This week, people have been mostly asking me what I've been up to. My responses have, rather disappointingly, gone something along the lines of, "Erm, stuff. I think. I'm not sure." * But damn it! I /have/ actually been doing things. All week, in fact. And some of them were truly, properly entertaining. There was that time, when I met up with a really old friend who was in town for the night and watched a midnight screening of "Blade 2". It made NO sense at all, but was totally fab because: a) Luke Goss from Bros was in it. b) Danny John Jules (Cat from Red Dwarf) was in it. c) There was eye candy in the shape of Norman Reedus d) There was random Powerpuff Girls footage e) And, most wonderfully, there were hidden Bis references. Secret Vampires! Wesley Snipes quoting Sci-Fi Steven! "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer." Incidentally, Luke Goss' maybe girlfriend was in a film called "Frankenhooker". Tagline: A terrifying tale of sluts and bolts. I MUST SEE THIS FILM. Also, there was that time, at work in the Hand Therapy Department when I was idly reading through patients notes, snickering at their ailments and vomiting at the sight of Polaroid images of their wounds, when one of the therapists came up to me with a bag of home made sweets. "Here, try some," she said. Obligingly, I took a bight. It was a disgustingly sweet piece of sugary fudge, covered in chocolate and coconut and tasted, well, it tasted as if detergent was a secret ingredient. "Umm, it's a bit funny," I said. "Did you make it?" "No, a patient brought it in for us," she replied in between bites. "Right. So a Hand Therapy patient made us food, presumably using their, err, hands. Just what exactly is their condition at the moment? And is this really coconut?" Silence. Followed by a dash to Tescos for toothbrushes and half an hour's worth of scrubbing. Mr Selby Longmire: "Marianna, how's your hand job going?" Miss Marianna Longmire: "!" The Hand Therapists are a lovely bunch, really. Despite being the type of people who feel developing relationships outside of work would really help the vibe of the department during working hours, and are still upset that I didn't invite them to come to Popstarz a few weeks back. But, you know, there's far too many forty year olds pogo-ing to Wham! as there is. Best cull the numbers when you get the chance. Out of guilt however, I did loosely tell them about the occurrence of Track and Field on Friday eve. They politely declined attendance on the grounds that they probably wouldn't look indie enough to be granted entry. This was arguable on a number of levels, but frankly, I had tired of the conversation and left to explore the eerie basement tunnels instead. And so it was Friday and, joined by the inimitable Miss Susan Le May, it was off to Track and Field for dancing and shenanigans. And it promised to be great, as Track and Field is always great and I was surrounded by some of my favourite people in the world, all sparkling wit, stylish outfits and cutting one liners. Ooh, and Miss Sarah Garret Sonner gave me a brown corduroy skirt, simply because she's ace like that. Disappointingly, once actually making it upstairs and paying admission, my heart sank. There was no room to dance and the entire place had become as appealing as a gigantic sweaty armpit. And whilst this wasn't a deterrent for most (smiles and jumping about seemingly in abundance), I was rather pleased when someone walked past and mentioned we should leave. It was Mr Greg Pallis, in acid wash. And so we did. And so we walked down the road and stumbled across a building site. And broke in. And accidentally scared the inhabitants of the adjacent apartment building. After promising not to kill them (chic sophisticates in mistaken identity shock!) we proceeded to scale five floors worth of scaffolding to sit and admire the view before pouring droplets of water on random passer-bys down below. It might have been evil, but, in our defence, it was terribly, terribly entertaining. Babbling, as ever, Miss Marianna Longmire xx *I really, really hate it when someone asks me a question, or enquires as to the details of a particular event I have partaken in, and I'm so stunned as to be even considered worthy enough of entering into a conversation with said person that I jumble up events, forget the important details and then, tiring of the tale myself, stop halfway through and ask a question in return. Conversations would be much easier if you could conduct them entirely through correspondence on headed notepaper. 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