There’s some curious gene that rouses itself in Autumn, making previously agoraphobic people want to wrap up in scarves and plaid skirts and aim for the nearest green space to go for long walks. (Lesson to all of you: just because it’s green doesn’t make it nature.) Anyway, it makes them feel like romance can happen, which is nonsense. Romance can never happen in plaid. As Blaine Harrison from Mystery Jets pointed out in the Observer yesterday, “I have never felt love with someone walking hand-in-hand through a field of bluebells” and that goes double for grown-ups walking through piles of leaves.
Maybe it was growing up unhappily in the countryside, but I get horrendously agoraphobic when confronted with sunny Sundays. It’s like having a particularly aggressive gym teacher banging on your door and saying “Come on, you shouldn’t be locked inside on a day like this.” Au contraire dear Mrs Eaton, it’s on days like these that you can delight in locking yourself away from good weather. It’s Sunday, the day that was made for hiding away, the one day of the week you can be as lazy as you like and nobody will argue with you because it’s the way life is. You should chuck the key away just to show how much you’re going to enjoy luxuriating in the fact that you could be outside, but you aren’t because it’s 6pm and you’re still in your dressing gown.
If I were famous, Sundays would be paydirt for the paparazzi. Yesterday, I went to the shop in dressing gown, coat and flip-flops to get the papers, looking like Jade Goody’s less-attractive hobo sister. That’s what I do on Sundays that haven’t got plans in – I like to luxuriate in being entirely off-duty from having to faff around with eyeliner or nice clothing. It’s ritualistic and glorious, and entirely why going for bracing walks in plaid have absolutely no place in my weekend life unless it’s Saturday or I’ve somehow ended up in a Beatrix Potter book.
Hiding away yesterday meant that I got to catch up on all the crap television I’d failed to watch throughout the last week so let’s have a great big cheer for whoever invented BitTorrent and thus TV at American speed. And then a big boo for Gilmore Girls singularly failing to be even vaguely entertaining in its season opener. (“It’s an axis of evil contrived entirely by televisual witches,” protested Film Joe when I ditched his internet-self to watch it. Well, yeah, but anything that has a script 20 pages longer than any average television programme of the same length, and with more pop/culture references than your average cartoon earns my respect and love. Especially over seven seasons.)
More telly. Grey’s Anatomy, still not annoying enough to stop me watching it. America’s Next Top Model, needs more mentals in it. Yes, more. Still, at least it’s not the British version which made me want to poke out not only my own eyes, but those of everyone who had anything to do with it. I passed Lucy, the iD-a-like one, on Friday. She is tiny and not a supermodel. Studio 60 is utterly brilliant. Matthew Perry – we only lost faith for a few years, but you are now re-loved again with all the peak-Chandler passion of another time.
Before the television marathon began, RBT and I recovered from Saturday’s exploits by watching Happy Days (the Chachi sells his soul episode) and Melinda and Melinda which was just dreadful. Not even dreadful in an enjoyable car crash way, but in a “Oh God Radha Mitchell, I’d rather put the last half hour of Silent Hill on repeat than sit through this horrible film ever again” way. Woody Allen, sort it out. You had a fantastic cast and you still made another crap film you utter fool.
This made us all marginally more receptive to the new Robin Hood which, FYI, is like the BBC put their heads together and went “Hmm, what ratio of indie boys to tight outfits would be the most likely to give Kat an excuse to dribble all over herself.” Every other man in it looks like he’s just fallen out of an indie club. Guy of Gisborne broods like he’s just spilled JD on his Converse, the Scarlet boys look so surly that their eyebrows stand out a good three inches from their foreheads. It’s a sea of dark haired, skinny, unhealthily pale boys and that, ladies and gentlemen, is precisely what I want to be locked in the house with on a Sunday afternoon.