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

Apparently I can walk out of the house in anything but a Hello Kitty onesie, according to Himself. Good to know.

There was some chick wearing a painfully bright orange Tigger onesie with bright pink hair and matching bright pink heels on the bus down to Canberra, and, frankly, nursing a massive migraine, I simply wasn't in the mood. Apparently 47% of respondendents polled by the Sydney Morning Herald agree with my curmudgeonly view that animal themed onsies, worn in public, on public transport, are a sure sign that the end of civilisation is nigh.

Oh dear, having more and more of those grumpy old 'you left the house looking like that?' moments. Especially those girls who got on the train at some podunk stop, heading into Newcastle (UK) on a Friday night. Now I grew up in a place so reknown for its skanks and moles people still always raise an eyebrow when I admit to my geographic origins, so imagine what these girls must have looked like to set me back in my seat.

Another one of those wrist slitting I am turning into my mother moments (please, no).

Anyways, today I am dressed like I'm off to join Department S, and it was entirely unintentional. The only tops to hand (in the dark) were my powder blue top, the one that screams 'please slime me', and my ochre turtle neck, so, easy choice. Next I fumbled further and found my black cardy with the white piping, and yes okay, it is stupidly retro, but comfy, and, as it was raining at the time (blue skies everywhere now), I picked my pencil skirt and leggings and those new silly lace up boots with the chunky heels I bought and lugged clumsily all the way back from Canberra because they were on special and I am insane, just 'cause I didn't want my long skirts dragging through knee high wet grass on the trek to the bus stop. Put the hair up in a bun because I forgot to wash it and now I look like I'm ready to chase after naughty men in silver space suits. Oh dear. And yet I strangely don't care.

So, yes, Canberra. Went off to see the Turner exhibition, not because I'm wild about Turner, but because it was all the way from the UK and I figured I ought to go and get myself educated (as though I'd never frogmarched myself around the Turner Gallery at the Tate because I knew I had to).

Still wouldn't walk across broken glass to see a Turner (though catching a bus down to Canberra with a mighty migraine must count) but it wasn't too bad. Near the end of the exhibition period, so not too crowded, and, being a piddling little show for the colonies, featuring, as always, just the early stuff and the late stuff (never the good stuff with the artist at the height of his powers).
( more: Peace through chemistry )

To be positive and upbeat, on Saturday night there was a rare roast (in every sense) and chai hot chocolates and Tom Hardy romping about on the telly in doublet and hose and a rakish pearl earring (I had The Virgin Queen on telly). Friday night, as I was upset, I was treated to comfort food and poached pears in spices (which formed the pear flavoured syrup for the chai hot chocolates on Saturday).

Sunday brought Hawking to telly, the first in UKTV's 'celebrating the genius that is Benedict Cumberbatch' month. Oh, if I could only get a copy of that fangasm ad. UKTV goes Japanese schoolgirl strange for Benedict. It's so endearing (and a little creepy). Nevertheless, I was treated to some prime time prime Cumberbatch goodness, and this made me happy.
( more: sticky fingers and dodging bullets )

Finally, I come to priase White Collar, not to bury it. I know, I'm as confused as you are. I mean, how did they finally manage it? One damn fine episode. All I can say is: fluke.

Or maybe it's just me who loved it, because it was big on the Pete and Neal, and mercifully light on annoying sidekicks. Mind you, I do wish I'd written this before I got to my Persuaders fest, because I just loved the scenes with Neal and Peter in the hotel, Peter being all prissy over the bar fridge, and Neal just sprawling on the sofa. I mean, look at that sprawl. Seriously, if Peter isn't hitting that then he's the world's biggest eejit.

But then, alas, it was a case of not bad for a beginner, but this is how you do it, baby, as Danny and Brett take us on a masterclass of tv hotel hijinks ( more: doing what comes naturally )