My car broke down on the way down a hill, and I called the repair service. The mechanic was a vigorously cheerful woman who was not in the slightest nonplussed that by the time she'd turned up I'd lost the car somehow. Not to worry, she said, producing a map, let's just find it. That looks like the place, I said, pointing at a likely hill, and we were suddenly there. But it was unmetalled, and I'd broken down on tarmac. Um I'm sure this is wrong I said. Not to worry she said, let's check anyway, carrying on up the hill to a creepy little hamlet. Oh, I know this place, I said, it's famous for its original medieval features (it had an incredible church, but maybe I was bluffing). Embarrassed, I picked somewhere else on the map only to discover I was on an almost identical rough unmetalled hill, leading up to an equally tiny village full of equally exciting original medieval features. Dear god, trapped in rural authenticity. And I still hadn't found my car. And wasn't sure I wanted to find it anyway, as I can't drive.

I woke up this morning quite (un)accountably depressed. I'm sure it's not entirely down to watching Jeremy Clarkson ride an enormous fucking truck to the North Pole last night, or the chore-like feel of catching up with this year's Dr Who Christmas special*, or the state (moderate, moving to chaotic, mitigated slightly by fairy lights) of the house. Whence the ennui? Am I not blonde enough for new year?

New year's TV scheduling seems to have gone 80s-crazy, with Point Break and Patrick (vomit) Swayze in conversation with fans. I was trying to remember the three films the boarding house had on video this morning (I was at boarding school in the 80s). Top Gun, of course. The eternally loathsome and vile Dirty Dancing. But what was the third? Gremlins? Airplane 2? Or something even worse than that? Quentin Tarantino was entirely wrong about Top Gun, which remains the film that shows that manliness and blusher can go hand in hand. Speaking of which, I caught the better half of Kill Bill the other day and christ what a pile of "oh I see what you were trying to do there" it is. Under par in every direction -- mediocre marshal arts ballet, half-arsed american sinister, weak clever-dick gangster shit ... of course, I have a rotten cold so may be judging things over-harshly.

I have that tune, "it was acceptable in the 80s" running through my head, except I keep substituting the adjective. "It was execrable in the 80s..."

*Wow, next season's teaser is for a series so resolutely not for the kids that there weren't even any actors under 25. Still, the kids have the Sarah Jane Adventures now, so that's OK.