(no subject)
It's not everybody's friend, but I love snow. By now I am starting to get the hang of walking on ice, and I like how alive a nip in the air makes you feel, and there is something good for the soul about walking through a magical world. I could get used to living in a Christmas card.
I am forever trying not to make my horizons wonky, but my fingers were numb. In the middle of this ten-minute photo shoot I had to pop home and put my camera batteries on the boiler to get it working again.
The school down the road:
From the recreation ground near where I live:
I did watch both Whos on New Year's Day, and had lots to say at the time. Then I beat my thumping heart into submission making a cake (almond and orange blossom) and was left chuckling instead.
I'll start with the criticism: it is time. There is a sense that something behind the story has got bigger than the story itself.
But here is the good: Bernard Cribbins. The ever-brilliant Sinead Keenan. The Simms! The most impractical locking mechanism a death trap could possibly wish for. Everything Master/Doctor/Cribbins, three acting gods whipped into a sublime trifle. The Hardy-esque play with Ten's death knell, the pushing and the pulling back. Bernard Cribbins. Eleven, who I heart already. The comedy tour. (I wanted Mr Copper and David Morrissey. Not necessarily in that order.) The obligatory helping of Russell Tovey. And him, he of the double figures, the show safe while he stole it, sky-high in the moments he stopped it, still when he held it in the palm of his hand.
Oh, Ten. You are not my Nine. But I have loved you. You perked up my TV screen, and warmed the cockles of my heart. I thank you.
I am torn between catching up on yesterday's Being Human or watching the second episode of Glee. Exquisite werewolf angst or song-based silliness? It is too hard.
And here's a guilty pleasure: Jamie Cullum's Don't Stop the Music.
I am forever trying not to make my horizons wonky, but my fingers were numb. In the middle of this ten-minute photo shoot I had to pop home and put my camera batteries on the boiler to get it working again.
The school down the road:
From the recreation ground near where I live:
I did watch both Whos on New Year's Day, and had lots to say at the time. Then I beat my thumping heart into submission making a cake (almond and orange blossom) and was left chuckling instead.
I'll start with the criticism: it is time. There is a sense that something behind the story has got bigger than the story itself.
But here is the good: Bernard Cribbins. The ever-brilliant Sinead Keenan. The Simms! The most impractical locking mechanism a death trap could possibly wish for. Everything Master/Doctor/Cribbins, three acting gods whipped into a sublime trifle. The Hardy-esque play with Ten's death knell, the pushing and the pulling back. Bernard Cribbins. Eleven, who I heart already. The comedy tour. (I wanted Mr Copper and David Morrissey. Not necessarily in that order.) The obligatory helping of Russell Tovey. And him, he of the double figures, the show safe while he stole it, sky-high in the moments he stopped it, still when he held it in the palm of his hand.
Oh, Ten. You are not my Nine. But I have loved you. You perked up my TV screen, and warmed the cockles of my heart. I thank you.
I am torn between catching up on yesterday's Being Human or watching the second episode of Glee. Exquisite werewolf angst or song-based silliness? It is too hard.
And here's a guilty pleasure: Jamie Cullum's Don't Stop the Music.