Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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it's been a long weekend

... and I seem to be ending how I started -- absolutely exhausted.

Bad NewsWhich serves me right for sensibly staying in on Friday night, a foolish decision, even though it did produce this week's strip, in which I bang on about bad journalism, initially inspired by some clumsy questioning on Radio 4, which started my cauldron of rage at the wilfully inaccurate and shitstirring journalism perpetrated by certain papers simmering, finally igniting into foaming rage at Rush Limbaugh's unchecked generalisations. Tip of the nib to benchilada.

Saturday watched Dick and Dom and packed scattily. Toothbrush too long, so I fixed it with secateurs. Sometimes I'm so butch it hurts ... though my hair, currently Herbal Essences "magic opal", is probably cancelling out any butchness. The packet claimed it would give me totally trauma-proof hair. Not altogether sure it's working.

A good afternoon at the bookshop; I turned up a bizarre fantasy-illustrated Pliny the Elder (served in latin and english), H G Well's seminal wargames book, and a 1917-ish Gulliver that was just darling (albeit abridged for younger readers). Also a signed Blyton which is going to be a bugger to price ... incidentally, we have too many books right now. Anyone in the Oxford area, please come to the Oxfam bookshop and buy some.

Evening was mzdt's party where I admired Geneva's new hair and gained a copy of The Mind's Construction and continued my weekend theme of mocking men with beards. Faced with an entire party full of people I vaguely knew, mostly off livejournal, I spent the first half of the night ranting about geese and art, before doing the honourable thing and drinking myself into unconsciousness. The following morning I tried to say as little as possible to compensate, but then there were vegan sausages and The Archers, and the discovery that Linda McCartney's makes Deep Country Pie, and so on ... at last Daria managed to shut me the fuck up.

I took the scenic rounte to hospital to see my sister (miniature print exhibition at Bankside gallery = brilliant and in its last week, Bruce Naumann installation at Tate Modern = fun like the emperor's new clothes). Elle is looking and feeling a lot better, and constant reassurances by Doctors and midwives have her confident enough to be referring to the baby as "him" again. One more scan to check things are remaining where they should be, and then home again, home again for two weeks strict bed rest. We talked for hours -- and if (as it begins to seem) she's going to have to have a traditional-style confinement, I expect I'll be back and forth to London a bit in the next four months. What a shame the bus managed to mangle my 12-trip saver while some middle-aged lady with a morbid fear of still being stood up when the bus is moving was barging past me with such determination I ended up on my knees in the aisle with my coat and rucksack forcibly wrenched off my shoulders. That'll put a crimp in my next ten journeys.

Alas, I got back too late for my Videosyncratic treat (Reign of Fire) but Damian had saved Gentlemen Prefer Blondes for me, which is a better movie anyway. Maybe I'll dream of Marilyn Monroe in that orange dress ...
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