Pardon me, Duchess

I've just got an email from the Duchess Theatre in Long Eaton with a subject "Appologies for the errors in the previous email." I wonder if they're going to send another one apologising for the spelling in this one?

I really should take myself off the Duchess Theatre's mailing list, anyway. I've only been there once, years and years ago. I'm not really a theatre-goer. Maybe I'll become one when I'm wealthy. Or have nothing better to do with my time.

Winter woolies

I'm going to China at the end of January, including a visit to my brother up in Harbin, where it apparently gets routinely into the minus-twenties in temperature all winter. I really should get some more warm clothes before I go, or at least a pair of trousers that don't have huge holes in them, but since I won't have any money until I've gone there and got paid, I can't really afford to. Maybe I can make myself some warm clothes out of an old duvet I've got lying around the place here?

Two weeks away

That means it's Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve today.

Practice!

I'm not entirely sure whether or not to go to Cambridge for the Christmas Othello Tournament on Saturday. On the one hand, it's about time I tried to remember how to play othello (you never know when you might be called upon to play a passable game in a life-or-death kind of crisis), but on the other hand I've still got no money, so I can't really afford to go... Maybe I'll rob a bank, or hitch-hike, or something cheap.

That moment when...

You go to bed and then realise you haven't written a blog. So, um, how's everyone doing tonight? Good? Good.

What the dickens?

I have several Charles Dickens books lying around the place that I've bought in those cheap book shops for a pound each at some point in the past, but never read. I just can't get into them, as a rule. Which is strange, since I really like a lot of books by lesser Victorian writers. Have you ever tried East Lynne, by Mrs Henry Wood? It's awesome. Although it's a sort of modern Victorian book, and Dickens was more mainstream, I suppose. Perhaps I'm just too up-to-date, 19th-centurily-speaking.

Wrestlemania

I occasionally have dreams in which I'm a wrestler, of the fake WWE kind. And specifically not one of the cool starring-role wrestlers, but a making-up-the-numbers type. It probably means something. Possibly that I occasionally watch wrestling before going to bed.