Gallifrey was exhausting and brilliant and silly. Saw a whole bundle of old chums and made a great glutch of new ones. Flogged product and drank one or two ales. I said at the closing ceremony (where you have to say something) that I wished it could be Gallifrey every day. Which would be fun, but I wouldn’t long survive.
James Moran has made a number of very serious allegations about me, but surely there’d be pictures. And if there were pictures, surely there’d be evidence of Photoshop in them. I deny all accusations.
Didn’t sleep a wink on the flight home, and my entertainment system wasn’t working either. So I sat in the darkness and thought Thoughts that may one day become things I can brag about. Slowly the hours ticked by.
Eventually we plonked down in Heathrow. Turns out we shared our flight home with the Hoff, and dared each other to ask for pictures with him while we waited for our baggage. Don’t think we actually did – but by then my brain was drooling out my eyes. Out through customs to fall into me and M.’s waiting taxi. We slalomed through west and south London and then finally we were home.
Slept. And slept and slept. And woke up not knowing what day it was or where I’d left my head. Confused and stupid (no, more than usual) have got myself back into work. There’s been quick rewrites on a thing as-yet-unannounced and rewrites requested on something else. Went to the Post Office and the bank and fell through two splendid episodes of Being Human and nearly 300 emails. And then started sneezing; think I picked up a cold on the plane home. Dammit.
The Dr is, of course, delighted by the state I’m in. The whole point of jetting off across the pond without her was to come home relaxed, refreshed and skippy. Not snuffling and stupid and snoring. But I’m taking her out tonight for a posh tea, so she can’t complain.
Because nine years ago this evening I stumbled over to the Dr to tell her she was lovely. And dammit, she still is. The lesson is, my young padawans, that if you fancy someone, tell them.
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The only reason there are no photos is because we were all stunned and immobile with shock like mice confronted by cobras. Or, you know, fangirls whose camera flashes refused to charge quick enough.
However, I can describe the event in detail, should the Dr desire it. Or reenact it with glove puppets on the YouTube.
I like to imagine that The Hoff was actually at Galley all along.
But in disguise, so that no-one would recognise him.
"...if you fancy someone, tell them."
The judge said I'm not allowed to do that anymore. :-(
"pedurb" - safe community for sex offenders?
Grief, that means that nine years ago tonight Henry Potts got mugged, your insane flat mate wandered around offending everyone, you wore drag, Ben wore a straitjacket made out of PVC, I got so drunk I ended up hugging a wheelie bin, and nasty allegations were made about my conduct by a guy who later turned out to be a psycho.
Now THAT was a party!
There are some nice photos of you (sans James Moran attachment) in Andy Trembley's excellent Flickr collection.
(Warning: contains pirates.)
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bovil/3292692756/
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