So, clearly not yet tired of life then
I have been up to London today, and now I am terribly, terribly homesick. I miss London. A lot. There are shops there! And cafes! And theatres, and museums, and art galleries, and cinemas! And statues, and interesting buildings! And transport systems that (almost) work! And people who are not everyone else's second cousin! Some of whom are standing on plinths! In the rain!
... sigh.
Anyway. I went up to meet lovely friends Jillian and Janet, who date back to the halcyon days of Quantum Leap fandom and who are, along with
itzcoatl, living proof that it is possible to hang on to your friends once you've outgrown a shared fandom. (More recent fandoms have rather shaken my faith in this theory, but there you go, you can't win them all.) We used to try to meet at least once a year but slipped last year - I can't remember why, I think I managed to be ill that day; it's very likely, my timing does tend to suck in this regard, witness the not just one but two times I missed Rufus Wainwright for that very reason. Still, that just means we have all the more to talk about when we do meet, although, naturally, the first item on the agenda was 'WTF, Russell T Davies, WTF??!!"
Generally we try to tie our London trips in with theatre visits, but there really wasn't anything much we wanted to see or, to be more accurate, wanted to see badly enough to justify the expense, so we just had a wander around the West End and Covent Garden, bemoaning the fact that extortionate rents along with the recession have killed off most of the lovely, odd, interesting little shops we used to enjoy. We looked in on B Never Too Busy - I still smell faintly of perfume testers - and wandered as far up as Forbidden Planet, which is more like a warehouse than ever. I remember when it was possible to read pretty much every science fiction title published - and when there was so little fantasy available that one was reduced to reading Lin Carter - but, then, I am very old. (I suspect that the amount of readable material being produced is still pretty much the same. And still I cannot get published, although I will grant you it would help if I ever finished anything. Or started anything, come to that.)
High point of the day, entertainment-wise: when we were sitting in Pret a Manger on St Martin's Lane and a parade went past the window of a number of gentlemen toting large, fluffy pink bollocks: comme ca.
And Janet may, I only say 'may', have come up with a solution to my ongoing brassiere problems, since my crimefighting Bravissimo bras are, alas, unwearable for more than about an hour, if that, and my M&S bras make my back ache. No-one ever believes me when I say that, but they do.
It's possibly as well that we hadn't planned on going to the theatre, since it appears nowadays to be de rigeur to dress up for it. That is, I assume that gaggle of females in Pink Ladies jackets were off to see Grease, and the ones in the yellow teeshirts that read 'Here I go again' were headed for Mamma Mia! I am at a loss, however, to account for the gentleman in WWI officer's uniform and his friend in same-era civilian dress (and moustache) who were waiting on the underground platform at Marylebone. Either there's a production of Oh! What a Lovely War! that I missed or I've just been timeslipping again.
Still, I wish I'd been able to see the most recent Night Music. I could dress as Desiree - I wouldn't mind. Or maybe the cheerful maid who sings about all her carryings-on while she's waiting to marry the miller's son.
Exhausted and achy when I got back to the house, and only too glad for a nice cup of tea and a lie-down - and lots of Solpadeine. It is a sad thing indeed to be so aged and frail and to have to wear sensible shoes all the time.
Oh, I almost forgot - I have about a squillion bloody Dreamwidth codes (I am not at all sure that DW is really taking off - almost nobody on my LJ list crossposts) to give away, if anyone wants one, or cares.
... sigh.
Anyway. I went up to meet lovely friends Jillian and Janet, who date back to the halcyon days of Quantum Leap fandom and who are, along with
itzcoatl, living proof that it is possible to hang on to your friends once you've outgrown a shared fandom. (More recent fandoms have rather shaken my faith in this theory, but there you go, you can't win them all.) We used to try to meet at least once a year but slipped last year - I can't remember why, I think I managed to be ill that day; it's very likely, my timing does tend to suck in this regard, witness the not just one but two times I missed Rufus Wainwright for that very reason. Still, that just means we have all the more to talk about when we do meet, although, naturally, the first item on the agenda was 'WTF, Russell T Davies, WTF??!!"
Generally we try to tie our London trips in with theatre visits, but there really wasn't anything much we wanted to see or, to be more accurate, wanted to see badly enough to justify the expense, so we just had a wander around the West End and Covent Garden, bemoaning the fact that extortionate rents along with the recession have killed off most of the lovely, odd, interesting little shops we used to enjoy. We looked in on B Never Too Busy - I still smell faintly of perfume testers - and wandered as far up as Forbidden Planet, which is more like a warehouse than ever. I remember when it was possible to read pretty much every science fiction title published - and when there was so little fantasy available that one was reduced to reading Lin Carter - but, then, I am very old. (I suspect that the amount of readable material being produced is still pretty much the same. And still I cannot get published, although I will grant you it would help if I ever finished anything. Or started anything, come to that.)
High point of the day, entertainment-wise: when we were sitting in Pret a Manger on St Martin's Lane and a parade went past the window of a number of gentlemen toting large, fluffy pink bollocks: comme ca.
And Janet may, I only say 'may', have come up with a solution to my ongoing brassiere problems, since my crimefighting Bravissimo bras are, alas, unwearable for more than about an hour, if that, and my M&S bras make my back ache. No-one ever believes me when I say that, but they do.
It's possibly as well that we hadn't planned on going to the theatre, since it appears nowadays to be de rigeur to dress up for it. That is, I assume that gaggle of females in Pink Ladies jackets were off to see Grease, and the ones in the yellow teeshirts that read 'Here I go again' were headed for Mamma Mia! I am at a loss, however, to account for the gentleman in WWI officer's uniform and his friend in same-era civilian dress (and moustache) who were waiting on the underground platform at Marylebone. Either there's a production of Oh! What a Lovely War! that I missed or I've just been timeslipping again.
Still, I wish I'd been able to see the most recent Night Music. I could dress as Desiree - I wouldn't mind. Or maybe the cheerful maid who sings about all her carryings-on while she's waiting to marry the miller's son.
Exhausted and achy when I got back to the house, and only too glad for a nice cup of tea and a lie-down - and lots of Solpadeine. It is a sad thing indeed to be so aged and frail and to have to wear sensible shoes all the time.
Oh, I almost forgot - I have about a squillion bloody Dreamwidth codes (I am not at all sure that DW is really taking off - almost nobody on my LJ list crossposts) to give away, if anyone wants one, or cares.