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

What I've been up to. Well, I've been yelled at a lot, that's fer sure. I wish I was invisible. I wish I wasn't such a screw up. I wish I had a gentle and supportive life coach at my elbow telling me the right things to do and say so I don't get yelled at so much. I mean, I try, but clearly falling well short of the mark.

It's depressing. If trying my best isn't good enough, then what good am I? No good, screams back the answer, loudly. Sigh.

Anyway, despite being an apparent walking human tornado of horribleness, I did go out to see Bill Bailey at the State and that was fun.
( more: Snakes. Why'd it have to be snakes? )

No tongue. That's what I want from a lunch: no tongue. At least, that was my request when Himself decided to make authentic 30s sandwiches from authentic 30s recipes for our Fred and Ginger double feature. There was a lot of tongue and anchovies going on back in the Great Depression, but we managed to escape with egg and watercress sandwiches and a Waldorfy one.

And Fred and Ginge were fun, too. Made a change from 70s coppers, which I seem to have been on, for a while now.
( more: It's an action/suspense, uh, romantic melodrama with lots of comedy, of course. And, uh, deep down underneath, a substrata of social comment )