(no subject)
To: World
Try and piss me off. I dare you! Try and push me ever closer to the edge of something sharp and dangerous. Blast me off with your best shot! TRY IT! Move a finger and I will laugh in your face, spit in you eye and invite your worst enemy for a drink. Today it seems, Veronica is in a sprightly mood.
Friday, I had the brilliant and unexpected pleasure of watching Brief Encounter for the first time on Film4. Nice threads, and left me saying things like "...do let's try to be sensible..." for the rest of the day in a terribly clipped accent that would have made Brian Sewell blush. I spent the remainder of the day as I had spent the first half of it: pyjama-clad and single handedly keeping the cheap-fleece blanket industry in business thanks to a sudden attack of 'flu which had cheerfully handed me the day off work. Rob looked after me and bought me orange juice. Hank bit me repeatedly on the face.
Saturday morning me feeling much better, Rob not so much after having grabbed the flu-relay-stick and ran with it) we had a lie-in and opted for staying within the cosy confines of the bed rather than braving the toe-freezing onslaught of the outside world. In this spirit we cosied up, read our books (Bukowski is alive & living in Chatham), watched Deadwood and ate home-made popcorn (I am very excited about this new addition to our lives). Indulgence having been indulged, I went into housefrau mode, rolled my trouserlegs upto my knees and cleaned out the fridge. So much cheese. Kneeling on the floor, scrubber in hand and sweat on my fringe, Rob calmly tells me that he has booked us tickets for next year's ATP, which I didn't realise even existed yet and hasn't been strictly paid for yet but y'know - NICK CAVE!
Later Rob and I settle down to a hearty night in front of the sofa since we are a)broke and b)sick puppies. X Factor is consistently grade-A television, with Sharon Queen of the Damning with Feint Praise. I still can't believe the MacDonald Brothers haven't quit yet. They must have watched themselves back by now?
Sunday I go shopping with Mama to Oxford Street, which resembles a front-line trench (possibly not so many casualties) after a whole day of incessant, cold rain. The wet soaks my socks, which I end up discarding for a David Ginola-style no-sock time. Twice I actually have to tip water out of my shoes. Mother worries I will catch my death. I try and explain the whole "COLD IS CAUSED BY GERMS NOT COLD!" argument but resist, knowing I'd be pissing in the wind. Although after 6 hours of sodden feet I do start to worry about trench-foot.
Try and piss me off. I dare you! Try and push me ever closer to the edge of something sharp and dangerous. Blast me off with your best shot! TRY IT! Move a finger and I will laugh in your face, spit in you eye and invite your worst enemy for a drink. Today it seems, Veronica is in a sprightly mood.
Friday, I had the brilliant and unexpected pleasure of watching Brief Encounter for the first time on Film4. Nice threads, and left me saying things like "...do let's try to be sensible..." for the rest of the day in a terribly clipped accent that would have made Brian Sewell blush. I spent the remainder of the day as I had spent the first half of it: pyjama-clad and single handedly keeping the cheap-fleece blanket industry in business thanks to a sudden attack of 'flu which had cheerfully handed me the day off work. Rob looked after me and bought me orange juice. Hank bit me repeatedly on the face.
Saturday morning me feeling much better, Rob not so much after having grabbed the flu-relay-stick and ran with it) we had a lie-in and opted for staying within the cosy confines of the bed rather than braving the toe-freezing onslaught of the outside world. In this spirit we cosied up, read our books (Bukowski is alive & living in Chatham), watched Deadwood and ate home-made popcorn (I am very excited about this new addition to our lives). Indulgence having been indulged, I went into housefrau mode, rolled my trouserlegs upto my knees and cleaned out the fridge. So much cheese. Kneeling on the floor, scrubber in hand and sweat on my fringe, Rob calmly tells me that he has booked us tickets for next year's ATP, which I didn't realise even existed yet and hasn't been strictly paid for yet but y'know - NICK CAVE!
Later Rob and I settle down to a hearty night in front of the sofa since we are a)broke and b)sick puppies. X Factor is consistently grade-A television, with Sharon Queen of the Damning with Feint Praise. I still can't believe the MacDonald Brothers haven't quit yet. They must have watched themselves back by now?
Sunday I go shopping with Mama to Oxford Street, which resembles a front-line trench (possibly not so many casualties) after a whole day of incessant, cold rain. The wet soaks my socks, which I end up discarding for a David Ginola-style no-sock time. Twice I actually have to tip water out of my shoes. Mother worries I will catch my death. I try and explain the whole "COLD IS CAUSED BY GERMS NOT COLD!" argument but resist, knowing I'd be pissing in the wind. Although after 6 hours of sodden feet I do start to worry about trench-foot.