(2) I went to see The Terminal today. God, what a lousy film that is. It's based on a true story, of a man who lived at Charles De Gaulle for 10 years -- a fascinating idea, and yet the script is cliche-infested and over-sentimental and the direction is surprisingly hamfisted for Spielberg (though his brown-yellow palette is gorgeous). Catherine Zeta-Jones is only ever interesting when she is playing someone who is morally ambiguous and pleased about it. In The Terminal she is just wooden.
The Terminal is pants.
(3) I am watching David Copperfield, which is notable for the first performance of wee Daniel Radcliffe, who is young David Copperfield. He's opposite Maggie Smith, who is Betsey Trotwood, which is most confusing. I keep expecting them to start discussing muggles or for one of them to turn into a cat.
I love the BBC's adaptations of Dickens. Not only are they almost all wonderful, they're sort of comforting as well, because they remind me of being a nipper. I can heartily recommend Our Mutual Friend, which is full of death and misery in the most wonderful way. Apparently Andrew Davies, he of 'Darcy dives into a lake' fame, is now adapting Bleak House. Good grief.
David Copperfield is not remotely pants.
(4) (a) I work near a pub called The Betsey Trotwood, which is an adorable name for a pub. Alas, it is not an adorable pub. If you're ever in Clerkenwell, I recommend instead The Three Kings, which *is* adorable, sells Thai food at lunchtime and boasts occasional sightings of David Thewlis, looking scruffy.
(b) In other celeb news, I know where smackhead Pete from The Libertines lives, via someone at work. I'm told he's a very funny, kind and eccentric man, apart from that pesky crack habit.
(5) London is in the grip of the most wonderful late summer heatwave. I'm going on a picnic up Stokie way tomorrow with S and J and people from work and their many offspring. I don't think I want to go but I feel I should.
(6) I feel as melancholy as a late Abba record.
(7) This past week has cured me of any desire to write about politics. Hoo-bloody-rah. Though I will note that Someone on The Daily Star managed to let the sentence about David Blunkett "seeing another woman" through three editions of the paper.
Knowing the ways of Fleet Street as I do, I strongly suspect that all the subs had buggered off to their favourite scabrous haunt and were drinking themselves to death.
[for those of you unfamiliar with UK politics, David Blunkett, the Home Secretary, is blind. It has also been alleged that he is indulging in some extra-curricular bedroom athletics with Kimberly Fortier, the married publisher of The Spectator, a journal somewhat hostile to the government in which he is a key player.]
(8) I hear that uneven is bad.