Haven’t got a lot to say for myself right now, but feel I should check in with you anyway.
That “too much soy turns you boy-on-boy” link (see below) is now all over t’blogosphere. It’s so two-days-ago! Such is the nature of our medium.
(I like Siobhan‘s comment: “You just watch, as every tranny in the country starts drinking Alpro.“)
Après-Twitter, all my thoughts are manifesting themselves in the present continuous, with a 150-character maximum. Brevity’s as good as a rest.
K and I (but mostly K) are still reeling from yesterday’s entrance into the third circle of MFI Fitted Kitchen Hell, which commenced when the fitters turned up and discovered that key parts were undelivered.
Sparing you the details of K’s quest to extract redress from MFI’s intransigent “Customer Care” wonks, but suffice it to say that they’re buying us a new washing machine. God, he’s good.
Hoping that K has recovered from the ordeal, which stressed him so much that he filled his diesel tank with petrol and ended up stranded in Sainsburys car park for 2 hours, awaiting the recovery people.
Playing newly bought CDs from Amy Winehouse (Fopp impulse buy, as it sounded “seasonal” over their speakers) and Beirut (orchestrated yet loose Balkan folk with mariachi trumpets, from 19-year old multi-instrumentalist).
Remembering how much I enjoyed seeing Shortbus on Tuesday. Beautifully acted; emotionally astute; explicit but not gratuitous; accurately portrays a recognisable attitude to sexuality which I have not seen represented on screen before; much gayer than expected (woo); can even forgive it for the unconvincing bolted-on happy ending.
Realising that brevity is rapidly deserting me, and so deciding to crack on with the rest of my evening.