Friday, May 30, 2008
Oh excellent. A car just went past with bass thumping the dust out of the carpets, causing all fluids to pretend they were in Jurassic Park and the door on the box round the electricity meter to drift open. But best of all going out to shut it again let me see that the same had happened to all the meter panels in the road. Grossly antisocial but somehow amusing.---
By the way, typing scribble.blogspot when you mean scribblenow.blogspot has confusing consequences.
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I'm slightly bewildered. Other people seem to like the whole accidentally bereft of hair thing (well, most of them), even without the mitigation story deployed before them. Most odd. But also it's currently at the Grand Old Duke of York stage, so neither the applauded version or the default version presently exists. And I know that for various inadequate reasons I'm defaulting, so this new found praise is newly lost too.
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I know how to party like it's 1959. Friday night. In London. Alone. Not going out because of the whole alone thing. So in a slightly too cold flat debating whether to bed, to History Boys or to Die Hard 4. I think the last, because I don't want to give up completely, although it's now later than when I first pondered this, the internet being the potentially changing thing it is, and because I've seen The History Boys and yet would get cross if I feel asleep in front of it, whereas yippee-kai-shush won't matter so much. I could always stop it at the drooping stage and watch the rest tomorrow. I've done this before with films and it's quite a good way of making you think about them, possibly by having to remember what you weren't really watching halfway through, rather than after the end.
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Is it acceptable to make jokes about a friend's volunteering of her whom (er, that should be womb) which means that to minimise the number of pregnancies she ought to have the gay friend's baby using an egg from the friend with cancer again (despite wondering if the chemotherapy has actually made the canceree unable to bear children rather than unable to conceive them (or conceive healthy children) and what immune problems might occur to limit surrogacy - the information comes to me through a tortuous, unintentional and not necessarily sober route)? And there's a small part of me that wonders why if the ever-more-booked has offered her services to this other guy that she hasn't offered them to me. I mean, what's he ever done that I haven't? Apart from earn polite-, and best for my sanity,-not-to-ask amounts through exploitation of his very own Lake Erie of confidence (yes, I did pick the shallow one) and somehow contrive to be in the Pink List? Admittedly the cornucopia probably ruled out any combination with me for fear the hair would have the genetic potential to smother the Earth, thus greatly increasing global warming through insulative means and by albedo (although Mr Pink is of a similar inspired-by-briars phenotype).
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And yes that was the sound of me not quite being sure what to do with sundry less than optimal situations, which are all largely too lengthy to go into this late, too complicated to explain easily and too unsuitable for public consumption.
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Oh and I saw the man without a name again, who once more managed to be far less hectoring (that my brain saying The History Boys?) than I sometimes imagine (or possibly remember). There probably ought to be more but at the moment the most prominent thought associated with being rained out of St James's Park was managing to just avoid asking for a hot chocolate to "eat in" through lapsing into incomprehensibility (you can tell I'm tired, it's when all the follies come out). That and saying "Bye darling" in rush-hour Victoria to him just to see his reaction (I was going for Brief Encounter and couldn't think of any way of working a Raleigh or a turbly into the conversation; I also couldn't apparently work out that if "bye" is a contraction that it might be short for something).
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It's now too late for Die Hard 4 and I'm no less tired so I think I may change my mind.
Night all.
Anyhoo,
