geeze popeye, where d’ya keep the spinach?

There is something remarkably decadent about writing on your laptop whilst sitting on your bed, in your PJs. Not sure what it is – sitting at the PC in your nightwear is, I am sure, an activity practiced (at least occasionally) by a large proportion of you, and nobody thinks anything of it. And there is nothing overly odd about sitting on your bed to work either. It’s comfortable and softer than the floor. In my case I sit on the bed because it’s the only other sit-able-on piece of furniture in the room. I don’t count the floor. I do sit on the floor a lot. I just don’t class it as “furniture”. Furniture you can move. The floor shouldn’t move, unless you are in a lift (thats an elevator for you non-Euro-philes reading), or in an earthquake, and in neither of those occasions are you normally working.

Back to my point. I’ve been sitting on my bed, laptop at the ready, surrounded by books for the better part of the afternoon. I was working. The desk wasn’t looking good to me today, and I’d got done all I could done in the lab this morning. Also, Penny had the cricket on and, whilst I found it enjoyable, I was concentrating more on that than on the thesis, so home I had to come. I didn’t feel decadent then. I did feel I should be in a montage shot from some film – you know the bit: attractive but intelligent girl studying hard before the finals, books spread in a circle around her, laptop open, pencil held in teeth (or possibly behind the ear), another pen holding most of her hair back in a bun, but allowing a few locks to fall forward making her look fetchingly distracted, glasses (that she hasn’t up to this point worn) on the end of her nose, typing for a bit, then flicking over a page, cross-referencing in another book, typing some more, possibly occasionally taking sips of tea (or coffee) from the large mug with the cute cartoon kitten on it… all the while some music plays designed to show the men in the audience that, whilst studying normally isn’t cool, when she is doing it is, and that they should fall wildly in love with her…

You get the idea.

Now though, I feel decadent. Perhaps it is because it is after ten, or because it’s a combination of all the elements (laptop, bed, PJs, disheveled hair do, books). Or perhaps not. Either way, that’s what I’m doing, and that’s what I feel.

Yes, I am rambling more than normal because I am mildly jazzed up at the moment. Just went to see Grease the Musical at the Mayflower Theater. I’ve seen Grease the Movie more than once, and also seen it in a couple of different productions on the stage, but it was only £10 for the student ticket, and both Moose and myself enjoyed seeing Joseph so much last year we thought we’d take in another show whilst it was local. Be criminal not to. And Moose needed cheering up, so really I was being a good friend going along with her. It would have been mean not to go…

Yeah, having a hard time trying to convince myself as well. But it was fun! The girl playing Sandy had an amazing voice – we’re talking chills up the nape-of-the-neck great here. Danny was pretty good as well. Not quite as much charisma as when I saw Shane Ritchie (yes, the Alfie Moon from Eastenders) in the part, but still pretty damn hot. I did have an issue with the woman playing Rizzo – she was channelling Stockard Channing a little bit too much. Basically shouting every line, even the normal conversation, which meant when she was genuinely shouting she had nowhere left to go. But then she sang and I forgave her everything. I probably understood what the song “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” really meant for the first time. Again, chills were multiplying up my spine when she sang.*1*

All in all, much fun. I’ve decided that my perfect man needs to sing as well as all the rest. Now, the DNCC-WINLHATF (Decidedly-Not-Cute-Canadian-Who-I-No-Longer-Have-A-Thing-For) already is a dab hand on the bass guitar, dances, climbs (and has the collar-bones of a climber to boot), is enough of a geek to understand gamers and enjoy cartoons, and, let’s not forget, is really rather easy on the eyes. If he could add singing to that mix you’d be scraping me off the floor from the puddle of girly-goo I’d just melted into.

But, as he, in addition to all of those things, seems oblivious to my charms, I think I’d better start the search elsewhere.

Endnotes:
*1*Not sure if I’ve mentioned before how, when someone is really good at singing, the nape of my neck gets all tingly, and I get goosebumps on my arms. Most times I can hear people sing and, whilst they may be great, I don’t get that extra something, so when I do get the tingles, I know they must be good.Back
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