Afternoon mes anges....
...and yes, it's been a while. And will continue to be a while, if you see what I mean. Do I need to bleat on about RL being a bitch for me? Nope. So I shan't. However, excuses get you nowhere, rightly, so on we plod like a shirehorse on clay ho ho.
I have several new cases of hero worship to report though.
Denis Diderot, the French writer (any fellow who annoys The Man by writing both porn and an exposition on atheism AND had a huge hand in producing The Encyclopedie has got to be doing summat right.) And his daddy was a welder. Or a tanner. *kicks brain* Blue collar anyway. 18th century French blue collar to boot.
Bill Paxton, for directing and starring in the movie Frailty, which I watched last night. And which a certain Kripke, E. must have watched until his eyes bled as, well, the parallels with my beloved Supernatural are numerous. Ah Eric, tu es un voleur, vraiment. Hee. French. I'm channelling Denis. Good fillum I must say. Although I had to agree with one critic who described it as the perfect slasher movie for the American Christian Right. Gulp.
And this one's not new, but resurgent. Alan Smith. Blessums. On Thursday I bored all and sundry with my "Smudger needs a lone deal and pronto" mantra. On Friday, the offers come rolling in. All two of 'em. And just as dear friend Miranda, who is five months pregnant and I had conjured a scheme by which she and I would purchase said Smithy and put him to work as her au pair. Tsk.
And finally. Cos he's newly baptised into the Church Of The England Senior Squad. And because, well, lovely touch with the shirts Citeh. Lovely indeed...
