(no subject)
So, before I start my traditional "it's payday so get thyself to ye olde internet cafe and pay off your credit card bill while swearing never to overindulge in spendthriftery ever again as long as you live, wench" missive, I would like to point out that if you don't read Philip Reeve's Larklight right away, you will burst into flames from lack of PURE AWESOME. Space! Space giant spiders! Space Queen Victoria! Space pirates! Space corsets! Space houses in space! It's full of greatness and space. It even has drawings. Truly, it could not be a better book even if it had Johnny Depp, and surely there can be no higher praise than that.
Christmas, while lacking in the third season of Miami Vice, was nonetheless a pleasent affair of not being at work, eating mince pies and watching such festive themed delights as the Thief Lord, (it has snow!) Doctor Who, (the Christmas Invasion, so it totally counts, and Fiyero is so blatently gay it is unbelievable) that episode of Bones where they all get locked in the lab on Christmas Eve and Dave gets high on antibiotics* and Hodgins is revealed to have a suprisingly good body for a ginger person... and then I got bored of Christmas and watched That 70s Show and Eerie, Indiana instead. And Fitzcairn was in That 70s Show, and I think it's a sign that God wants me to buy Highlander again. So it was fun, and quiet, and generally very joyous.
But then! Oh Boxing Day, the drama of it all. See, I had to work, but none of the buses were running. So I arranged to get a lift with one of the girls I work with, and I'm standing on a street corner at eight in the morning, freezing my ass off, when I am approached by a very large, very black, very heavily-accented man who asks me if I'm okay. So I say that yes, I'm fine, I'm just waiting for someone. So he asks if I'm working, and I reply that I am. And then he asks if I have a place we can go, apparently under the impression that ladies of the night work at eight in the morning on Boxing Day. No, no, say I, I didn't mean that sort of working. I'm waiting for a lift, for my job which is in an office. So he walks off some distance down the street, and I try to stop my knees from shaking and use my psychic powers to get Jayni out of bed. Alas, to no avail. Sleazy McUseswhores returns, and asks if he can have my number. I say that's not a good idea, and that I have a boyfriend. Sleazy replies that he could make me happy (because every woman wants a guy who uses prostitutes and assume that any unaccompanied female out in public must be on the game) and that I have beautiful long hair. I do that quick, panicky, "Oh God help me I'm going to be found raped and strangled in a ditch in Beeston and I know I said I'd do anything to get out of work but not this please Jayni hurry the fuck up!" equivilent of a smile, and Sleazy continues that perhaps I need a knight in shining armour to cut my hair for me, and at that point I fake a text message, babble an excuse and run all the way back to my house.
And then Jayni didn't show up at all, so I had to get a lift with another girl who didn't start until ten, and then I had to walk home from Horsforth and I got lost and ended up in about twenty million industrial estates, and then Holbeck, but eventually I got back so it was okay. And nobody else thought I was a hooker.
Anyway, that was pretty much the stand-out moment since I last wrote, and now I must go home and immerse myself in Torchwood, having done the traditional pay-day shopping trip and coffee with Hot Allocator Girl (whose number I have finally got, go me!) and perhaps do some Hoovering or similar domestic tasks. Although, probably not.
*And while we are on the subject of Dave, Snithy, I rewatched that scene with him and Goodman and their pillows were not touching so you just keep your filthification to yourself, thank you. Dave/Goodman is wrong. Because, the squints are like a super-awesome family in which Goodman is the Daddy and thus Dave/Goodman is incestuous and cross-generational and generally too horrible to contemplate.
Christmas, while lacking in the third season of Miami Vice, was nonetheless a pleasent affair of not being at work, eating mince pies and watching such festive themed delights as the Thief Lord, (it has snow!) Doctor Who, (the Christmas Invasion, so it totally counts, and Fiyero is so blatently gay it is unbelievable) that episode of Bones where they all get locked in the lab on Christmas Eve and Dave gets high on antibiotics* and Hodgins is revealed to have a suprisingly good body for a ginger person... and then I got bored of Christmas and watched That 70s Show and Eerie, Indiana instead. And Fitzcairn was in That 70s Show, and I think it's a sign that God wants me to buy Highlander again. So it was fun, and quiet, and generally very joyous.
But then! Oh Boxing Day, the drama of it all. See, I had to work, but none of the buses were running. So I arranged to get a lift with one of the girls I work with, and I'm standing on a street corner at eight in the morning, freezing my ass off, when I am approached by a very large, very black, very heavily-accented man who asks me if I'm okay. So I say that yes, I'm fine, I'm just waiting for someone. So he asks if I'm working, and I reply that I am. And then he asks if I have a place we can go, apparently under the impression that ladies of the night work at eight in the morning on Boxing Day. No, no, say I, I didn't mean that sort of working. I'm waiting for a lift, for my job which is in an office. So he walks off some distance down the street, and I try to stop my knees from shaking and use my psychic powers to get Jayni out of bed. Alas, to no avail. Sleazy McUseswhores returns, and asks if he can have my number. I say that's not a good idea, and that I have a boyfriend. Sleazy replies that he could make me happy (because every woman wants a guy who uses prostitutes and assume that any unaccompanied female out in public must be on the game) and that I have beautiful long hair. I do that quick, panicky, "Oh God help me I'm going to be found raped and strangled in a ditch in Beeston and I know I said I'd do anything to get out of work but not this please Jayni hurry the fuck up!" equivilent of a smile, and Sleazy continues that perhaps I need a knight in shining armour to cut my hair for me, and at that point I fake a text message, babble an excuse and run all the way back to my house.
And then Jayni didn't show up at all, so I had to get a lift with another girl who didn't start until ten, and then I had to walk home from Horsforth and I got lost and ended up in about twenty million industrial estates, and then Holbeck, but eventually I got back so it was okay. And nobody else thought I was a hooker.
Anyway, that was pretty much the stand-out moment since I last wrote, and now I must go home and immerse myself in Torchwood, having done the traditional pay-day shopping trip and coffee with Hot Allocator Girl (whose number I have finally got, go me!) and perhaps do some Hoovering or similar domestic tasks. Although, probably not.
*And while we are on the subject of Dave, Snithy, I rewatched that scene with him and Goodman and their pillows were not touching so you just keep your filthification to yourself, thank you. Dave/Goodman is wrong. Because, the squints are like a super-awesome family in which Goodman is the Daddy and thus Dave/Goodman is incestuous and cross-generational and generally too horrible to contemplate.