Friday, 8 December 2006

Hesba Brinsmead

Neck is still ricked but gradually getting better.

Quelle semaine as they say in Year 7 French classes at academies for young English speakin' ladies.

Samedi soir found the mistress afloat in champagne at a festive and merry dinner party only to discover mid jape and neck freeze that two of the guests were villains from the underworld. I realised summat was afoot when there were rum mutterings of kneecapping, dodgy coppers and being slum landlords mixed amongst their general parlay about moolah. I felt like innocent joelene public at a fundraiser run by the Sopranos. Thank you fiction for helping me understand the real in my quotidian.

I awoke the next morning feeling a little freaked out. A nefarious foray indeed.

Neck ached. Spent the free time over the weekend groaning, reading William in trouble and watching the entire series 5 of six feet under. Far out am still haunted by that series.

Busy-busy week of sms, farewell Splodge and bienvenue Mac and Myer - Opposition for hire. Work was rather busy an'all and delightfully broken by accommodating a visitor.

OH and pollies to the left of me and pollies to the right. Couldn't escape them, they are everywhere campaigning for the March election. I was walking down the city streets at lunch hour when my path was blocked by papparazzi, so what, yeah, nothing unusual for the the mistress. I snatched a camera and after a frustrating 10 minutes of trying to rip out the film i realised that the camera was digital and hurled it to the pavement as a car drew to a halt. A prominent leader of the Parlous State emerged to enter a restaurant called Machiavelli. Our eyes met and i couldn't help but audibly groan "oh no" and turn around, bright eyes, and walk off. Boy that would have hurt him big time.

Love the non-ratings telly: Will and Grace, God's own Princess, that 70's show - what more could you want.

Well a better goddamn dramatisation of the life and times of Princess Royale Margaret de Mustique for starters. Ma'am darling/Queenie's sister was a travesty. Which was worse the courting rituals of hons and rebels where they'd make the sounds of barnyard animals to find their soul mate or weedy old roddy llewellyn in his hippy humpy in Buckinghamshire. Neither actually, both were trumped by a no-necked monster portrayal of Ma'am darling come Ma'am chanteuse boozily mumbling Eartha Kitty ditties in a club then munching hash cookies with 60's popstar type in Cheyne Walk.

Risible.

4 comments:

zac said...

Mistress Bel, you are a caution for mixing with them underworlds; now you need to take caution.

David said...

Is Max Splodge dead? Only a couple of years after you bought the best of... typical

Mistress Bel said...

Sound advice, Zac. Warning heeded. In future i'll make sure that those villains stick to being behind the television screen.

Mistress Bel said...

if max splodge is that late 80's early 90's dancey project between michael hutchence and ollie um olson (?) well i guess it is . then again inxs plods on.