Culturecide...

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I seem to have spent the last three weeks hurtling towards the weekends, and this one has been no different (except I'M POORLY this week).

On Tuesday night, Mrs S (the Binland one) and I went off to the cinema to see the latest Marvel offering.  If I said that it contained Tom Hardy, a motorbike and a battered leather jacket, you'd understand completely why I went.  I had pretty low expectations as far as the film was concerned, but it was surprisingly good.  

Even if you take away the fact that I genuinely believe that Mr Hardy and I could have been the perfect couple (just a shame I met the husband before Mr H was actually born) it was still a blooming good two hours of entertainment.  Thinking about this, I do sometimes have this irrational lust over famous gentlemen.  I have refused to leave my current mobile phone supplier just in case I happen to be the millionth customer to sign a contract with them, which will mean that the gentleman who voices their adverts (Sean Bean - my previous imaginary squeeze) would pop round to thank me and possibly stay long enough for a cup of tea and a slice of Madeira.

So that was Tuesday.  Last night I was at the ballet.  There was absolutely no chance that my sore throat and loud nose were going to stop me from sitting quietly and watching this.  The Mother and I attempt a Matthew Bourne ballet every year, and this is my second favourite one (The Car Man is my top one but only because it involves men in grubby vests).

On Saturday it's Schnauzerfest, so I'll be up to my neck in dogs and loose change (hopefully), and then on Sunday, Mrs S (the other one, the best friend one) is taking me to the Tate Modern and a fancy lunch as an early birthday treat.

Summing up my whole week then, it'll be leathers, feathers, woofers and doodles.

Every base covered I feel...

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