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

Yay! Life on Mars won an Emmy. Okay, one of them dang furners emmy, but, still. Mind you, the spoilers Matthew posted on TRA (see below or cover your eyes) have my head spinning round and round and round. And bang goes that fic, though I may still do it anyway (like I'm going to get them all finished by Jan at this rate - not).

Yesterday was another crap day at work but this time I followed by father's sage advice and laid low and said nothing, even when wankers engaged in blatant games of blame shifting.

Which is why I went home early. Meant to get home really, really early, but as always, one last deadline job landed while I was packing up. I bet the chap on the other end of the line wondered why he was getting the husky phone voice instead of the usual 'wtf do you want' voice (I was mid porny thoughts while running a batch task).

It was hot, damn hot (the weather, not the porny thoughts, well, actually, both) and the sky was a fierce pinky grey from the now seriously out of control bushfire. I was meant to be doing some more turfing of treasures, but the salmon salad was ready, but not all the parties were there for tea. So we jammed the salad back in the fridge, having to make room for it, which involved an impromptu fridge tidy, which was something, I suppose. Found a gift box of chocs jammed right up the back that we decided just had to be used up, now, to clear out the fridge. I know what you're thinking: no sacrifice too great, eh?

So there we were, lounging in front of the tv, half a bottle of a particularly fine sav blank, half a box of choccies and Robin Hood on the telly. You know, on a decent sized tv, it's not so bad. Even the whole 'charging up the swords by waving them about' bit seemed just a little bit less hammy. Or maybe it was the vino and choccies. Whatever, we were thoroughly enjoying ourselves, hence my utter dismay when we were very brusquely evicted. Pout. I never get to watch stuff on the big telly (the one that cost me a grand).

So I kinda spent the rest of the night in pouty sulky mode. Meant to watch stuff (I have so much stuff teetering on my to be watched pile), meant to finish culling those effing tapes, meant to even try finishing off a fic, but sulked instead. Very productive evening. Ah, well.
( up, down, turn around )

Quote of the week:
"...an unmanly man, a chronic complainer and mentally addled wanker..." - Victoria Times Colonist

Heh. Not that I don't love Sammy Boy to bitty bits, I do, but fair comment, at least re the mentally addled wanker bit. Hee.

Meanwhile, I'm scared that I knew what, or rather whom this article was about: Tea? Coffee? Muffin? Laser beam?

And thirdly, after spending yesterday morning somewhat wickedy wallowing in Spooks and Robin Hood (I was knackered, 'kay?), why oh why was I have dreams about RH and not angsty Adam? Time to smack myself (though I'd have to queue up, apparently). Odd, the way my poor scrambled head worked though, popping back in time ala Goodnight Sweetheart, twixt Spooks and Robin Hood, and the neverending mess that is the Crusades (and the domestic and foreign miseries contained within). Weirdarse dream. But never mind, I was running a fever. That's my excuse. (Must not have mildly slashy dreams involving Dr Who's grandson...)

So, ya wanna hear about U2 and not all the hard labour I was pressed into doing yesterday? Okay then.
( more: best of times, worst of times and Spooks spoilers )

It's raining and pouring, and even thundering, on occassion. Never have I been so grateful as to shuck my wet boots and slip into warm, dry uggies as I was today. Bliss.

Meanwhile, thanks to the misogynists who decide to pack panty shields all tightly folded up, mine decided to return to its folded position while I was futzing about with it and thus I gave myself an impromptu and unexpected Brazilian. Yeouch. I are awake now.

And speaking of mysognists and femine hygiene products, to wit, the alleged packaging thereof, which bastard decided upon the oh so flimsy packaging that causes them to unwrap and unpeel themselves while bouncing around in the bottom of my bag and, worse, affixing to my purse, say, so that when, always in a hurry, I rummage about for my purse and finally manage extract it from the depths only to find it flapping a maxi pad about like a tail. In public. A maxi pad that won't detach no matter how hard I try. Arrrgh. Pilot fish indeed. A pox on the person or persons responsible for that design flaw.

Anyways, enough of gruesome realife. These pics of Simmo were posted the other week on johnsimm and I am still going squee. Major squee. Especially the first one. Oh...squee.
( more: men of steel, plot of kleenex )

And I still find it so hard
To say what I need to say
But I’m quite sure that you’ll tell me
Just how I should feel today

Just a bit of spoiler space before I launch into episode eight: ( more: Sam, Gene, lakes and lake monsters )