Writing cricket bats
I spent the first two thirds of my day working on an essay for my Dickens class that I don't want to have to look at ever again, even though I have no choice but to do so. But then I went out to dinner with friends and went to see The Real Thing at the Old Vic and it was amazing and here I am thinking that it's going to be cool enough to meet Toby Stephens (aka Mr. Rochester from the 2007 BBC miniseries), AND THEN IT GETS BETTER. You know how? Because Christopher Eccleston -- the Ninth Doctor himself! -- walks out from backstage and smiles that goofy grin with those fabulous ears and I get up the guts to walk up to him, offer him a pen and paper, and tell him as he signs my program that he's my Doctor. And I'm thinking it's not just my imagination that that smile got just that much wider when I said it. After that, Toby Stephens was really just icing on the cake.
And then I came home, AND THERE WAS CAKE WAITING FOR ME. It's almost like there was no Dickens in my day at all.
(Also, how do I not have a Ninth Doctor icon? Perhaps after I have written three essays and died, I will have to find one.)
And then I came home, AND THERE WAS CAKE WAITING FOR ME. It's almost like there was no Dickens in my day at all.
(Also, how do I not have a Ninth Doctor icon? Perhaps after I have written three essays and died, I will have to find one.)