Yesterday was spent in shops, mainly pushing people around as you scoured the rails for pieces of material to cover your shame. Well...most of it anyway. You wouldnt believe how many people can fit into one Billabong shop. Really. China looks underpopulated compared to it.
So as I was peacefully standing in my own space and my mind whirring with thoughts about clothes and violent actions in equal measures, I was unceremoniously bumped a metre farther by a passer-by. When I regained my balance I looked up to see a black woman, who seemed to have bundled up a small tribe of pygmies (no pun intended) and eaten them. Alternately, she could have been pregnant.
Her eyes spat flames as she looked at me, as if I had come out of thin air and chosen her space to fabricate again. I crept out of reach, imagining how any minute now, she was going to explode warm pygmy-carcass lava.
scary.
In other news : my sister is writing a play that is going to be performed by the school drama group. I asked if I could collaborate, but it seems that the offbeat humour that comes natural to us, will be lost on the masses of parents that warm the hall seats and laugh at the appropriate moments. Did you know that Andrew Lloyd Webber is in the middle of the Forbes list of richest people? From Cats and Phantom of the Opera alone, he has made 50 million plus. Of course, its not everyone who can write timeless classics, but while car-washers in Hollywood are leaving their scripts on movie executives' bonnets to be noticed, playwrights are quietly providing the sustaining fodder every actor dreams of. Sure, it doesnt appeal to the Joe Everyman but I think there's a certain level of prestige that comes with theatre, that can't quite be duplicated in film.
Whether the prestige is validated, is another question.
Until next time kids ;)
Labels: irritation
