Today's ponderings are as follows:
1. Will I go and watch fireworks at nearby Denman tonight, or will I wander to a nearby pub and see in New Year, or will I go to bed early? Haven't quite decided, and all ideas have their own merits.
2. Who used to watch 'Sons and Daughters' in the Eighties? It was kind of a naff guilty pleasure. Rowena Wallace played the arch-bitch Patricia Hamilton aka Pat the Rat. I guess she was a kind of Aussie Alexis Carrington without the caviar, Bollinger, and brightly painted stripes of rouge. Today I read she has spoken out and confirmed she had a one night stand with Peter Phelps, the actor who played her onscreen son, in the early days of filming. She was thirty-five, and she was about twenty-two. She said she wanted to set the story straight because there have been whispers lately. I'm kind of thinking she might have been the one whispering in the first place. Yes, I know that makes me sound like I'm unsupportive of the sisterhood, but it's how I feel. But why did she feel the need to tell everyone this? I don't care if she and another actor, both of whom consenting adults at the salient times, bumped uglies after a boozy night. She has had tough times, and I'm wondering is she after some kind of coin in this. I suppose is she had gotten drunk with the young on-set gaffer and banged him, nobody would know about it. I don't know if Phelps has made a statement on this. If you're reading this, Pete: I don't care and you don't have to qualify or dignify any indiscretion on your former co-star's part. But if my writing ever takes me to the clichéd giddy heights of success, can I please ask anyone I might have shagged in the past to just keep it to yourself? There's no need to go to the media over it, and it would have been so long ago (like the night Phelps and Wallace did the horizontal hokey-pokey), and it really doesn't matter.
3. I have made no resolutions per se, but I do have some plans. I have great plans, always do, but Karma and the Universe have counter-plans to sent my wonderful notions into a tailspin of despair. I will keep on as I keep on with my day-to-day stuff. That includes not typing 'yes' on those deplorable Facebook posts I see that implore you to 'type 'yes' if you agree' to some everyday banality. 'Day Old Milk Tastes Gross - Type Yes If You Agree'. Still, they're better than those 'Don't Scroll Past Without Typing Amen' memes. I have a friend who actually does what I swear I'm going to do (and as yet haven't): he types 'fuck off' in the comments section. *chortles and sniggers* While I'm here, can I just ask my friends to not forward me chain messages in Messenger? They irritate me. I refuse to entertain the notion that I struggle to get bills paid at times is owing to my failure to forward chain messages to ten different people. I don't forward them because I hate receiving them, and I'm not inclined to piss off ten of my friends, as well.
4. Today I discovered I am not the only person who thinks Sinead O'Connor's interpretation of the Prince number 'Nothing Compares 2 U' completely blows the foreskin off a bull elephant. I know the song is meant to be sad, but I honestly find it as dreary and depressing as a Dickensian orphan shivering in a snowstorm on Christmas Day. I remember when it came out; my then-flatmate was one of Sinead's fellow countrymen and he went totally NUTS over this song. Speaking of 'nuts', he would practically blow one in his underpants every time it came on. Of a Saturday morning, I'd be slouching (and likely hungover) in my beanbag on the lounge room floor watching 'Video Hits'. When this song was aired, he'd come haring into the living room and exclaim in his rich brogue: 'This song is magnificent!' Everyone else I knew seemed to like it, but it just left me cold. Still does. And today, I discovered I am not alone in my indifference to this song.
Well, however I spend New Year's Eve 2017 is bound to be better than how I spent New Year's Eve 2016. I was in a motel, having gone through a flood after a freak storm cell (the aftermath of which I'm still suffering - shit in boxes etc), and I had received the devastating news a friend had taken his life that day. I was sitting up in the bed, wiping away tears and thinking it couldn't get worse, when just after the stroke of twelve my youngest son sat up and vomited violently and copiously though the motel bed. I spent the beginning of 2017 bundling puke-sodden Manchester into a ball, and actually ended up lying on my son's bed (all the while trying not to touch or think about any be-spewed spots on the mattress) because he is awful to have in the bed with you. I put him into my bed and he had to sprawl diagonally, and put his foot in my back.
Roll on 2018, and please don't suck.
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