| Tuesday, October 26, 2004 |
 | You can still be my wingman any day.
Holiday tomorrow, which is a cocking brilliant idea. It is only a frankly demonic approach to mid-term contracts that prevents me from having to take November to a great extent off. It's a strange thing - back in the day, I worked three days in the week, I worried about money, but i had so much time. I could just find a place, curl up and sleep. In fact, it was rather like being a cat - wander round a little, find somewhere warm and safe, curl up and dissolve. Like the world was on hold. I don't get to feel like that right now much, which is a pain.
On the other hand, I have just seen Julian Rhind-Tutt pick up Tamsin Greig and carry her into surgery. I love VHS. I'm not sure any other means of storing visual and audio data is ever going to... do it for me in exactly the same way. I feel much the same way about Julian Rhind-Tutt and Tamsin Greig.
Wait a second. He was in Tomb Raider? Sweet Jesus. I feel dirty now.
Am I rambling? I'm rambling. Long, uncomfortable day, tiring weekend. After a week of enforced, homebodied weakness I kind of lost it, diving first into Ray's with Kit-Cat to continue our diabolical non-smoking plan (no beer, no smoking, no cigarette machine - winner). Onwards in a shambolic retreat to the Chandos and then the inexplicably spacious Marquis of Granby with Ill and the Lantern. Such idyllic times, and such morbid conversation, couldn't last forever. A college friend, leaving for Washington, left LVPO mere minutes before we arrived. Which is a shame, because if we had intersected at the door I could have been spared LVPO. My Christ, that place sucks. A fiver to get in, and I would have happily parted with another to have had the 90 seconds surrounded by nasty suits, nasty people and staff whose good cheer was matched only by their total absence of English sucked forever out of my brain. I mean, what is the point of a place like LVPO? There are something in the way of two hundred better places to drink within walking distance, and that's before you even start counting the living rooms of total strangers and some of the less piss-stained gutters.
Ah well. Years of therapy later, we caught the departing friend up at the Golden Dragon. As loud and as polyglot, but paper tablecloths make all the difference in these situations.
Saturday and, having caught up on some company, my post-bedrest fever settled on commerce. God, I love things. I need to address thins before I end up accidentally buying everything on credit. At least the day's major purchases - this and this - were pretty small.
Speaking of which, Sunday was baby dinosaur time. Not, admittedly, something I had been pining for in my sickness, but how can you fight the power of the baby dinosaurs? A small exhibit, but excellent fun. It seems that half the dinosaurs that I thought had been edited out of history by the evolutionary civil service have now been reinstated, although my introduction of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader to the sticker books still has yet to be ratified. I was sure diplodoci had been erased, but there they were, as dumb and green as ever, but smaller.
I think I like the ankylosaur best when I was a child. I suspect a lot of basically unhappy kids go for the ankylosaurus. Low-running, unobtrusive, heavily armoured. It's not exactly the toughest metaphor in the world to unpick.
Hopefully, the next exhibition will feature the dinosaur's evolutionary brethren and showcase young Zoids. I bet Redhorn the Terrible was an achingly cute baby.
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