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

Weird day. Well, it's daylight saving which always discombobulates, but then I was a'googling and discovered the nekkid actor I was ogling yesterday is a political blogger. Well, well, well. Turns out young Octavian is a flag waving Democrat. Who knew? Well, you did, probably, but I've not had much time to wander on the webby, except this morning because I'm annoyed and grumpy. Woke up annoyed and grumpy. Went to bed annoyed and grumpy.

Which isn't to say yesterday wasn't enlivened by oiled and nekkid Simon Woods, oiled and nekkid James Purefoy, a young skinny McAvoy and two hours of Winchester Brothers.
( more: subtext rapidly becoming text )

Oh boy, as Sam used to say. Ignoring history making work merde for the moment, we turn our minds back to a dark and rainy Friday night. You just won't believe how tiny that regional gallery was (I'd compare it to my 1940s kitchen, but you've no concept of how tiny that is, so let's go with cupboard). And cram packed with matrons and wankers.

Basically it was an installation by the prima wanker who had no friggin idea about the history of the women she'd co-opted for her art, including my great great great great great great grandmother. Then the mayor stood up and called the women whores and protitutes. It's not every day the mayor calls your grandmother a whore. If only I was still limber enough to get the bastard with a flying kick over the lectern (hykeeba!). But alas, no. I drank their beer, I chewed their prawns and I departed, steaming, in the soaking downpour.
( more: south of the border, down Mexico way )

I was looking at some pages for work, truly I was, web accessibility blah blah blah Zzzzzzz...three clicks or so later and I was gazing upon Det Sgt J Hathaway. Much better.

Sometimes I love the interwebs. Almost as much as I love J Hathaway. Nah, nothing could match that. Just amusing, anyhoo, how few clicks it took to get from boring to beauty. But as far as the meta goes, I should really be worried about Illya Kuryakin. It's getting so I'm expecting to see his name written in clouds next. Silly.

Yes, I'm bored. Reading 30+ page docs on the dullest of subjects will do that to a girl, so I clickied on the linkies at the back of said doc and et viola, J Hathaway. Sweet.

Hathers: hero of the hour. Or half hour, at least.
( more: cranford )

They're pulling Starbucks out of Oz. Sure, their coffee was rubbish, but don't they realise that vanilla lattes are a vital part of my cognitive processes?
( more: hardware wars )

Nothing much happening of great import except a visit from the plumber (the trees had got into the pipes again). This meant making sure all the access points were accessible, but instead of being allowed to leave on time as agreed I had to stay back late for some interdepartmental tomfoolery.

Which meant I had to shift pot plants and tiles and the like in the dark. By torch light. In heavy sleet. Oh yes, it was sleet all right. It started to spit sleet while I was walking down to the station with a Scots friend who confirmed my sleety suspiscions (it's the snow they've been having everywhere else). Less than fun.
( more: a bottle of scotch and an action figure )

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 )

By the gods, I've missed Titus Pullo. If I'd known that all I needed to make me deeply happy was a shot of the old Titus, I would have done it ages ago, but no, I've been going without the great lug for ages. Until now. They're replaying Rome on Showcase. And I got home in time to watch it. What a treat.
( more: butt of jokes )