And, as they hang by dozens/At Ludlow, lad by lad,

I went to the Geffrye Museum on Saturday, a display of middle class domestic interiors through the ages, which was very interesting (providing lots of opportunities for the “I could live with that”/”They must be mad” comments), if a little prone to the use of air quotes in its audio commentary. I particularly liked “the main mean was eaten at midday and, rather surprisingly was called dinner!” and “A table-cover, or cloth.” Clearly the Ideal Visitor is middle class, southern, adult, and dines off modern tables that don’t require heat protection.

Yesterday I took my annual Carol Fix at St Michael’s at the North Gate as recommended by tree_and_leaf in a spot on choice. Having about as much spirituality as the average armadillo, I enjoyed a clutch of rousing carols* and reflected that with that number of candles to light that high up a couple of strategically placed chairs would have been a good idea. There was also some good people watching; a (continental?) chap who looked like a WWII officer, priest in Proper Fancy Vestments, and an exceptionally pretty choir girl who looked like she ought to be cast in some costume drama. She clearly had a crush on the director of music; alas, I cannot hold out much hope for her. Also, much as I like Tomorrow shall be my dancing day (albeit mostly for Greene Knowe related reasons), the chorus/harmony in which the predominantly male altos sang high and somewhat breathily “Oh, oh, oh my, oh my, oh, oh my love” was perhaps not the best idea.

Inspired by grondfic I also gave the BBC’s Robin Hood another go. I gave up on the first series, which seemed to combine a leaden script, hopeless acting, and headbanging political allegory into an inedible mass. Somewhere the ‘relevance’ seems to have been junked, Marion’s pr0n star make-up toned down (whilst Guy’s black leather is now black PVC), and the production team have worked out that whilst the Outlaws are young, wimpy, pimply and dull, the denizens of Nottingham Castle have a bit more going for them. Yes, I am now a determined Guy/Marion shipper.

Cranford, the interpolation of Dr Harrison, and the production's apparent desire to get everyone married off at the end has left me with no desire to read the book in order to find out what the ‘real’ story is. I am, however, burning to read the equally interpolated My Lady Ludlow, and not only to find out why the only surviving heir is referred to as Lord Firstname. My suspicion is “because the audience will find Lord Ludlow confusing.” AARRGGHH.

Yuletide fic: still not done.

*Including Of the Fathers Heart Begotten, if sadly without the verse about Hell. A pity that – from a young age when my father taught me the verses of Lord of the Dance we didn’t sing at school, I have enjoyed the odd grisly line. I thought I’d hit gold in Dejlig Er Jorden with “the slain shall follow the slaughterer’s path” Alas! that I had got my vowels mixed up and it meant something else entirely.