webcowgirl

I was feeling fussy because I hadn't seen enough shows lately to have anything much to write about for my blog - only one entry last week though I saw a second show (it was bad). And my stats are suffering: they've been averaging around 200 a day lately, really poor. But I'm catching up a bit this week, with Peter Brook's Magic Flute last night and a triple bill at the Royal Ballet tonight (which I may or may not write up), plus Eight Women at Southwark Playhouse on Friday. And as a reward for my one post, my stats went up to over three hundred today. Really, the writing is a cruel taskmaster; if only I were making money off of it or creating something I considered to be of lasting value the time I spend on it might make some sense rather than seeming like a strange obsession.

Work is going well. I had an all-day training session with my staff today, and when it wrapped I had a meeting with my boss to go over the week. He told me his boss had expressed her take that my team was incredibly effective and the "unsung heroes" of our group; he said he told her it was really all due to me and not him. I have to admit, that unexpected praise made my head swell up. In fact, when I got back to my desk I sat and looked at suits on Ebay for a while, thinking maybe this manager lark thing is going to stick. After all of the struggle and strife I've had with my various jobs over the years, to be somewhere where I'm praised more than once in a blue moon is actually a bit hard for me to process.

The rest of my life continues to be rather a minefield. I'm faced with a bunch of cold hard facts making it kind of clear what I ought to be doing with myself but I'm not being disciplined enough to take the hand I've been dealt and (if I'm getting the metaphor right) fold. I'm sure it's just weakness on my part, and that I'll be kicking myself later for not taking strong action earlier rather than later; I frankly have little idea which monkey is driving the tiger right now. And I don't know where the tiger is going.

Is there a final thing to say on this post? Oh yes, my weekend in Inverness with noirem and her fella has resulted in some of the most porcelain like complexion I've experienced in ages. Something about the whole thing, whether it was the weather or the food or the incredible spoiling (so much wine!) or hanging around people for four straight days (I was never alone and let's just be clear, that's how I like it) really worked for me. She's coming down tomorrow and I'm really regretting I won't be able to spoil her as much, but still; Scotland appears to be good for my skin.

I've finished my review of Dido and Aeneas at the Royal Opera House. I'm kicking myself for not taking better notes during the performance, especially since I'm not used to writing about music and can't pull from my memory to flesh this one out very well. Just four days later and WHOOSH! It's nearly all gone.

Now that I've fed the monkey I can get on to housework. Ooh baby. I lead such an exciting life.

This one is for poh.



But there I was ... 16 years old and watching MTV ... some program about New Wave or New Romantics in England, with stories about Kings Road and "Jordan" and Malcolm McClaren, the master behind it all ...