raise the enthuism to catch a bus (though I've walked to every performance so far).

Too much, too much, but who could resist the urge to see David Wenham or Judy Davis on stage? And it was a very good production, Oz-ed up to a near ridiculous degree, modernised, with current jokes thrown with nodding winks out to the audience, and a great deal of farce, especially Ms Davis as the extraordinarily self absorbed aging actress (if that's not a tautology) and Mr Wenham as the equally self absorbed writer.
( more: shoot all plot bunnies )

Tales of balloon animals, sex fiend possums, cupcakes, platform shoes, hero worship, Danish coppers and gladiator fillums within...(it's been a rough two weeks)
( more: blather )

Oh man, am I bored. I mean, I knew not being able to browse, read or write during downtime would be bad, but I never imagined this. I am in hell. And worse, I have no time for these little interludes when I get home.

Though I did make time for tv. First we watched back Unit One which seems to be getting stranger and stranger, and I don't know what I missed that meant Fischer and La Cour no longer speak, but at least Allan has a creepy new friend (there was a bit where they held hands and the Peanut Gallery piped up with "I don't know whether to be touched or slightly disturbed"). The plots seem all unresolved these days, which is a complete shift from the old Dragnet like endings as before and this latest hypno gay killer one is straight out of Wire in the Blood territory. But I still love it, and the weird Danish gallows humour does crack me up. I mean, you might have thought they were droll on Homicide: Life on the Streets, but that's nothing compared to this.
Also, lovely Scandanavian folk art on the train/crime scene. I liked.
( more: Freudian mushrooms )

This morning as I was doing the old gallows trudge to the office (in the building I hated so much the last time I worked here I quit, but here I am, back again, and still hating it - people keep telling me to quit but all I can think of is been there, done that, and here I am back again like poor old crazed Number Six) and I apparently looked so miserable a complete stranger felt compelled to console me. Think positive, they urged.

I was trying to. I was honestly trying to come up with a list of pros for my current situation - hence the expression of grim desperation, no doubt.
( more: the beach house of doom )

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 )

Oh dear, where to start? Well, I can say the only two things that have brightened my week considerably were the ads for Supernatural I saw last night (squee!) and the fact that every second review of Robin Hood appears to use the word "gay" in the headlines. Obviously they're all watching it wrong - grin.
( more: I get by, etc, etc. )

I am, dear reader, as they say, having a day. That is to say, despite the very temporary amusements of a momentary shaft of sunlight betwixt two buildings, my one shaft of sunlight per year, like some neolithic tomb, and that solitary beam splitting itself through the old wooden venetian blinds to lend my desk a momentary noirishness, I must admit that I'm rather tired. Of everything, really.
( more: scans, moans, mads )