We said farewell to cool Queenstown and flew into Auckland for a day and a half.
Sinead had booked us into Base which turned out to be ace backpacker accommodation - shiny clean, good linen, tv, hairdryer and our own private wet room. The only downside was that Sinead got to strecth out in the double bed and I was still stuck in a top bunk. Fairness was restored, however, when Shin kept banging her head off the metal frame above her bed.
We figured there's not much to see in Auckland, so we quickly decided to make this 'down-time'. We opened the balcony doors to let the air and sunshine in, then spent sometime lying on our beds in our pants watching TV. "You know what would really make this briliant Lis?" "No, what?" "If Oprah was on." Sinead started flicking through the TV channels.
Shin is obsessed with Oprah and has been talking about her ever since we arrived in Vegas. "Argh! All American TV shows is dramatic news or the bloody weather Lis. Where's Oprah?" We passed a newsagents and Shin spotted the National Enquirer announcing that Oprah and Steadman had split up. "Ha, ha. That's cause Oprah wants to go out with Gayle." I'm sorry to say I'm not up on my Oprah-knowledge so I had no idea who Gayle was. "Oh yeah, it's been a big rumour for years and Oprah even denounced it on her show." I suggested Sinead put a bet on Oprah and Gayle going public in 2008 when she gets back home, but she said she'd get poor odds it's so obvious.
When we were on our trashy celebrity tour in Hollywood and the driver pointed out Dr Phil's house. Sinead announced loudly "I think he's having an affair with Oprah." I told her to keep her voice down as saying anything against Oprah is considered blasphemy in the US. Anyway, there was no Oprah in Auckland and we were getting hungry so we got ready and went out.
Kiwis love their pies, and they have some strange combinations like steak and cheese, and mince and cheese. Back in New Plymouth with Jenny and Ben, we'd voiced our reluctance at sampling such a 'delicacy', but by now we felt we had to see what all the fuss was about. We agreed that we would head off in search of a quality pie. I consulted the Lonely Planet and found out Ponsonby Pies on Ponsonby Road was supposed to be good.
Auckland isn't all that compact and we discovered that Ponsoby is actually a separate area some distance from the City Centre. Then we discovered that Ponsonby Road is one of the longest roads ever. We walked up and down it twice before Shin popped her head into Sugar Brown's Bakery to ask where the Pie shop was. The girl said she'd been there before but couldn't exactly remember where it was. She told us it was on the opposite side of the road and back in the direction we'd come from. We still couldn't find it. "I should just write things down" I said. Sinead didn't answer. A short while later, she announced she was getting delirious and had to have something to eat NOW! So we stopped at this place called The Chapel. The waitress told us that the Fish of the Day was a 'Bluenose' and Shin looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said: "Well, we'll no be having that in the chapel." Ha ha ha ha.
Our sugar levels restored on some tapas items, we headed back into the city centre and down to the waterfront. We got ice creams and sat on a bench watching the commuter ferries departing.
We started the next day with tea and toast at Base. We discussed Margaret Thatcher and whether or not she'd get a state funeral. "Oh she bloody will as well," said Shin, "but I bet there'll be loads of protests. It'll be great." "Do you remember when she got totally quizzed by an audience member about the sinking of the Belgrano?" "Yeah, she was struggling to comprehend the fact that someone was challenging 'the Prime Minister." "Brilliant." "Let's You Tube it later."
We looked round the shops but they were in short supply, so we went to the cinema and booked tickets for a film that evening. Then we headed down to the waterfront and got some tacos for lunch. I asked for one with steak and one with chicken, but the guy made one with steak and one with steak and chicken. Hawkeye Shin had clocked this and said we ordered one with steak and one with chicken. The guy tried to say this is what we had, but it wasn't. The guy then admitted he'd made a mistake and put some steak in the chicken one and could we not just take it. The crazy fool was all gesturing and making pleading faces and thumbs up signs to Sinead. My heart sank and I started to walk away because I knew this was a mortal error. Sinead looked right at him then started speaking loudly, clearly and slowly. "One with steak. One with chicken. It's really not that difficult. I'm not eating that and I'd like you to make what was ordered in the first place. It's simple." The guy did as he was told. Who wouldn't?
Given the trauma of ordering the things, they were actually really tasty and we sat in the sun and washed them down with a couple of cold beers. Bliss. We continued on to the Market Square area and discovered an open-air Irish pub showing the tennis. We got 2 jugs of Pimms and watched Sharapova and Jankovic. "I'm lovin this Lis. This is great." We stayed there until the sun started to fade then we walked back to get ready for a night at the flicks. "Let's tackle the bags in the morning," I said eyeing mine ominously. "Agreed."
Showing posts with label evil TV. Show all posts
Showing posts with label evil TV. Show all posts
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Monday, September 25, 2006
The World Traveller returneth
Hello. I am in a state of lovely, yummy bliss. I got back to Edinburgh last week and have been walking on a cloud ever since. Hmmmm, niceness.
Unfortunately, my laptop has decided that it doesn't like me quite so chilled-out and has wantonly caught some nasty computer virus, now informing me that it plans to remain shut-down for the purpose of self-protection. Surely, as the owner of said laptop, it's for me to decide whether or not it should be protected? Have I done such an awful job taking care of it, that it has had to take matters into its own cursors? Anyway, as a result, I'm writing this from work. Naughty.
Last week was mostly spent working and sleeping. As a rule, I'm never in bed before midnight, but since returning from holiday I've enjoyed some marathon slumber sessions. On Monday, I retired at 3pm and slept until 6am on Tuesday. On Thursday, I was snuggled up by 8:30pm and on Friday by 9pm. Now, this is good in the sense that I resolved to get more sleep as part of my spa journey - rethink my life sessions, but bad in the sense that I'm not 90. I think there's room for a bit of balance here.
I also vowed to obliterate the following things from my life: CSI (in all its ghastly forms); Air Crash Investigation/Seconds from Disaster (No, the fact that it's on National Geographic does not mean it is a positive force in your life); Columbo (What is wrong with you? You've seen them all twice anyway) and Deal or No Deal (No Deal Noel - unless it's one of the episodes with the rumored jackpot winners).
This should - in theory - leave me with plenty of time in which to update my blog and work on the book. Annoyingly, the laptop isn't playing ball, but I'll still be sure to detail all the best bits from my trip (yes, even the really embarrassing stuff - cringe, cringe).
Unfortunately, my laptop has decided that it doesn't like me quite so chilled-out and has wantonly caught some nasty computer virus, now informing me that it plans to remain shut-down for the purpose of self-protection. Surely, as the owner of said laptop, it's for me to decide whether or not it should be protected? Have I done such an awful job taking care of it, that it has had to take matters into its own cursors? Anyway, as a result, I'm writing this from work. Naughty.
Last week was mostly spent working and sleeping. As a rule, I'm never in bed before midnight, but since returning from holiday I've enjoyed some marathon slumber sessions. On Monday, I retired at 3pm and slept until 6am on Tuesday. On Thursday, I was snuggled up by 8:30pm and on Friday by 9pm. Now, this is good in the sense that I resolved to get more sleep as part of my spa journey - rethink my life sessions, but bad in the sense that I'm not 90. I think there's room for a bit of balance here.
I also vowed to obliterate the following things from my life: CSI (in all its ghastly forms); Air Crash Investigation/Seconds from Disaster (No, the fact that it's on National Geographic does not mean it is a positive force in your life); Columbo (What is wrong with you? You've seen them all twice anyway) and Deal or No Deal (No Deal Noel - unless it's one of the episodes with the rumored jackpot winners).
This should - in theory - leave me with plenty of time in which to update my blog and work on the book. Annoyingly, the laptop isn't playing ball, but I'll still be sure to detail all the best bits from my trip (yes, even the really embarrassing stuff - cringe, cringe).
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Too much sun
I hate moving, but I do love the new flat, which hopefully means it'll be a considerable amount of time before I move on. I think the bathroom is my favourite room. It's bright, cool, airy and very tidy (thanks in large part to my half-price cabinet from John Lewis). Sam was back from the States a few weeks ago and stopped by for a visit. He gave it the thumbs up and, since Sam has just about the best taste of anyone I know, I was very, very pleased.
Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.
On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.
I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.
After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!
The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.
Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.
On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.
I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.
After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!
The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Work-Life balance
Admittedly, the first week back from holiday is always an uphill struggle. I, however, am 'touching the void' (i.e. my flexi-time has just plummeted through a crevass and my broken-spirit is in no state to pull it back.) Last week's working hours look like this - M 4:45, T 6:24, W 6:38, T 7:01, and F 5:13. It makes me feel slightly better that my inability to drag myself into work before 10am was due more to my busy social calendar than my lazy lard ass.
Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.
The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!
On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.
In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.
I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.
On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.
My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.
Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.
After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.
Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.
The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!
On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.
In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.
I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.
On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.
My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.
Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.
After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
(reluctant) Observations on Quincy M.E
My week of leisure found me, much the same as my student days, tucking into lunch in front of the TV. Most unlike my student days, the lunch I was tucking into comprised poached egg, parma ham and capers on a slice of sunflower and honey toast. To add gold leaf to such a luxurious scene, the egg was one of those pastel-coloured, free-range, organic affairs that they don't stock in Tesco Metro. Yes, I measure my progress in life by the food I eat and, on the whole, am happy with my development over the last four years. Today, it may be Laurent-Perrier and boudin noir truffles that take my fancy; you just never know.
Anyway, I was enjoying said lunch and reading the newspaper with the TV on in the background. Normally I wouldn't stand for having the TV on whilst reading but the remote control was all the way over on the other sofa and my butler had popped out to get some more pastel-coloured eggs. At some point TV won the battle for my attention (no I'm not proud) and I began to watch Quincy M.E. Whether or not Quincy had M.E is unclear, but he was markedly sluggish in all action scenes. The belligerent Californian (is that an oxymoron?) coroner is an old favourite from my uni days and I remembered him well. Each episode goes roughly like this:
Dead body turns up on Quincy's slab; Quincy suspects foul play and rushes off to play detective; Sam works 24hours in the lab to establish proof; Quincy fights with his boss; Quincy fights with the murderers/blase parents/reluctant eye witness; Quincy mulls things over on his boat; Quincy makes a pass at a barley-legal teen (optional); Quincy fights with his boss again; Quincy makes plea to young people of America to give-up the drugs/sex/alcohol/punk rock music; Quincy makes clear his suspicions and threatens to resign if he is not believed; Sam finds the proof; Quincy makes big declaration; Quincy is hailed as a hero; Quincy celebrates on his boat with many weeeeemin (although many wee-men would have been funnier, albeit politically incorrect).
The episode playing this particular day saw Quincy admitted as a member of the jury in a murder case (yeah, like that would ever happen. Everybody knows that people with medical or legal knowledge, or any hint of knowledge at all, are never admitted to a jury, duh!). Quincy asks expert medical questions of every witness (because jurors on TV are allowed to do that people) and nobody minds much for the first 20 minutes. The prosecution is, understandably, getting a little pissed off with the esteemed doctor and requests he be removed from the jury. The Judge appeases the prosecution by supplying a character reference for Quincy. She says: "I know Dr Quincy and he is one of the most objective people I know". At this point, I actually started shouting loudly at the TV (always a bad sign). "What are you talking about?" I asked desperately, "Quincy is the most subjective person I know. He becomes emotionally-involved in every single case he works. You don't know Dr Quincy at all. I move for dismissal."
I was so disturbed by the fervour of my response that I have decided there will be no more daytime TV for the remainder of my days off. Damn you Quincy!
Anyway, I was enjoying said lunch and reading the newspaper with the TV on in the background. Normally I wouldn't stand for having the TV on whilst reading but the remote control was all the way over on the other sofa and my butler had popped out to get some more pastel-coloured eggs. At some point TV won the battle for my attention (no I'm not proud) and I began to watch Quincy M.E. Whether or not Quincy had M.E is unclear, but he was markedly sluggish in all action scenes. The belligerent Californian (is that an oxymoron?) coroner is an old favourite from my uni days and I remembered him well. Each episode goes roughly like this:
Dead body turns up on Quincy's slab; Quincy suspects foul play and rushes off to play detective; Sam works 24hours in the lab to establish proof; Quincy fights with his boss; Quincy fights with the murderers/blase parents/reluctant eye witness; Quincy mulls things over on his boat; Quincy makes a pass at a barley-legal teen (optional); Quincy fights with his boss again; Quincy makes plea to young people of America to give-up the drugs/sex/alcohol/punk rock music; Quincy makes clear his suspicions and threatens to resign if he is not believed; Sam finds the proof; Quincy makes big declaration; Quincy is hailed as a hero; Quincy celebrates on his boat with many weeeeemin (although many wee-men would have been funnier, albeit politically incorrect).
The episode playing this particular day saw Quincy admitted as a member of the jury in a murder case (yeah, like that would ever happen. Everybody knows that people with medical or legal knowledge, or any hint of knowledge at all, are never admitted to a jury, duh!). Quincy asks expert medical questions of every witness (because jurors on TV are allowed to do that people) and nobody minds much for the first 20 minutes. The prosecution is, understandably, getting a little pissed off with the esteemed doctor and requests he be removed from the jury. The Judge appeases the prosecution by supplying a character reference for Quincy. She says: "I know Dr Quincy and he is one of the most objective people I know". At this point, I actually started shouting loudly at the TV (always a bad sign). "What are you talking about?" I asked desperately, "Quincy is the most subjective person I know. He becomes emotionally-involved in every single case he works. You don't know Dr Quincy at all. I move for dismissal."
I was so disturbed by the fervour of my response that I have decided there will be no more daytime TV for the remainder of my days off. Damn you Quincy!
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