Oh damn, guess what I forgot?
I'm sick of Christmas songs. Not christmas, per se, just the damn songs playing in every place of work under the sun on constant rotation.
Especially my place of work. Seriously, if you're going to play christmas music, at least make it the (relatively) good stuff:
Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt and not the crappy new downloadable on the internet travesty that accompanies a cringe-inducing TV ad;
Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses - in its original new-wavy form and NOT the Spic Girls' waste of recording studio time
and you're allowed one play of Noddy Holder and co's little ditty before I ram a sprig of mistletoe so far up your arse you can kiss the berries without bending over.
The one really good thing about christmas time (aside from potentially rupturing your stomach with third helpings of dessert and being given lots of stuff for free) is the profusion of decent films on the box, which is a subtle segueway into mentioning that Miss Tinka and I watched Pan's Labyrinth, A Matter of Life and Death and The Apartment this week.
Pan is dark, nasty and vicious with lashings of blood-spattered adults. And yet very moving, gentle and sweet. A gingerbread house complete with a wicked witch sort of fable. And there's nothing wrong with that, in my book.
As for the other two, I was mildly jealous of my companion, as it's her first time seeing either of the films. A Matter of Life and Death is wonderfully life-affirming, smart and at least 30 years ahead of its time. The Apartment is simply brilliant.
So that's you told - go see them all.
And you could now, amazingly, do worse than watch Torchwood. Seriously - there're still way too many aerial shots of Cardiff, but they have plots! Character development! and all those other things proper TV is meant to have.
Now I have to go and make dinner... I may be domesticated, but at 31 it doesn't seem quite as bad a concept as it did just a few years ago.
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