Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

I'm left wondering which of us is Celia Johnson.

Yet another fleeting meeting with Noname (or rather he who wishes to remain nameless, rather than the haunting thing from Spirited Away), once more unto the Wellington*. So a cold then gloriously sunny loiter round the Wellington Sink accompanied by chat and the delight of a rollercase over the cobbles (I even managed severe fishtailing at one point. Woo me), a bit more chat (apparently I shouldn't have apologised for wearing a geekboy shirt [even though it is]), a Flickr preview and that was about it.

*Googlevexed station. Similar word and it does have a wellies link.

Dumping noname back at the station we walked towards a lividly made up, boldly feminine woman. One glance up and I noticed her, recognised familiarity, looked away because if it's someone famous, they'll be used to people who stare, and I don't want to be thought of as a starer (even if I did hound Chris Martin, David Grey and families off Haywards Heath). Ah, got it. Flash eyes back up with a half smile, and she's meeting my eye and smiling back. We walk on by. Once past the staring station staff, I comment to Noname. Cue the by now typical "that was X" conversation said of the receding back of anyone remotely famous I've clocked but the person I'm with hasn't (London tends to have a lot of these; although my brother has the uncanny ability to recognise people from Radio 4), complete with pointing arm, which I imagine, when repeated on a wide scale, must look like iron fillings swinging towards the great magnet of a famous arse.

Realising I've just hemmed myself in by that phrase, and any future reference to the famous is going to echo that comment, and I can't say I noticed what hers was like anyway, because she was wearing a black dress, and it was quite far away by the time we turned, and she's quite small anyway, and I'm still driving round rhetorical cul-de-sacs.

So the famous, unarseally assessed woman, who I passed by coach G of the 11.30 to Bristol Temple Meads on platform 1, who smiled at me, and who has quite nice eyes, was Jenny Eclair. And once again, I fell for the "they seem bigger on television" meme, although that's probably an extension of extrapolating from myself to fill any blank in information, so I tend to assume that everyone else is identical to me, until proven otherwise.

But getting back to the amused eyes, I suspect even if she wasn't famous she'd probably be the type of person to make eye contact with strangers; to flirt everso slightly simply because she can.

In other news I've deftly scuppered SG's life for the foreseeable future. I lent her Brideshead Revisited. I think infatuation is the best word for it. Yet she retaliated by sending me a link to a site containing every single episode of the OC ever, but I haven't dared use it yet, as it's all in Chinese (why did we used to refer to the incomprehensible as Double-Dutch or Greek? Any language where water is shown by three radiating lines, like rays from the sun, and the addition of which completely changes to sound of the word surely deserves that accolade) and I'm not sure I actually want to choose to watch them all. Watch it while it's on, and there's nothing better to watch or to do, and that's fine. Methodically download each, knowing that there's gallons more still to come, and suddenly it seems like an awfully big commitment, especially for what SG called 'fastfood television'.

Instead I just end up watching clips of Whose Line Is It Anyway? on Youtube, while trying to avoid getting any of the US version. I don't know why, but I much prefer Clive Anderson to whoever the American is. Anderson is the host, Anderson is separate by occasionally drawn in; The American sees himself as the star of the show, and must jump in or upstage the whole time. Plus the American audience seems to have been put on a drip of concentrated orange squash and thus is a-whooping and a-hollering at everything, even the dud jokes, the lines that don't work, and the continuity announcements (they did it with UK mix too when it was filmed in America). It's continuous uncritical praise and I find that worrying; there are always exemptions, exceptions, conditions. But this could all be tainted by bias over my response to one clip, where the American version does the truly American thing of bringing on celebrity guest [presumably at the same time as said guest has new book, video, or lean mean killing machine to plug]. Which after the initial 'Huh?' brought forth one thought uppermost in my mind: who the hell is Richard Simmons? A question also asked in the comments for that video. So I ask you, dear loyal readership, who are mostly staunchly not-actually-American, who is he? Does anyone know? I'd guess either a former child actor or a 70s pop star, neither of which really gets me to understanding why he gets to appear in WLIIA.

Speaking of former child stars who I've never heard of, I've got tickets to a show. I actually planned to go to, then went out a bought tickets for something on in a theatre. How bizarre is that?

Admittedly it has got puppets. And songs about porn. So it's not really as grown up as it might be, but it's theatre tickets nonetheless. And we're going on a Saturday, so it's not even the student-laden Tuesday cheapseats. Although I did ask for the cheapest they had, which just so happen to be front row, somewhere near the middle; there might be a case for earplugs and an umbrella. And it's only the matinee (we who have such busy lives could do no other time), so it's not a proper theatre evening, and booking did provide plenty of entertainment at my attempts to say "Saturday matinee".

The worrying thing about it is that even though I've yet to see it, I've youtubed probably most the songs, and have found myself dropping the titles into conversation (eerily they fit rather well).

But as I've finished munching through too many grapes stuffed between slices of oat bread (reduced natch), I'd better stop pretending this is still lunch, and get on with some work. But as Noname commented earlier, there's something delightful in the ever wrongheaded Metro (free morning recycling of the news in the Evening Standard of the night before; like fish and chips, only without anything nice in it) proclaimed the end of summer. So as I came back from my... struggling not use the name of the film... Blithe Spirit, I stood in the hot sun sniffing greengages, but passing them up (they didn't smell) in preference to small, yellowed grapes, and ate them walking back, their chilled sweetness made more tantalising yet by their cheapness.

Ever the miser.

Anyhoo,