English invented rain.

In the time-honoured tradition of whinging and whining via blogpost when life becomes exasperating, I present this.

Presumably I wouldn't even have a blog if so many darn people and various life situations weren't so massively annoying.

'Tis the Ashes cricket which vexes me today.  We all know that the English invented rain to give the Poms something to talk about.

And I would not be surprised if the 16th century Englishmen invented the rain at the exact same time they invented cricket.  How often does a rain-soaked wicket at dark and depressing Old Trafford benefit them?  Um, every single Ashes.

I don't understand why sookie lala cricketers can't play in the rain.  Why does rain stop play?  Maybe because they'll get their hair wet?  That's why I avoid rain, drizzle, mist and wet air, but I'm a namby pamby girl who cries her eyes out when her locks get unexpectedly wet.  I hate my hair getting wet.

Hates it lots.  However, if winning or losing an Ashes Test rested on my venturing out into rain, I would go out into the fucking rain and do my job.
 
I could certainly understand cricketers reluctance to play in the rain wearing white t-shirts if one were a girl.  But they are boys, and they certainly do not seem to have any issue at all with drawing international televisual attention to their nether regions, what with their endless fiddling between balls, so to speak.

Although I guess you can't begrudge the English their wet weather wins.  Inventing rain was smart, because it gives them a 50:50 chance of nailing home games.

Tea Reheater.

I am a massive tea lover.  And I am also a massive tea reheater, much to the displeasure of some of my work colleagues. (But one of these aforementioned work colleagues is still into Garfield, so somebody's not in a position to judge.)  People mock what they don't understand.  It all tastes the same, you fools.  Well maybe not, but I like my tea HOT.

Thus, it has recently popped into my little brain that I would presumably benefit from an electronic tea cup warmer, just like the one in the picture.  A cup warmer that looks like an oreo cookie.  So clever and tacky in one little biccie. Wonderful. 

If you want to buy it for me for Christmas, cyber-bot friend, then do it.  Unless you are a weirdo.  For ease of placing yourself into my classification system, I define weirdo as somebody who keeps human body parts stored in a freezer in their basement or any other room.  I'm pretty cool with everyone else.

To summarise, tea is everything that is right and good with the world contained in one aromatic hot beverage.  When I say I'm not fussy when it comes to tea, I mean to say is that I only drink Twinings.  It's just how it is. Lapsang Souchong is my current favourite.  It smells like a bushfire.  So good.  How interesting is this blog post?  So interesting.

Christmas Burglars.

It's beginning to look a lot like I really need something fascinating to happen in my life.  Something infinitely fascinating.

In lieu of something infinitely fascinating to blog about, however, I'm going to write about one of the great loves of my life, Christmas, which is infinitely fascinating to me, but maybe not to you.  But guess what?  This is my blog.  What's not to love about Christmas anyway?

I have a strong and grim foreboding feeling that a burlgar donned in gay apparel is going to break into my house this week and put up my Christmas tree.  And probably also decks the halls with bells of holly.  Sure, it's too early, but you try telling that to a burglar who is high on the festive spirit.  Sometimes they just love Christmas too much.  You would even say they glow.

And sometimes things are just out of our control so you can't stress about them, you just have to go with the flow and leave the front door open and decorations in an accessible place so they don't trash the joint.  I hope Scrooge doesn't come here.  He is a mean, bitter old man.  Or a jerk, as Charles Dickens would presumably so eloquently put it.

It would also be good if they would BYO wreath for my door, because I don't have one.

Warning: Cuteness Overload.

I did warn you.

Gravity (and Spoilers)

I ventured out today to the filmed entertainment place to see Sandra Bullock and that delectable George Clooney man in the outer space thriller, Gravity.  Might be some spoilers here - although if you haven't seen Gravity yet you need to get your shites together.

This movie is about a medical engineer and an astronaut who survive the mid-orbit destruction of their space shuttle and a return to Earth. I enjoyed this flick, but it also reminded me of why I decided to give up my career as a Hollywood movie star.  

You get to the top of your game and are so good at what you do that the only job you get offered involves sitting in a dark studio for three months breathing heavily into a fake space helmut while using your God-given Oscar winning facial expressions to make your eyes look anguished and distressed.  Poor Sandy Bullock.  

Clooney was fortunate enough to die at the start of the movie, and thus avoid having to look perma-traumatised for the duration of the movie-making process, which allowed him to return to his luxurious pad in *insert country*.

I'm pretty sure this pic is not from Gravity. 
But who cares.

In Gravity, Clooney plays a supremely confident and smooth astronaut commander; one of those men who are so annoyingly self-assured that they are just asking for a punch in the damn face.  Oops, not meant to punch people in the face or encourage such activities.  My bad then.

Despite his character’s constant sureties to the contrary, I imagine there is nothing peachy at all about being marooned in the earth’s orbit with a busted space ship.  Even if Clooney was there.

His character is on his last mission before retirement, and was entrusted with ensuring the crew didn’t plummet to their deaths, so things looked just bloody marvellous when he drifted off into the abyss. This movie is exactly why NASA does not let normal people into their space ships.  Because they ruin them with their averageness.  

Nevertheless, despite the extraordinarily bad odds and the fact that her character's not an astronaut but a medical engineer or some other job equally useless in an outer space workplace, Sandy somehow miraculously survives by space shuttlejacking an American, Russian and then a Chinese space ship.  Sounds reasonable.    

I’m pretty sure that Sandy has a few quid, so I don’t know why these powerful acting women let their directors sway them into doing gratuitous skimpy clothed shots just to satisfy the male viewers.  Having said that, the bitch has great legs, so why wouldn't you flash the universe the hot pants you're wearing under your spacesuit?