In which our intrepid hero makes some embarrassing admissions.
As I mentioned in this post, yesterday was the annual stocktake at Mim K/W’s work. It was tiring, but I actually have to say that I enjoyed it. The stocktake (at least the counting and recording part, not necessarily the data entry) qualifies as “honest work”.
The fact that I think like this should be taken as a warning sign.
Anyway, when we got home, we decided that it might be an idea to have a nap, so we hopped into bed around 6.30pm. Warning sign two.
Four hours later, I awoke hungry, a miracle considering the vast amounts of Subway I’d inhaled during the day. Cramming more food into my face, I quickly realised that Planet of the Apes was the least worst thing on television.
Planet of the Apes presents a problem: whilst Helena Bonham Carter isn’t unattractive, she generally doesn’t do it for me. Except in Planet of the Apes.
Yes, in the monkey suit. She wasn’t my thing as Marla Singer (I once had a girlfriend who was a cross between Marla and Agatha from Minority Report—but that’s a whole ‘nother story) and her innumerable appearances in period pieces didn’t rock my world either. But in that goddamned monkey suit…
I browsed the Net a little and went back to bed, reading bits of Terror Australis and Accelerando before drifting off to sleep.
Mim and I woke up around 8am this morning, hurled the washing into the machine, sat in front of the TV and had breakfast. Flicking the channels once again, we quickly established that Rage would be the least likely programme to suck.
Except that it did. Wrapped in warmth and unconsciousness, we’d slept through the moment that music jumped the shark. Mim even made a comment to the effect of “Young people today don’t know what music is.”
From this day forward, we are officially old.