Is it that time of the week already?

I got home from the movies at nine thirty tonight and Himself was already asleep in bed.

So I woke him up for a chat.

I can't go a day without chatting to Himself.

It would be like a day without coffee.

Impossible to even imagine.

Himself was very tired, so he went to bed early so that he wouldn't be a total waste of space tomorrow night. Which is very thoughtful of him.

It's not like we get up to much on a Friday night anymore.

Sometimes I go to one of the laydeez houses and we lie around and drink wine and eat nice cheese and bitch about work until midnight when we all yawn a lot and call a cab.

It helps to get all the bitching done on a Friday night, as it sets you up for a nice non-work-obsessed weekend.

Although I don't need to do it so much as I used to. I have gotten remarkably good at totally forgetting I have a job until six pm on a Sunday. When I remember. And get a tummy ache.

It's kinda sad really that a thirty seven year old woman would be still getting boarding school tummy twenty four years after she left boarding school. But there you go.

I didn't even know what it was until I read the U2 biography years and years ago and Adam Clayton described it and I said 'A-haaa!'

It is not work tummy.

It is boarding school tummy.

Anyways, I went to see Francois Giraud's Silk tonight, which involved working until six pm so I wouldn't go to see what new clothes they have in Biscuit and then a walk up the hill to end all hills to the cinema.

Silk is either unmitigated male psuedo-intellectual tosh, or a deeply ironic look at the frailty of the male penis-fixation (when it is dressed up as passion).

A young provincial French man (Pitt the lesser) comes home from the army and meets Keira Knightly, who has a very strange jaw in this movie, or maybe it was the angle I was sitting at, falls in love and marries her, circa 1863. The local money guy convinces him to leave the army and travel to Egypt to buy silkworms for his silk mills. When the worms come back blighted he sends him to Japan (which is closed to foreigners) to get some more.

While in an obscure village in Japan he sees a concubine and falls in love with her back, or her eyes, or the way she pours a cup of tea, or something.

He tries to tell the wife about it when he returns, all morose doncha know, but (thankfully for her) can't find the courage to blurt it out.

Poosams.

So entranced with the memory of this woman he is, and a note in Japanese she gives him that the local Japanese courtesan tells him says 'Come back or I will die' (she quite sensibly says don't go back, she won't die) that he heads off back to Japan for some more silk worms, just to get another look at her.

Which he does when she's setting him up with another concubine.

Whom he fucks.

While she's crying outside the paper door.

Then he heads back to France for another bout of depression and morosity, before heading back to Japan YET AGAIN, for another look at the concubine he really likes.

With dreadful consequences, etc.

All in all, the film festival was disappointing. I liked Fugitive Pieces, but that was mainly because I didn't think anyone could adapt it properly and while they didn't they made a good film of the story.

Ah well, roll on Halifax Pop Explosion in October. Maybe my need for art will be satiated then.