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The sun is shining so we take our sandwiches to the Thursday market. Actually, it has nothing to do with the sun. We walk round it in the rain. In the snow. But today the sun is shining, that watery uncertain sun that shines before the weather becomes sure of summer. There are faded silk scarves on the cushion cover stall, the big ones that go with a salwar kameez, woven with a raised pattern of branches and flowers, every complex colour you could easily think of and more. I leaf through them, look at that blue, that gold, that silver that orange. The price is good but I already have too many fabrics I can't use for anything right now in my tiny house. So I regretfully leave them. Another person will buy them and be glad. On the retro clothes stall, long A-line skirts in huge floral patterns; I'm looking at them because my first Sindy doll had one but the one I remember belonged to my mother, except it was orange, turquoise and brown, not navy, white and pink. On the other side of the stall, I hesitate over a very modern art shirt. Polyester Mondrian squares, and broad enough for my unfashionable shoulders. I leave it, too hot, too white. Outside the costumes place a plastic anatomical model of a head, one of those where you lift the top of the head off and remove the brain, bit by bit. The flip top and most of the brain is missing; I poke suspiciously at the brain stem and the lady shouts £5! at me. I shake my head and put it down, too much to pay for least functional parts of the head. On the stall with all the hand-carved creatures there are little ceramic scotty dogs, hinged at their ridiculously slender waists, pill-boxes, the man says they are. After I finally stop laughing I buy one, £1 he says, because they're bizarre and strange. My hinged dog. Enthusiasm fired by my lucky escape from the market, I duck into Bradleys on the way back to the office. For years this has been one of my favourite shops in town, stocking fillers and tiny gifts and toys and decorations and things that glow or sparkle or glitter or jingle or hop or just look neat. It's closing and I've been meaning to go in there and spend £20 on all I could find of everything I'd always meant to get round to buying from them. Damian gives up while I'm still going through the beads (a tiny green cat's head, cracked blue glass hearts) and I grab a little tray and move from stand to stand, find little iridescent lucite acorns, red glass hearts tied with gold ribbon, strangely technical looking christmas stars decorated with wire and springs (good for the Cybercaption exhibition, maybe?) a traditional magic purse with Victorian-style pictures on it, twenty little wooden ladybirds and a creepy reindeer with shiny gold eyes that looks like he's made (at least in part) from real deer, just the right size for my little soldier doll to ride. And when I take it to the till, I've not even spent £10, never mind £20. Maybe next week.

We get home late and Tivo is doing the decent thing with the Buffy documentary. That is, not recording it. But I watch it anyway, because Damian is doing something upstairs and I can't be bothered to change channel. It's quite fun, in that it's honest; Joss Wheedon expressing bewilderment at the popularity of Spike; saying, "Buffy suffering, episode good" and "we discovered that what people were really into was the soap opera" and other entertainingly blatant things; scary Buffy fans talking about how the show is the only thing they can relate to; and everything else they can to remind you that it's just a bloody TV show, and, yes, it isn't as good as it used to be. Which put me in just the right frame of mind to watch the last episode; which I enjoyed immensely. Caleb sliced in half almost before he got the chance to get a line off, Angel turning up to save the day and doing nothing, and Sunnydale blown apart by tasteless jewellry. For a programme that's always prided itself on its keen fashion sense, what better way to go? And yay! Ding-dong the whining teens are dead! ... and yet, not literally. They're almost all still alive. And there's a world-wide network of Slayerettes now. Raising the entertaining thought of a mis-match buddy agents-of-good type show with glamorous locations and worldwide plots, Buffy and Faith wisecracking and scrapping and getting tied up and foiling evil plans. There could be a global society of evil for them to foil. It could be called T.H.R.U.S.H. ...

Comments

cleanskies
15th Jun, 2003 16:15 (UTC)
actually I would have preferred it if no-body had died at all
But it may cheer you to know that Spike isn't dead. In fact, last I heard, he's in next season's Angel.

I was too busy laughing at Buffy's shoes to want her to die. And dying -- so obvious, practically passe ...
sparkymark
15th Jun, 2003 16:24 (UTC)
Re: actually I would have preferred it if no-body had died at all
People assumed The Master would be a recurring character in Season 7 when they read Mark Metcalf had signed a contract, but only appeared in one scene in episode 1: maybe James Marsters is just signed up for the usual flashbacks in Angel?
coalescent
16th Jun, 2003 01:30 (UTC)
Re: actually I would have preferred it if no-body had died at all
Not such luck; Marsters is signed for all 22. Getting Spike over as a regular was the factor that clinched Angel's renewal, by all accounts.
badasstronaut
16th Jun, 2003 00:46 (UTC)
Re: actually I would have preferred it if no-body had died at all
I think she shouldn't die but should get a job selling lipsticks at Debenhams.