Dear Reader, behold: the above represents a fleeting glimpse at the contents of my head. *shudders* For every blog post that appears here, there are dozens of others that I intend to write, and decide not to due to knackeration/distractedness/the realisation that probably no one else is all that interested in which bit of my ceiling will fall down next. Give infinite monkeys an infinite number of blogposts, and they’ll plan to write Shakespeare, right after they’ve shown you this picture of a kitten with stuff written on it.
In the spirit of brevity, I shall thus give you the sonic drive-by version of all the things I meant to say lately but ran out of time/brain/ability to stand upright:
- I saw David Tennant being Hamlet! In the previews, too, allowing much smugness at seeing the reviews roll in a week later (many thanks to T for ticket wizardry). I had quibbles, sure (interval too late so ending feels comparatively flat, Laertes is AWFUL) but I was hopelessly delighted: an honestly likeable, endearing, funny Hamlet of the kind I’ve not seen before (I missed the 60s: shoot me), plus Patrick Stewart bringing epic chills to the ghost, and Oliver Ford Davies as a definitively comic Polonius. Having admired Tennant since his TV debut in Takin’ Over The Asylum (astonishing 6-part drama by Donna Franceschild, watch it now, go on, shoo), I felt moderately fangirly, but mostly for Shakespeare. He could do with a decent editor, but gosh, that bloke can write. 🙂
- Ned’s Atomic Dustbin. Musical inspiration, with the added bonus of making me feel about 15 again. I seem to remember listening to ‘Up’ compulsively while doing my GCSE art coursework (a charming still life of a Leopard Lily named Colin, FYI). Weird to realise I still know ALL the words.
- To spell or not to spell, etc. Man named Ken says ‘oh sod it, ‘speach’ will do, who cares?‘ The Spelling Society are…unexpectedly not very into spelling. I am retro yet down with the young people: in other words, I’m rather fond of this spelling system we’ve had since, ooh, 1755 – but there are contexts in which correct spelling is laborious and irrelevant. The context is the important bit, though, surely? There’s something very meaningful in intentionally spelling something wrong (I muck about with that a fair bit in Big Woo/serafina67, after all). No rules means less jokes. Sorry, fewer jokes. See, spelling isn’t everything. 😛
- The Gingerbread Man, who you shall be hearing more of in due course… Girl Meets Cake continues apace, and will be much enhanced by its author being somewhere warm and replete with really nice pizza next week, while editing.
- No good can come of the sentence ‘so I called the emergency plumber…’
- Stephenie Meyer, Breaking Dawn (ie the 4th, and final, of her series of sparkly vampire romances). I confess I haven’t read it: struggled through Twilight, but it is officially not my cup of tea. Yet the series seems to be being eviscerated not only by the mainstream reviewers (jumping aboard the ‘new Potter’ in time for the film of the first book), but by its own fanbase now. She’s a millionaire author who is selling books by the kajillion and will continue to do so, yet is despised and derided (loudly, in detail) by multitudes. We’re witnessing not the standard carping that JKR received, but the turning of the fanbase upon the creator. Count me into the ‘I think the book sounds horrible, but I still feel terribly awkward for her as a human being’ camp, k?
- Deep Heat! It’s not pictured, but you can imagine that after that complex juggling routine, Hamlet is going to slap a mountain of the stuff on Claudius’ shoulders, oh yes. For it hurts, the Deep Heat. It might prompt a confession. But it’s also the only thing that has allowed me any sleep at all for the last three days, and for that, I snog its creator, despite me now smelling quite odd. I assume Mr Deep Heat Creating Man will be OK with that.
NOT Breaking Dawn, sorry.
To-do lists for holiday.
Buying new shoes with little cakes on, failing to see Batman still, genuinely being excited about being able to stand up.