"The stars begin their Busby Berkeley dance."
A little earlier, the dying afternoon sun threw leaf-shadows on the window, in a kind of dapple-dance. Now the moon is rising, chalk-blue and fat.
I was pretty ill yesterday. The Work Programme idiots had failed to tell me that an appointment for 9.30 am was rescheduled for 3.30 pm, which wasted a lot of my day and gave me a panic attack* (and other symptoms and wretched thoughts I'll not go into here). I often wonder if I'm unemployable, but I don't think being shoehorned into warehousing is any future I want. (I did have a job interview on Wednesday that didn't fill me with dread. Just a part-time sales job in a household furnishing shop, but I wouldn't mind getting it. I am hoping that cooing over Art Nouveau tiles and colours with names like Mad King George and Miss Havisham's Dress - I'm making that last one up, but it went with the eccentric naming scheme - didn't put them off. I did not come off as straight in any way in that interview. I don't regret that. Yet. *grins*)
I felt better later. I met my friend Simon for early evening drinks. He's an old, old friend from my baby-Goth days. We ate dinner - steak for him; I had a salad with pesto. We talked about Nigel Kneale a lot. (I need to rewatch The Stone Tape, get hold of a copy of Beasts.) He gave me a copy of Capote's Kalki. Hopefully I'll be able to get up to Stoke for a gin-and-cult TV night some point soon.
Martin has become an aficionado of Are You Being Served? lately, and I've been rewatching some episodes with him. So many innuendoes; how did I follow any of this as a wee kid? Surprisingly addictive. Mr Humphries is a hero.
*Not all the surprises I've had this week have been unpleasant. Hello, gizmometer. I am very happy to know you. <3
I was pretty ill yesterday. The Work Programme idiots had failed to tell me that an appointment for 9.30 am was rescheduled for 3.30 pm, which wasted a lot of my day and gave me a panic attack* (and other symptoms and wretched thoughts I'll not go into here). I often wonder if I'm unemployable, but I don't think being shoehorned into warehousing is any future I want. (I did have a job interview on Wednesday that didn't fill me with dread. Just a part-time sales job in a household furnishing shop, but I wouldn't mind getting it. I am hoping that cooing over Art Nouveau tiles and colours with names like Mad King George and Miss Havisham's Dress - I'm making that last one up, but it went with the eccentric naming scheme - didn't put them off. I did not come off as straight in any way in that interview. I don't regret that. Yet. *grins*)
I felt better later. I met my friend Simon for early evening drinks. He's an old, old friend from my baby-Goth days. We ate dinner - steak for him; I had a salad with pesto. We talked about Nigel Kneale a lot. (I need to rewatch The Stone Tape, get hold of a copy of Beasts.) He gave me a copy of Capote's Kalki. Hopefully I'll be able to get up to Stoke for a gin-and-cult TV night some point soon.
Martin has become an aficionado of Are You Being Served? lately, and I've been rewatching some episodes with him. So many innuendoes; how did I follow any of this as a wee kid? Surprisingly addictive. Mr Humphries is a hero.
*Not all the surprises I've had this week have been unpleasant. Hello, gizmometer. I am very happy to know you. <3