Three days of peppermint and green tea and unchallenging soup hasn't helped settle my bloody stomach so today I'm chugging Resolve and Lucozade. Nature had its chance. If chemicals fail, I may have to use the dreaded beer cure. When the Resolve kicks in, I shall be selecting my 10-20 for the Grrr exhibition. With the Pet Shop Boys turned way up to drown my howls of bitter derision. Hmmm, I've not heard the neighbours for about a week now, maybe they moved out again. Urghhh. Come on ...
Added Trauma to the list of obscure British horror films I've seen but nobody else cares about yesterday. Colin Firth with PTSD following a serious accident going nuts over his ant-farm, a murdered pop-star and his irritating touchy-feely landlady. The film got a little over-excited about covering the stars with live insects (Colin Firth in a bed full of ants, Mena Suvari with a spider crawling out of her mouth ...) and consequently forgot to sort out some plausability issues, but it was uncosily familiar, all that alienation, shock and grief in a twilight zone of urban decay and bewildering London streetcrowds. Also stars Tommy Flanagan as his mate Tommy. Class.
Right. Time to stop prevaricating.
