Woooooooooooooooooooooo

Look! My first review, and they didn't hack it to pieces!
*basks in the glory*

Ahoy-hoy, dream interpreters

If you don't already know, my dreams are generally fraught affairs, even those with a romantic slant. In fact, particularly the romantic ones. Usually I'm running 3 hours late, haven't washed my hair, have lost my make-up and am wearing my housework duds - or something similarly distressing and romance-killing (cf This)

I may have turned a corner. Although there was some minimal stress in the run up to the meeting with The Dream Man (in this incarnation, a particular one rather than vagueness), thanks to everything being (just about) where it should be and to various members of my family - in particular Maman - chivvying me along, I was looking and feeling spiffy in plenty of time. In fact, the major worry was that he was a little late...

But he did turn up. Nothing sordid - in fact it was all a little Hollywood (where did that string section come from?). Kisses, a spark, and niceness; an apology for it being a flying visit, and strong hopes expressed that next time would be real and forever; regrets that he had to leave so soon but, after all, I was about to wake up. Which I did, shortly after he left (via the window) - roused by heavy rain pelting against my window. Very Wuthering Heights.

This encounter took place in a bathroom. Any interpretation/comment is much appreciated.

Bus Stop

8.39pm. I arrive at the bus stop. In the shelter are two girls smoking proficiently, and I decide to loiter outside. A middle-aged man rolls up and enters the shelter and says something to the girls, to which they shake their heads. He looks confused, then approaches me (BTW he isn't drunk).
Man: Have you seen a 125 go past?
Me: (that being my bus) No, there is one due at 53 minutes past though.
The man looks slightly less confused and returns to the shelter. After half a minute he speaks to the girls again, then comes out to me, his original confusion level reattained.
Man: When you say 53 minutes past, 53 minutes past....?
Me: 53 minutes past 8. They come at 53 minutes and 23 minutes past each hour in the evenings.
Man: So there's one due now?
Me: Yes, well, fairly soon...
But he has already returned to the shelter, where he paces anxiously and stares up the road for the next 10 minutes until the bus turns up. I wonder, why is he so anxious? Would I lie to him? Am I a person who stands near darkened bus stops in the rain offering false information? Or, from my encylopaedic knowledge of said bus's times, could I possibly be a passenger waiting for the same service?
The bus arrives, and I leap on, followed by the man, who says something (I'm guessing, "I think you're late, I had no idea when you were going to turn up") to the driver.
Driver: But all the times are up on there (indicating shelter poster)
Man: Yeah, well, I can't read.

Finally prised off the sofa

The Gods of Television fairly smiled on me this evening.
Let's be honest, Saturday night is a terrible telly night. So I was delighted to see (whoop de do) a decent looking documentary about the history of magic on BBC2. Aficionados of this blog will recall how Magic Scarred Me For Life, but the fascination remains. Thus I settled down with my Toblerone ice cream.
Forty minutes and one sugar high'n'crash later, I was about to nod off (this is no reflection on programme quality) when a vision in mind trickery appeared. Yes, my current Number One Mr Derren Brown was attempting to make me think of the three of diamonds - that old chestnut... This certainly perked me up, and I was even cheerier when I braved the depths of ITV to find one of my top comedians, Mr Harry Hill. Hooray hooray, I thought. But it can only be downhill from here.... not so. Parky's guest was none other than all-round super guy Mr Eddie Izzard, telling me he wants (me) to have (his) children. Alright, I made up the brackety bits, but potentially the evening's highlight. That was until I switched back to 2. Just in time to see Mr Jude Law in the nip.
At this point the TV had to go off, as this run of luck could not continue and I would most likely be stuck with something about Margaret Thatcher.

By the way:
I have come to the decision that I need a new lust object. It's been the same old 10 knocking about over there ---> for some time now, and the same 27 on the Long List. It's getting quite repetitive, so all suggestions for new Crush (because having a crush is healthy, I proved it with Science and everything) will be gratefully accepted. Preferably somebody there is a vague chance of me meeting, so I can make a fool of myself (it's been a while and I've missed it).
By the way I have a wild and crazy plan on gaining access to my Number One Guy, which doesn't involve camping outside his house and going through his rubbish. In fact, it is bordering on the legitimate. Despite vaguely nefarious motives. The plan is in development...

Here is the News at Jen

Bonnnnnnng.
Jen fails to win but wins on many other levels. (Still a loser, though).
Bonnnnnnng.
Jen gets soul-destroying day job.
Bonnnnnnng.
Jen gets other job (evenings) which makes day job more bearable.
Bonnnnnnng.
Jen now has a moblog.

Now to our top story:
I lost the box-thingy. Well, I prefer to think of it as ‘coming runner-up’, even though a runner-up out of two contestants is still the loser. Nonetheless, I came out a winner in other ways than the official way. More later.
Next:
New job is “call handler”. It is entirely boring and I won’t go into detail. It provides me with money for my holidays, so can only be good.
And now:
The exciting news is that I am now that most feared and reviled of things, a professional theatre critic (daaaahling). Should be in print this Thursday, all going well…
And finally:
I found this Moblog thingy, and got one. ‘What is a Moblog?’, you cry out. Well, it’s like a blog, but mobile (not just a clever name). Thanks to my camera phone, there will now be visual images to accompany my verbal rantings. If you click here, or the link on the right, you can go there. I will do my utmost to provide a daily pictorial dose, once I’ve sussed out how to rotate images.

Apologia

Sorry for the brief hiatus of blog. Busy busy busy bee-type happenings. Back now, with NEW THINGS!