Hi Diddly Dee, an Actor's Life for Me
"Those who agree with us may not be right, but we admire their astuteness."
Cullen Hightower
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Munchies
I was going to write a sensible blog about the shows I'm doing up in Edinburgh this year, but I have a hangover fdue to going out with lots of lovely geeks last night and am (a) unable to write coherently and (b) can only think about food. I'm therefore going to eat babybel and flapjacks until my head is slightly less fuzzy and try to write properly tomorrow. Although I'm going out tonight as well, so would anyone like to take bets on how far I get with blogging sensibly tomorrow ...? |
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6.3.07 10:52 |
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A fruity story
Continuing the food theme, I'd like to have a rant about supermarket fruit. It's rare that I buy it but I always forget WHY I don't buy it in between times. So, last weekend, I bought a punnet of nectarines. They were rock-hard at the time, so I left them on the side to ripen. They are now rock-hard and rotten. Nice. Moral of the story? Buy local, seasonal fruit and veg. *sigh*. |
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6.3.07 15:04 |
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Stormclouds and secrets
A mini-story for you today, at the instigation of Cigs . Go read his stories too - they're much better than mine. We mostly talked about the weather. All other subjects seemed off-limits, somehow. Strange, when we’d been so intimate. I guess that’s what a broken heart does to you. So much to say but no way of saying it. So we sat and discussed the grey stormclouds gathering above us, like perfect strangers. I zoned out after a few minutes, watching his mouth move; that mouth that had once whispered sweet nothings to me. And suddenly I realised that he wasn’t talking about the weather at all. |
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7.3.07 11:08 |
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Ha ha hee hee hee
Troubled Diva is doing his usual fundraising effort for Comic Relief Day over here . This year, he is putting together a book of some of the funniest blog posts around. It's up to individual bloggers to choose their best post and submit it, and the book will then be self-published and put on sale on Friday. I've put mine in - why don't you lot join in too? |
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12.3.07 12:12 |
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Ch - ch - ch -ch - changes
Last night was spent in the company of one of the girls that I used to share a house with, back in our student days. We decided to check out the pub where we used to work, which has just been revamped and tarted up, in line with the rest of Kilburn. We came out somewhat unnerved. It's not right, I tell you! Dark-stained wooden floors, leather banquettes and chandeliers abound, along with surly, painfully trendy bar staff. In the old days it was very Irish and rowdy. I can't imagine a fight breaking out in there now, which is a good thing, but there's a part of me that hankers for the beer-stained carpet, karaoke, and regulars that used to beat the door down at opening time, rather than the cool young professionals that sit there now, sipping their mojitos and playing pool. We decided to leave after one drink and head over to another of our old haunts, The Little Bay. This is a fabulous little restaurant that we've been going to for years, as the food is great and if you get in there early doors then you can get a 3-course meal for just under a tenner. Perfect. Even after we'd bought wine, water and coffees, we still didn't manage to break 20 quid each - that's my kind of night out. Last night's visit was a bit like entering a parallel universe, though. I'd been in there the night before with another friend (Maisy, for those old-school 20sixers who remember her) and the head waiter had recognised me that night. When I then went in again last night he greeted me like an old friend and, as the evening wore on, began to call me 'my sweetheart' and suggest that we move in together and get married. In our mature and adult fashion, Alex and I ran away, giggling. Some things, it would seem, never change. |
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14.3.07 10:22 |
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People-watching
She is adenoidal, snuffling like a pug, lumpen with grey skin and violet shadows beneath her eyes. She struggles with technology, unable to work her pretty pink camera, swearing softly under her breath as she fails to get to grips with the unfamiliar buttons. * * * * * Swaggering stiff-legged, overtly pursed lips drawing hard on her menthol superking, she is a middle-aged maneater in mediocre sweat-pants. * * * * * The schoolgirls sit at the back of the bus, singing in harmony, casting contemptuously hopeful glances at the man in the expensive jeans and trendy haircut, who could just be the record-exec that will give them their big break, spiriting them out of Willesden and into the West End. |
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15.3.07 10:27 |
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Letting Bygones be Bygones
The Post Office. It's a national institution. It's a place where people gather to have a gossip, to catch up on what's going on. It's somewhere that's still stuck in a bygone age. Sure, there may be electronic readers calling customers to 'cashier number 4', but there is no rush, no hurry. The pace of life is 50 years old. In an age where emails and phone calls are far more common than letters, it's probably only to be expected that the very hub of letter-sending should hark back to an age when everyone knew each other's business and was happy to stop for a chat and a catch-up. However, it's 2007 and I'm an impatient Londoner, so for fuck's sake get a move on! *and breathe* Runnergirl, your CD's in the post ... |
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20.3.07 15:16 |
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