Last week I did two things I never, ever thought I would willingly do in my entire life. I feel that I should not be alone in experiencing these things, and therefore I think I should review them for you, so that you, dear friends, can share them with me.
1) I went to see a Sandra Bullock film, at the cinema, for which I paid for a ticket, with real money, money I will never get back.
There is very little I can say about ‘The Lake House’ that you probably haven’t already thought when you saw the trailer, thoughts which I hope went along the line of “my my, well doesn’t that film look like it sucks ass?”, and it does, it reeeeeally does, if it had chugged along any slower I would have been watching it backwards, and Dr Emit Brown would have crawled all over the giant holes in time travel logic displayed here. Seriously, it made my brain ache just trying to wrap my head around why someone would travel to a mailbox in the middle of nowhere, after they had moved to Chicago, to post a letter to a person who was living two years in the past, and never, ever, question the logic of it all? Indeed, at one point Keanu writes “Can this be happening?”, to which Sandra writes back “why not?”, uh, because it’s completely and totally impossible, you crazy bonkers people? And why does Keanu look so old? I was under the impression he was an F B I AGENT!
Anyway, so then we came out of the cinema and ran into as many other cinema’s as we could to try and watch the end of a different film, we saw the last 15 minutes of ‘Fearless’, the last 5 minutes of ‘Fast and the Furious 3’, two minutes of ‘Hard Candy’, and 30 seconds of ‘The Da Vinci Code’. That was a lot of fun, we may one day buy a ticket for something very early one morning and then just jump in and out of screens watching films for free! But not another Sandra Bullock film, oh no no no.
2) I went to see Take That. Ah ha! Ha ha ha ha! You should go to Moch’s pages for the full details, with photo’s, but all you really need to know is that I have a mug that has ‘got your lipstick mark still on your coffee cup’ and an accompanying lipstick mark written on it, and that kicks ass.
I was never a massive Take That fan, so I felt a bit of fraud at first. Actually, during the Sugababes supporting performance I went searching for food. I have nothing to say about the Sugababes, except they should eat something, they’re all ribs. I have to admit though, that during the encore, when Take That did ‘Never Forget’, with an enormous fireworks display and 60,000 people singing along with their hands in the air, I begrudgingly enjoyed myself.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
Hannah Hearts Patrick Dempsey
Last night, while I was watching Grey's Anatomy, I wanted him so badly I had to turn it off for a few minutes so I could catch my breath.
It actually hurts a little bit.
I'm sorry Johnny, but while my love for you will never die, you may have to share a small piece of my heart, I think Patrick can see my soul through the television.
It actually hurts a little bit.
I'm sorry Johnny, but while my love for you will never die, you may have to share a small piece of my heart, I think Patrick can see my soul through the television.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Sunstroke - apparently it does not involve actual stroking.
It was blisteringly hot this weekend. I know this to be true because I have an actual blister on my back from attempting to garden this weekend in the searing heat.
A valuable lesson was learned during my brief attempt at gardening;
I can’t garden.
Oh how I would dearly love to just wave a wand over the whole bloody thing and just ping it into an ordered, colourful mix of perfectly manicured lawn and decking.
According to my mother, I was the only child she ever encountered that hated the beach because of the sand, apparently I hated the way it got everywhere and made me dirty, I would sit in the car and cry at the very thought of sitting on the beach, and if I got there I would push myself into the very centre of the beach towel and try to flick all the sand off it. My parents always thought this was very funny, and regularly flicked the sand back onto the beach towel where it seemed to crawl perilously close to me, aided by the wind and my father. Sand: a tiny evil.
This goes someway to explaining why having dirt under my fingernails fills me with a kind of horror that most people only experience when faced with pools of their own blood. I dig a bit, then spend 10 minutes scrubbing my hands, then I dig a bit more, scrub a bit, dig a bit, scrub a bit until my hands are stinging and bleeding.
Then I stood on a paving slab that was not actually attached to the ground, slipped and ripped a chunk of skin off the top of my foot, which just goes to show why Charlie Dimmock never wears flip flops to garden, she may not be able to properly support her bosom, but the woman sure can pick sensible footwear.
Glenn is prone to sunstroke, because he is the colour of the milk produced by albino cows, I’m not entirely sure that albino cows exist, but they might, and if they did, their milk would surely be much paler than the milk of regular cows, you see what I did there…..
People who suffer from sunstroke also suffer from the lesser known ‘Fear Of Sunstroke’. This is rarer but much more disabling, sufferers are prone to an attack at the very hint of a sunny day, blistering heat leaves them paralysed inside the house, drinking gallons of water while lying down near a fan and murmuring “I think I have a headache…”. Glenn’s last serious attack of Fear Of Sunstroke was in Ibiza in 2004, the time he spent outside during the daylight hours reduced more and more each day until the middle of the second week, when all attempts to see Ibiza in daylight were abandoned and he caught up on his reading (mainly novels about some kind of fictional history, King Arthur is a particular favourite).
So yesterday we attempted to garden, me with my obsessive compulsive handwashing and Glenn with his Fear Of Sunstroke, and we dug shit up.
We are crazy sons of bitches.
A valuable lesson was learned during my brief attempt at gardening;
I can’t garden.
Oh how I would dearly love to just wave a wand over the whole bloody thing and just ping it into an ordered, colourful mix of perfectly manicured lawn and decking.
According to my mother, I was the only child she ever encountered that hated the beach because of the sand, apparently I hated the way it got everywhere and made me dirty, I would sit in the car and cry at the very thought of sitting on the beach, and if I got there I would push myself into the very centre of the beach towel and try to flick all the sand off it. My parents always thought this was very funny, and regularly flicked the sand back onto the beach towel where it seemed to crawl perilously close to me, aided by the wind and my father. Sand: a tiny evil.
This goes someway to explaining why having dirt under my fingernails fills me with a kind of horror that most people only experience when faced with pools of their own blood. I dig a bit, then spend 10 minutes scrubbing my hands, then I dig a bit more, scrub a bit, dig a bit, scrub a bit until my hands are stinging and bleeding.
Then I stood on a paving slab that was not actually attached to the ground, slipped and ripped a chunk of skin off the top of my foot, which just goes to show why Charlie Dimmock never wears flip flops to garden, she may not be able to properly support her bosom, but the woman sure can pick sensible footwear.
Glenn is prone to sunstroke, because he is the colour of the milk produced by albino cows, I’m not entirely sure that albino cows exist, but they might, and if they did, their milk would surely be much paler than the milk of regular cows, you see what I did there…..
People who suffer from sunstroke also suffer from the lesser known ‘Fear Of Sunstroke’. This is rarer but much more disabling, sufferers are prone to an attack at the very hint of a sunny day, blistering heat leaves them paralysed inside the house, drinking gallons of water while lying down near a fan and murmuring “I think I have a headache…”. Glenn’s last serious attack of Fear Of Sunstroke was in Ibiza in 2004, the time he spent outside during the daylight hours reduced more and more each day until the middle of the second week, when all attempts to see Ibiza in daylight were abandoned and he caught up on his reading (mainly novels about some kind of fictional history, King Arthur is a particular favourite).
So yesterday we attempted to garden, me with my obsessive compulsive handwashing and Glenn with his Fear Of Sunstroke, and we dug shit up.
We are crazy sons of bitches.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Devil in a Blue...... Frank Lloyd Wright creation?
Last week ‘im indoors and I were off ill with a nasty virus that meant we both felt very sorry for ourselves and spent the week determined to prove that one was far worse than the other one. Anyway, that’s enough about that because frankly it was all a bit disgusting.
Saturday night was my university reunion, with accommodation at one of the halls of residence and a night at the union. So weeks and weeks ago I bought my ticket and arranged with my friend Nic to travel to Hull together. Then Evil Ex-Boyfriend, R, emailed me and asked if I was going, because he was going and maybe it would be nice to catch up etc etc. This threw me into a panic, I haven’t spoken to him for five years, and there is a reason for that, the reason being he is Evil and there is frankly, no place for Evil in my sunny disposition.
However, then I was poorly and to cut a long story short, Nic and I ended up driving to Hull, only to drive to Sheffield a few hours later because the state I was in meant I could cope with barbecue at her boyfriend’s house much better than a night a student union.
So at 10pm I get a text from The Evil One, he asked if I was at the union, I said no, I was poorly and hadn’t been able to attend, and then he rang me.
He rang me.
And then I answered.
Oh foolish, foolish me.
He told me everyone at the union was fat, he said the girls were at least a size 14, I mean really, imagine that! A size 14! How horrendous…
He asked me what I did for a living and I told him, only to get a 10 minute lecture on how I had sold out and had “no passion for anything any more, just some slick management type”, and my life had “no soul”, apparently everyone who does the kind of job I do is some kind of giant arsehole.
He is an architect, so we can all sleep easy now because this means architects surely have souls.
I told him it was a little unfair to make such a huge judgement, he after all hasn’t spoken to me for five years and has no idea who I am, or why I do what I do, nor can he say why anyone really does the job they do, each individual has their own reasons. He failed to see “how anyone can live without doing something they’re passionate about”. I said I was passionate about plenty of things, whether they factored into my professional life or not.
He asked me how the house was coming along and I said “oh just lovely, it’s nearly finished, it’s a three bed terrace, palace of a house”, to which he replied “really? Well I won’t tell you about how my newest client has a budget of 4 million and lives next to Jude Law”.
Oh right, ok, so why now, did you tell me?
Then he told me he had always thought of me touring the Midlands, playing Tina in an S Club 7 tribute band.
Surely the most hysterical thing about this whole encounter is that I was worried about seeing him in case old feelings were stirred up.
So, we can learn from this, we can learn that Evil lives, it thrives among us, it is embodied in the form of an architect, living in London, it has close proximity to Jude Law.
And that I have no soul.
Saturday night was my university reunion, with accommodation at one of the halls of residence and a night at the union. So weeks and weeks ago I bought my ticket and arranged with my friend Nic to travel to Hull together. Then Evil Ex-Boyfriend, R, emailed me and asked if I was going, because he was going and maybe it would be nice to catch up etc etc. This threw me into a panic, I haven’t spoken to him for five years, and there is a reason for that, the reason being he is Evil and there is frankly, no place for Evil in my sunny disposition.
However, then I was poorly and to cut a long story short, Nic and I ended up driving to Hull, only to drive to Sheffield a few hours later because the state I was in meant I could cope with barbecue at her boyfriend’s house much better than a night a student union.
So at 10pm I get a text from The Evil One, he asked if I was at the union, I said no, I was poorly and hadn’t been able to attend, and then he rang me.
He rang me.
And then I answered.
Oh foolish, foolish me.
He told me everyone at the union was fat, he said the girls were at least a size 14, I mean really, imagine that! A size 14! How horrendous…
He asked me what I did for a living and I told him, only to get a 10 minute lecture on how I had sold out and had “no passion for anything any more, just some slick management type”, and my life had “no soul”, apparently everyone who does the kind of job I do is some kind of giant arsehole.
He is an architect, so we can all sleep easy now because this means architects surely have souls.
I told him it was a little unfair to make such a huge judgement, he after all hasn’t spoken to me for five years and has no idea who I am, or why I do what I do, nor can he say why anyone really does the job they do, each individual has their own reasons. He failed to see “how anyone can live without doing something they’re passionate about”. I said I was passionate about plenty of things, whether they factored into my professional life or not.
He asked me how the house was coming along and I said “oh just lovely, it’s nearly finished, it’s a three bed terrace, palace of a house”, to which he replied “really? Well I won’t tell you about how my newest client has a budget of 4 million and lives next to Jude Law”.
Oh right, ok, so why now, did you tell me?
Then he told me he had always thought of me touring the Midlands, playing Tina in an S Club 7 tribute band.
Surely the most hysterical thing about this whole encounter is that I was worried about seeing him in case old feelings were stirred up.
So, we can learn from this, we can learn that Evil lives, it thrives among us, it is embodied in the form of an architect, living in London, it has close proximity to Jude Law.
And that I have no soul.
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