Symbolic Forest

A homage to loading screens.

Blog : Posts from April 2002

It's a conspiracy

Or, a disturbing dream

Strange dream last night. Basically, I was creating a TV adaptation of the Umberto Eco novel Foucault’s Pendulum. I wasn’t just writing the script, but was inside the programme—although I was careful to design it so there was a good ending in the first episode, so it would work well as a pilot for a mini-series. Then, I went outside, and the sky was yellow and the landscape in shades of brown and umber, with black seagulls that looked like paper cutouts flying round in flocks.

Stumbled out of bed this morning and put the kettle on as normal. Pouring my tea, I was sure I saw some sort of black blob drop out of the kettle. fifteen minutes later, reached the bottom of my mug and almost swallowed a boiled moth. EW EW EW EW EW—ran to the kitchen for something to rinse my mouth out.

Curiouser and curiouser

Watching the neighbours

People have been going in and out of the flat upstairs all day again. When I popped out, a couple of people were stood at the door holding lots of expensive-llooking audiovisual equipment—one of those big fluffy microphones, for one thing. So now, I’m intrigued. I want to know what they’re up to up there. Maybe, if I turn the stereo up loud enough, they will come and complain and I can ask them what they’re doing.

Yes, I know I’m nosy.

Just when you thought I couldn’t get any geekier: I had half an hour spare this afternoon, so I reordered all my CDs. By colour, the colour of the spine of the CD case. The plain-white and plain-black shelves don’t look that nice, but there’s a lovely graduation of the rest from dark red through orange to green and then blue.

Keep England for the Welsh

On popular misunderstandings

Bored this afternoon, so I ended up watching Richard & Judy. They were trying to suggest some symbols to represent Englishness—it being St. George’s day and all—and kept going on about King Arthur, suggesting Excalibur as a national motif, and so on. Don’t they realise that the King Arthur myth was all about stopping the English from settling in Britain? It would hardly be appropriate.

Got that in a size 10?

Or, buying a wedding guest outfit

This month I won £50 on the Premium Bonds, so today I thought I’d go and look for clothes, and maybe get some ideas for a wedding outfit. I know it’s only April and the wedding I’m going to is in August, but I wanted to be prepared. Anyway, I searched round every branch of Armstrong’s and didn’t find anything. I was thinking maybe some tweed trousers, but they’re a bit expensive. Part of the problem is that each of their shops has two or three racks of clothed attached to each wall, one about the other, so you can’t really see what’s way up near the ceiling. They have a ladder you can borrow, but I daren’t use it for fear I’ll fall over than thwack the assistant on the head, knocking over everything in the shop in the process. In any case, you can’t really browse through everything whilst you’re stood on top of a stepladder.

So yes, I want to go back and go through everything again, but it will look a bit odd if i keep going back to these shops every day and not actually buying anything. I can’t be bothered with waiting. I thought about spending an extra fiver and going to Glasgow to shop, but I don’t know where any of the decent cheap clothes shops in Glasgow are (except one), and I’d probably end up meeting people and spending lots of extra cash on booze.

What is, is

Following on from previously...

As I was saying, I went to the theatre on Saturday. It’s not often I do something at all cultured, so it was something to be relished.

I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t been comped, of course. I went around to the stage door and asked for the manager, saying “A friend of mine’s in the company, and he said you’d give me a tcket.” Fortunately, he seemed to be expecting me, and he took me round the front of house and told the ushers to sit me somewhere.

The play was rather good, and I’m not just saying that in case W is reading. As it’s really a children’s play, I was dreading the theatre being filled with squalling brats, but fortunately they weren’t that bad (although I was a bit surprised that the family in front of me was sat watching the play and eating a pizza. This isn’t your living room, you know). I definitely laughed at several of the jokes, even though I can’t remember what they were (apart from the “This isn’t India!” line that I used in the previous post), and the play was just the right length to stop me getting bored (I do have the attention-span of a five-year-old, of course).

After it was over (they didn’t do curtain calls), I blustered my way backstage again. I was explaining to the stage door keeper that I knew someone, could he call him please, when the wardrobe master walked past and said “Oh, are you waiting for W?” Either I look distinctive, or they don’t get many backstage visitors. After he’d showered we went to Favorit for some food, and then on for a (rather late-starting) night out at CC’s, because one of the technical people (sorry, I forget all the job titles) had just been dumped by her girlfriend (by SMS, the bitch) and was desperate to pull. She didn’t, but I think we all had a good time anyway.

As you might realise, I officially tend to like supposedly-twee indie-pop, rather than the sort of cheesy chart-dance-pop they play at CC’s. And, proverbially, I never dance. Therefore, it automatically follows that I can’t have been dancing all night to cheesy chart-pop-dance music, can I?

This isn't India! This is Leighton Buzzard!

Or, a quick preview

So, I had an actor friend staying the past week or so, which was nice. He’s currently playing in The Borrowers, and is mid-way through a 6-month tour of the UK and Ireland, a different town every week. He cooked me yummy food, and last night we went out after his show and got very very drunk. Details to follow (when I get round to it).

No need to panic

I should write this stuff on the calendar like The Mother does

I was sat around not doing much last night, when I suddenly thought: “Oh no! It’s the parents’ silver wedding anniversary tomorrow!” I have never been able to remember when their wedding anniversary is. Never, ever. Even the times I’ve remembered to buy a card, I’ve forgotten to write it or post it or something. But I thought I really should remember this year, because it’s the silver anniversary and everything.

So, in a big panic (this morning), I rushed out to a nice card shop and bought a nice card. I phoned them too, because I thought I’d better say “Congratulations!” and all that. “No, it’s not today,” quoth The Mother. “I’ts Thursday.” Bah! At least I will remember it this year, after all.

An unwanted guest

On a night out

Was in the pub last night—well, afternoon really. We were having a quiet drink, when a mad drunk bloke suddenly attaches himself to us. And he won’t shut up. Or go away. Neither of us are brave enough to tell him to piss off, so we just sit there whilst he rambles on about his life, his likes and dislikes, and ogles every girl that walks past.

Fortunately, we were in luck: a couple we knew wandered past and lured him away, giving us a chance to nip out and run to another bar a long, long way away. We really didn’t want there to be any chance of him bumping into us again.

I wish I was better at dealing with guys like that. All I could do was sit and smile and say “uhuh” and “ah, yes” every so often, trying very hard not to giggle. I must have said about ten words in total, whilst he went on and on about how great it was when he worked on the railway, his skill with a shunting pole, how he hates “arseholes” and likes girls with large breasts. Here was him going: “She was a double-G cup, and a dirty girl too” and I was just sat there going “uhuh? Oh really? I see” and so on; thinking OHMIGOD GET ME OUT OF HERE.

More people-watching: in the second bar we went to, there was a very cute-looking couple stood by the bar. He was tall, dark, seventies-style shoulder-length wavy hair, beard and moustache; the beard only covering the parts under the chin. His outfit would have shouted “funeral clothes” on anyone else—black suit, white shirt, black tie—but it just went with his face and hair so nicely, it just made him look smart and in-touch. His girl was dark-haired and dark-clothed, came up to just about his shoulder, and lent her head against him.