(no subject)

Well, it's late, it's hot and I am doubting my ability to get to sleep tonight, though I expect I shall feel a great deal better after a shower.

Well, maybe there's only smittumi and me who liked it, and of the two of us, I'm the boring old fan, but I can't quite see what everyone's problem with the final episode was - everything tied up nicely (in case they didn't get a second season), a regeneration, good script, good story and excellent effects (pace the rather rubbery dalek emperor).

I think people are expecting more than they ought from a TV show that is designed to appeal to an age range from 7 years to adult. If you set it in the same slot as say, Battle Star Galactica, the new one, not the old one, it's going to come up short, because it's not playing to the same audience, is all. And let's give David Tennant a chance as the 10th Doctor; he's had one line before the closing credits. Pretty hard to judge from that.

Nice that the TARDIS got a line or two, too. That's a first.

Oh, and myself, I'd have gone for a firm handshake, and maybe a clap on the back. But that's just me.

(no subject)

Well, it's late, it's hot and I am doubting my ability to get to sleep tonight, though I expect I shall feel a great deal better after a shower.

Well, maybe there's only smittumi and me who liked it, and of the two of us, I'm the boring old fan, but I can't quite see what everyone's problem with the final episode was - everything tied up nicely (in case they didn't get a second season), a regeneration, good script, good story and excellent effects (pace the rather rubbery dalek emperor).

I think people are expecting more than they ought from a TV show that is designed to appeal to an age range from 7 years to adult. If you set it in the same slot as say, Battle Star Galactica, the new one, not the old one, it's going to come up short, because it's not playing to the same audience, is all. And let's give David Tennant a chance as the 10th Doctor; he's had one line before the closing credits. Pretty hard to judge from that.

Nice that the TARDIS got a line or two, too. That's a first.

Oh, and myself, I'd have gone for a firm handshake, and maybe a clap on the back. But that's just me.

(no subject)

We Brits are not used to heat.

It doesn't have to be a great deal of heat in the global scheme, pretty much if you are called upon to undo any more than the top button your shirt, then it's too hot. That's where we are at right now: temperatures are in the low 30s - I am not sure what that is in feet and inches, probably in the upper 80s or lower 90s. Since we went all continental with our measurements when I was about 11, I never fully got a grasp of the metric system, it's the same with converting litres to pounds and ounces. Never got the hang of it.

Anyway. We don't really do heat. Some people pretend to, but they're kidding themselves, really. It's all pasty white legs and sunburnt noses. I know whereof I speak since I have broken out the army surplus legs - couture be damned, I'm hot. Damned hot. I shall be taking my legs across to Waitrose later to get some vittles in for the week. Let's hope they don't curdle the milk or frighten the horses.

I phoned home earlier, and things are no better in Shropshire. Mum has absconded to the coast, which is a good thing since she handles heat even less well than I. Dad remains at home - he is going into a residential home for a month from tomorrow, as my brother-in-law digs up the kitchen to build an extension. Dad would effectively be a prisoner in the house since he is too unsteady to cope with the steps from the front door, and the exit through the kitchen area will effectively become an obstacle course with tank traps. Anyway, no-one nags him in the rest home, and he can win snoozing competitions with his peers. He likes it there. They bathe him and feed him and call him 'chuck'.

In the meantime, the heat is sapping what little energy I customarily have. Those of you know me will know that I can loaf for England. This past couple of days I could have represented Europe. Trailing of to the West End yesterday was a chore beyond belief, despite it being something I usually quite enjoy. And whilst it was a pleasure, as always, to spend time cadging food, drink and pirated TV shows off romney down in Clapham, I have learnt that the stretch of road from Stockwell Tube station to romney villas is, on account of the lack of tree cover or building shade, combined with an over abundance of concrete paving slabs, probably the hottest place this side of the Murzuk Sand Sea.

The big bottle of water purchased to make the trip south from Whetstone tolerable received a biblical hammering in the face of my thirst.

Today I intended to spend in a heat-induced torpor, though the aforementioned need to go shopping, plus the probability that I shall investigate the mysteries of B&Q to obtain a fan will put paid to that...

That plus the fact I am down to the last two ciggies in the packet.

Ho hum. What price now the land of green and mists? Oh England, my England, when didst thou become the Riviera without the style?

(no subject)

We Brits are not used to heat.

It doesn't have to be a great deal of heat in the global scheme, pretty much if you are called upon to undo any more than the top button your shirt, then it's too hot. That's where we are at right now: temperatures are in the low 30s - I am not sure what that is in feet and inches, probably in the upper 80s or lower 90s. Since we went all continental with our measurements when I was about 11, I never fully got a grasp of the metric system, it's the same with converting litres to pounds and ounces. Never got the hang of it.

Anyway. We don't really do heat. Some people pretend to, but they're kidding themselves, really. It's all pasty white legs and sunburnt noses. I know whereof I speak since I have broken out the army surplus legs - couture be damned, I'm hot. Damned hot. I shall be taking my legs across to Waitrose later to get some vittles in for the week. Let's hope they don't curdle the milk or frighten the horses.

I phoned home earlier, and things are no better in Shropshire. Mum has absconded to the coast, which is a good thing since she handles heat even less well than I. Dad remains at home - he is going into a residential home for a month from tomorrow, as my brother-in-law digs up the kitchen to build an extension. Dad would effectively be a prisoner in the house since he is too unsteady to cope with the steps from the front door, and the exit through the kitchen area will effectively become an obstacle course with tank traps. Anyway, no-one nags him in the rest home, and he can win snoozing competitions with his peers. He likes it there. They bathe him and feed him and call him 'chuck'.

In the meantime, the heat is sapping what little energy I customarily have. Those of you know me will know that I can loaf for England. This past couple of days I could have represented Europe. Trailing of to the West End yesterday was a chore beyond belief, despite it being something I usually quite enjoy. And whilst it was a pleasure, as always, to spend time cadging food, drink and pirated TV shows off romney down in Clapham, I have learnt that the stretch of road from Stockwell Tube station to romney villas is, on account of the lack of tree cover or building shade, combined with an over abundance of concrete paving slabs, probably the hottest place this side of the Murzuk Sand Sea.

The big bottle of water purchased to make the trip south from Whetstone tolerable received a biblical hammering in the face of my thirst.

Today I intended to spend in a heat-induced torpor, though the aforementioned need to go shopping, plus the probability that I shall investigate the mysteries of B&Q to obtain a fan will put paid to that...

That plus the fact I am down to the last two ciggies in the packet.

Ho hum. What price now the land of green and mists? Oh England, my England, when didst thou become the Riviera without the style?