Smokingboot

1)The presenter's buttock-and-thigh-netherlands-originated-fat-jabs took badly and she had to go home within the first half hour.

2)My earpiece broke irreparably on air.

3)Either he's mad at me
Or he's mad at someone
Or someone put a tab in his pint
Or he's just plain mad.

Dear god, you know I balk at no mania. But I don't have a clue what to do with this.

...And oh how they've missed me! Everyone likes the summerboot, no-one wants to hear me bang on about Florence. They just want to stare, say nice things and complain about the sweltering conditions in the studio. Except one. I forgot just how affectionate everybody is here. One Who Shall Remain Nameless came over, kissed me full on the lips and ran off. By no means a hugely inappropriate tongue wrestle, but certainly a scud. I am a bit surprised, as I think he guessed from the way I backed off and nearly fell into the newly refurbished fishtank. My first casualty and I'm nowhere near the tech. Welcome back, Dextro Damsel.

I love the smell of bust air-con in the morning; It's the smell of desperation.

First, thank you to those mystery cupids who sent me valentines. I am pleased, bashful and slightly mystified!

Alas, this year I had no time to be a mystery cupid myself; time I would normally have spent in an internet cafe sending out cryptic and largely pointless teasers to people I like was instead spent in the University hospital on Warren Street. It's a long story.

More trauma came from my first view of the channel's ads I worked on. What is wrong with these people? I caught a glimpse of one just before I was rushed into a pre-show brief. They were all telling me how good it looked. I was the colour of margarine! They said it was the monitor. So I have just seen one of the ads on my home tv. *Holds head in hands*

Now I do not suffer from the seemingly very British inability to take a compliment; if you tell me I am wearing a pretty dress and I think so too, I will merely thank you and agree with you; I wouldn't put it on if I thought it was ugly, so I will not spiral into that graceless shuffle of 'What this old thing? I just threw it on after washing the floor with
it ...you think I'm pretty? Oh, that's just make up, I'm a gargoyle really ... you like my watch? I think it's horrid, I only wear it cos my aunt bought it for me ... ' I never get the point of this bizarre self abnegation. So when I say I don't look good, believe me I am not being modest, nor am I looking for reassurance. I am just stating the brutal truth.

I don't look good in these ads.

I look like a reject from the Human League.

Why do they all bang on about my hair? Are we on different planets or something? It is clearly far too dark under the light. I look as though I borrowed it off Marilyn Manson.
My freckles, fringe, and double chin do not help. Anything.

But the star of the show is undoubtedly the mole beneath my right eye; combined with the eyeliner the effect is very peculiar. The guy who shot the footage told me I was a natural. A natural what? Seventeenth century goth with no wardrobe?

I know, I know, looks aren't everything, and to worry about a few seconds of dodgy footage is shallow. Still.

Bottoms.

*sigh*

Shallow bottoms.

turns off towards Granada, where, after months of invisibility, my mother is discovered to be living happily and well; it joins virtual highways where I read and write and my stuff gets eaten by lj gremlins; and it goes 'meep-meep!' avec rocket launchers and buzz saws in the dead of the night.


But at this time, the road is mainly straight there and back again, from here to London to here. The work is intense and silly, tiring but fun; it is not in me to take it seriously but still I want to be better at it. Friday night saw us doing the late night/early morning show. This was superb; we were so ridiculous it looked deliberately, actively funny. I wish we could do more like that. They stuck my face up on the big plasma screen: Ever had that moment when you suddenly saw a face like Hepburn's or Monroe's or Loren's and you thought wistfully; she's so beautiful, I wish I looked like that... well, just for a moment I caught a glimpse of what lying lighting, a kind director and flattering 3/4 shots could do for me; heylookadapriddeegurl! It made me smile, and that made it easier for me to play the fool, secure that our audience figures were happy and high.

But all that magic and self confidence is just down to luck and lighting, as I was reminded on Sunday where no amount of clever camera work could rescue me from ghastly reality, or subdue the shining round sweatiness of my face. I looked like Swelter of Gormenghast and the show itself was poor. Oh well.

And so I return, ricocheting back up the road, to my love and my kitties. Travel again soon, returning to the wonderful hospitality of mamapusscat and half_orc. It was good to see chums, and now it is good to sit here and do nothing, seriously nothing, for the next 24 hours.

My special thanks for the cd of music to wuther by, compiled by the lovely ellefurtle, delivered by dear colonel_maxim. The whole thing is marvellous, especially the last track, revealing to me at long last, the ID of my power animal. Is it a raven? An owl? A cat? An orca? At last I know. Clearly, I'm a road-runner.

To those who commented on my previous post re Tux;

You are very kind. Of him there is little to say except to thank you, you warmed my heart.


( Of London and Friends )
( Of work and other mishaps )

( Of needles and the adventures of Super-Sensitive Lass )

And now I am here, coffee cup in hand, back with my dear larians and the kitties. My only regret is that I did not get to see a whole bunch of London chums including some ljers; I very much hope to see you soon.


Good morning LJ :-)

So first there was Scotland and chums, and a really rich LARP system called Cuckoo's Nest (for a definition of LARP, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LARP) The system was great, the people were great (thanks so much jennifermc, daisyann, squintywitch, bad_moon_rising and many others who either don't have lj monickers or wisely keep them hidden from the boot) the fun had was great but the scenery was the star. It is hard to fantasize about other worlds in a place where everything around you proves how beautiful this one is.

Now, some might argue that for a lady intending to do a screen test in London on Tuesday, where her hands will be on prominent display under cameras, spending the weekend before on a rampage in the wilds might be considered a foolish thing to do. OK, so I had got a lot of green and yellow makeup under the nails. OK, so I had hit my knuckles against something (probably my head) and they were red and scraped. But I guessed I could hide it in some way. It was only when I tried painting them (varnish just ran straight off the acrylic) and putting transfers on (which fell off) that I found myself staring at the horrible truth: Less than a fortnight after paying some chavissima £27 to give me bright clean nails and a gem daisy that fell off, I was staring at hands Rocky Marciano would have flinched from.

Getting into London the night before the test, I ran around Archway looking for a nail salon, and found a Chinese lady who stared at the mess in awe; 'You paid English people to do this to you?' she said. She applied everything short of a flame-thrower to them. £14 and an hour later, they looked great. Yesterday they looked great too; the day was mostly spent watching the show. I was told I would be introduced and spend a couple of minutes talking to a presenter, her manic smile reflecting the rabbit-in-headlights terror of my own bared lips and bulging eyes; in fact, as the show is interactive, we started getting texts and dealing with the public almost instantly. My terror was great, but everyone applauded as I came off set, and they made me feel good. Let's see where it goes from here.


In other news to myself, very important news, it is weird how, despite everything being so much more constructive, I haven't been myself recently; things have bugged me that I should be able to drop, I have been emotional and tired and weepy. It isn't me. But I have pinpointed the situation around which it is happening, and in an unprecedented attack of commonsense, am going to have to be a grown up about it. This is a temporary situation; but even a temporary foray into emotional maturity will help right now. Normal idiocy will be resumed as soon as possible. See my new icon? I am going to use it for times when I need to convince myself that responsibility is regal and fascinating and not a chore at all.

Yeah, right. Whatever.