Fuck. Just heard Oliver Postgate had died. More on him tomorrow, fuck, though.
Yesterday was awful, in addition to having to ‘train’ two less than enthusiastic actress types to not giggle and listen to I-pods when they were supposed to be fucking working, I was under the crushing pressure of two deadlines which were being stood on by my boss wearing lead-soled shoes eating the full Ginster pasty range with a very big (heavy) hat on.
I was fucking exhausted having been woken by The Filth downstairs quite deliberately slamming the front door (3 times) at 5 am. I was going to go into one here but I don’t think my aged heart could bear the vitriol. Deep breath. Relax. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Right. The cessation of the workday was embraced by a trip to the West End to meet up with IC and Len, we had a fucking expensive bottle of Pinot Noir in a dead posh Hotel (courtesy of Len I hasten to add) and then to Soho for Sushi, cheap and delicious it was, accompanied by much natter and wotnot before undertaking the long haul back to Hackney.
Christmas is properly looming. The festive atmosphere is tightening its grip round my throat as pound notes and appointments fly in and out like worker bees. With Christmas, along with tinsel and twinkling lights, come the fucking advertisers desperate to purloin your hard earn wage. Perhaps the most veracious genre of the advertising species are the smell merchants, purveyors of designer scent that sell their guff (and most of it smells like one) via the most absurd and incomprehensible marketing since the invention of the cathode ray tube. The pretentious format hasn’t changed in years, take this sublime (and literal) 80’s example from Fry and Laurie, you’ll despair and laugh in equal measure.