Fantastic Mrs Middleagedteacher Fox

Welcome.

Look look look at me above.

I promise you that I certainly wasn't trying to look Kittenish. It was a mistake. I was simply trying to show off my Loud Diamante bracelet that I bought at the 'Diva' sale for five bucks. If you strain your eyes, you might be able to make it out.

I would Never Knowingly Look Kittenish in any photograph. And definitely NOT in an Important Document like a daily wardrobe photo.

The Days of Looking Kittenish are well & truly over.

And I'm not sorry .

I have Other Fish to Fry.

It's now 10.30pm.

When I woke up this morning, I read Zizzi's comments for the previous blog entry.

She kindly reminded me of my Strict Bedtime Regime.

Sadly, over the holidays, Bedtime has become a little Ragged Around the Edges.

Last night, I found myself lying in bed reading Audrey Niffenegger's 'Her Fearful Symmetry' at quite a late hour.

Initially I was shocked & immediately reached over to turn the light off.

But then I thought, 'What the Hell! It's Holiday Time! Set your Chickens Free!'

I turned the light off anyway.

Talking of Chickens, I went to see 'Fantastic Mr. Fox' yesterday with Trixie Drew, my friend & colleague.

We both loved it.

I'd love to tell you all about it.

But you Might be Quite Bored if I did.

Instead, I'll just recommend it. You can take a child to see it if you have one.

But you can enjoy it just as well without one.

Talking of Filmgoing, I went to see 'Bright Star' with daughter Maeflower & friend Marge who sadly has now gone back to California.

Who would have thought that Sickly John Keats & his girlfriend Fanny's relationship was 'The Greatest Love Story that's Never Been Told'?

Jane Campion, a New Zealander who we Australians claim as our own as well as Dear Russell Crowe, directed it.

Mae checked her phone at regular intervals throughout the entire film which more or less summed up our collective experience of it.

Every time Poor Sickly Keats started coughing during the film (he died of something that involved coughing which I'm sure nowadays could be easily cured with a dose of anti-biotics), I started thinking about the pathetic time I had last february when I tried to teach my Senior Class 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'. Or is it 'Ode To a Grecian Urn'?

Whatever it's called, it was Pure Torture for all of us.

It's now 10.46pm.

I must get into bed & wrestle with the idea of buying a 'Chanel' scarf for $560. Today I went into the 'Chanel' shop at Bondi Westfield & fondled them.

An unusually chatty sales assistant told me that the scarves were 'Seasonal' which meant that they're not there all the time like the 2.55 quilted handbags that start at $4000 always are.