(no subject)

A lazy evening in, unlike members of the Brummagem Massive who went to see Spider-Man 2.

I found myself watching a re-run of Jack Rosenthal's TV play, Another Sunday and Sweet F.A.; it looks a bit ropey production wise now - early colour telly from 1972, but it is really well-observed.

Largely set on a football field on a Sunday morning during a game between two piss-poor Sunday league sides. A whole bunch of good character actors and some fabby dialogue. Sounds a poor premise for good telly, but trust me, it is good. Directed by Michael Apted, of all people.

Interesting too, to see Anne (Dreary Barlow) Kirkbride aged about 18, looking quite pretty. Unlike the gawking owl she's evolved into over the past 32 years.

Shame about the fashions, though. Oh dear.

What an interesting life I lead.

(no subject)

A lazy evening in, unlike members of the Brummagem Massive who went to see Spider-Man 2.

I found myself watching a re-run of Jack Rosenthal's TV play, Another Sunday and Sweet F.A.; it looks a bit ropey production wise now - early colour telly from 1972, but it is really well-observed.

Largely set on a football field on a Sunday morning during a game between two piss-poor Sunday league sides. A whole bunch of good character actors and some fabby dialogue. Sounds a poor premise for good telly, but trust me, it is good. Directed by Michael Apted, of all people.

Interesting too, to see Anne (Dreary Barlow) Kirkbride aged about 18, looking quite pretty. Unlike the gawking owl she's evolved into over the past 32 years.

Shame about the fashions, though. Oh dear.

What an interesting life I lead.

The hours are fine, it's the minutes that get me.

Blimey, but it's humid out there this morning. Not particularly hot, but very, very humid. I don't know the percentage, but it must be high; you could dab yourself dry with a slice of melon.

I have a wonderful morning's (at least) minute writing ahead of me, provided I can read my own scribbled handwriting from yesterday's meeting. I hate taking minutes. No, really. Off the top of my head, I'd say it is the least rewarding, least engaging and most boring part of my (or any) job. I'm not good at it, I don't enjoy it. To add to the fun, it's the sort of thing bosses like to examine in detail and then complain about, forgetting that it is hard to follow the meaning and context of a meeting when you are scribbling frantically trying to get all the rambling comments and observations written down. There is no opportunity to process and assimilate comments for accuracy and relevance, and you have to write quickly, too.

Still, not another until the end of September, thank God.

The hours are fine, it's the minutes that get me.

Blimey, but it's humid out there this morning. Not particularly hot, but very, very humid. I don't know the percentage, but it must be high; you could dab yourself dry with a slice of melon.

I have a wonderful morning's (at least) minute writing ahead of me, provided I can read my own scribbled handwriting from yesterday's meeting. I hate taking minutes. No, really. Off the top of my head, I'd say it is the least rewarding, least engaging and most boring part of my (or any) job. I'm not good at it, I don't enjoy it. To add to the fun, it's the sort of thing bosses like to examine in detail and then complain about, forgetting that it is hard to follow the meaning and context of a meeting when you are scribbling frantically trying to get all the rambling comments and observations written down. There is no opportunity to process and assimilate comments for accuracy and relevance, and you have to write quickly, too.

Still, not another until the end of September, thank God.