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

Before I get dragged down by today, I have to tell you about last night. Rotten day, but, oh, the night. Ended up at The Spiegeltent in Hyde Park (our one, not their one) to see the one and only Amanda Palmer, who only just made it, having been snowed in oop north. For a girl who just got off the plane she was rather glam and very nice. She even came out to sign the merch, barefoot and in a yellow silk dressing gown. Gotta love her.

It was grand, too. Himself even broke out the red velvet jacket (how very Pertwee of him), the one that stopped traffic in London, but which I'd not yet seen, and the red embroidered waistcoat (whereas I was making do with my M&S dress, the one I loved but was put down so thoroughly at that other place, being told that if she wore it, the little miss, it'd be much too much and attention grabbing with her good figure and posh shoes and perfect hair, but scruffy old dowdy me dressed it down so much it was barely noticeable and very ordinary. Thanks for that).

So, red velvet, circus tent (eventually, and fie and fie on that ridiculous old woman who let an entire bus load of people in front of us in the queue, who'd never even heard of AP and would be better off sticking to box seats at the opera, harumph, but at least I could bitch and moan and talk Sherlock and Who and Hobbit with the girls I was squashed into behind me) and Amanda Palmer. On stage. At last. (well, it seems an age though it really isn't).

In she walked, just in yellow silk, ukulele in hand, to knock us back in our seats for a (mostly) one woman show with just a keyboard and the ukulele. What a set! What a performance! Sad songs to break the heart, silly songs to smile over, lots of Australian songs from her Australian set (she does seem to love it here). Himself hurf derfing over the Vegemite song, me nearly breaking down during the really downer song.

It was just a magical moment. Back in time for tea and Jack Whitehall on the telly. Ok, that was the best birthday treat ever.
( more: magic, rubber ducks, dwarves and dragons )

Went off to another philosophy lecture on Saturday. I love those. I love the ideas I discover, the wild and wide ranging discussion, the aha! moments. I like the way philosophy tries to apply scientific methodology to the esoteric, ethereal, emotional and spiritual. Whether it works or not depends on your own personal philodophy, but for someone like me, completely clueless and born without the manual everyone else seems to have, reading someone elses's observations is invaluable. Also, one nod from the Prof counters almost a week's worth of snips, snarks and red penned rejection at work.

It makes me happy, in a proper Socratic sense of happiness, so why not, eh?

And it keeps me off the streets. Very useful.
( more: somewhere over the rainbow )

Remember the days of summer, both of them, snarked the Peanut Gallery. It's turned rainy and cold again.

I know I do keep on about it but I'm not used to it being this rainy and cold, especially in February. It's not right. The last time I remember it being either wet or cold was when I was five. Wet, as everyone else had gumboots except me, and cold because it was the one time I wore the woollen hat my distant grandmother had knitted and posted to me. I loved that hat, but I never really wore it, Sydney winters not being quite on the same scale as Aberdonian ones. But I remember wearing that lovely hat that winter, it was blue, and of wool so soft, and I remember the wind pinching my cheeks. Oh yes, it had little ear flaps that tied under my chin. Yes, it was an ear hat, and there's nothing wrong with those (the only other ear hat I've ever owned I bought in Edinburgh for one Scottish winter and it did remind me of that wee knitted hat, and never as good).

Sorry. So, yes, wet, cold, February. What's that all about?

It does mean I'm wearing my big boots and my old blue velvet jacket, just cause I felt like it, 'kay? Besides, dressing up has gotten me nowhere this week, so I might as well be happy, and the silly blue coat has caused a few people to smile (in pity or approval I know not).
( more: you can leave your hat on )

Quote of the week:
"So it is that Britain's latest men's style icon is a fictional asexual sociopath first seen onscreen hitting a corpse with a stick." - Alexis Petridis: No chic, Sherlock

Well, yes, quite. Btw, the dvd finally arrived, via the always slow boat from parts northern. And, since I'm with the Sherlocky news, did we nearly lose John?
Say it ain't so, Martin (though, truth be told, he would have made a perfect Bilbo, can they not delay the film, after all the delays so far, what's one more?).

In more sombre news, the man responsible for so many inadvertently amusing winter night's entertainment has left us. The man who gave us creepy Uncle Buck (hands! hands! hands in new places!), Adam's BFF (the glorious episode with Robert Culp) and non pc giggles aplenty. Vale, David, I could not have survived this winter without you: Bonanza Creator David Dortort Dies at 93.
( more: out, damned spot! )

So, it's going to be one of those Mondays. Change dropped, wrong order in the coffee shop, servers and connections down, got hissed at several times for not getting out of the way of far more important people quickly enough and I have a headache and I'm utterly miserable. Now is very, most definitely, the winter of my discontent.

Yes, the coffee shop, that American one. I seriously only went in their for the coffee grounds (the abundant slugs in the garden find them anathema). That's my story and I'm sticking to it. I just ordered tea, anyway. Don't ask. Looks like they were having a Monday, too.

Speaking of American coffee chains and their greatest customer, I gotta say, seriously, Matty, lay off the frappuccinos. Everytime I see a pap photo, there he is, clutching one. Every friggin' time. Matty, my dear boy, there will come a day, as it must come to all of us, when you'll have that frappuccino too far and we'll be talking the Vegas years, n'est-ce pas? So quit while you're still cute, my lovely one, because being not cute is not fun, trust me on this. Seriously, really not fun.

At least it explains all the sugar-hyped hijinks in some of the interviews - grin.
( more: swordplay )

Quote of the week:
"This CGI bullshit is the death knell of cinema. If I'd wanted all that computer game bullshit, I'd have stuck my dick in a Nintendo." (Quentin Tarantino)

First off, apologies, but I think I'm gonna have to renege on my weekend promises and anticpations, as much as it pains me. This has been a rough week with a lot of long days and long nights for a girlie still oppressed by a really bad cold and honestly, I can't think of doing anything more energetic than popping up some of the prints I bought yesterday.
( more: boys will be boys )