Dream diary

[smokingboot]

Walking down into Blackheath with some people, finding a place which, in map terms, would vaguely equate with the road from the Sun-In-The-Sands pub/roundabout to St German's Place with Blackheath beyond it, but as is ever the way with dreamscapes, things had changed...There was no roundabout or road, just a walkway with water on either side almost level with it. Crossing the walkway I found myself on a platform where I could see hills around, verdant and lovely but different, with tropical vegetation like Malaysia or something. I wanted to see more, but the group insisted we go somewhere else and do something I can't even remember; all I know is that there was a ticket involved.

In ordinary life, the only real failure has been my inability to sit through The Kings Speech. After four attempts I have to face the fact that whatever everyone else thinks, I just cannot be doing with this film. There's a distinct lack of likeable characters. It maybe that Queen Victoria's womb was some kind of genius/creativity filter but I refuse to believe she never had one single gifted descendent. It must be that they squirrelled him/her away lest the pure brown of the Windsor consomme be sullied with actual talent. Here, the Queen Mother is just Helena B-C being saccharinespikey again, and the King is only coherent when he's cussing people and lighting a fag - nowt to do with his speech impediment, it's all about the epidemic of ridiculous accents. Never have I seen so many people try so hard to speak like typewriters. Bertie's stammer would have been the least irritating thing to hear amidst all this eau-ahh-eau-ahh-eau lark. If I'd had to live with it, I'd have taken up gin and cigarettes too.