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Hello viewers!

I am finally going back to university tomorrow and I intended to devote this morning to writing about What I Did On My (absurdly long) Holidays, but I'm afraid vanity got the better of me and I've decided to go and have my hair cut and my eyebrows waxed instead, so I only have time to talk about the weekend.

I have boasted widely over the past couple of years about the fact that, with the help of [livejournal.com profile] kissmeforlonger, I was finally able to overcome my lifelong fear of spiders. My new-found tolerance of our eight-legged friends was tested to the limit on Saturday morning, however. Those of a squeamish disposition may prefer to skip the next bit. )

(Arachnophobes, you're safe to come back now)

Despite this inauspicious start, we had a busy and enjoyable weekend consisting of much decluttering and cleaning, buying a present for our new nephew (Ed's sister had her third child on Friday night) and watching Dorian Gray at the cinema. I wasn't expecting much from the film at all, but it was actually very enjoyable, and if the idea of lots of soft-focus shagging in (and out of) opulent Victorian costumes, interspersed with spooky sound effects, foreboding shadows and seedy Whitechapel gin palaces is your thing, I urge you to go and see it. Even if you haven't read the book in decades, or indeed at all, it is easy to spot which bits of the script are genuine Wildean wit and smartarse-ness: almost all of them are spoken by Colin Firth, for starters. I was a bit shocked to discover, upon consulting IMDb when I got home, that the film's baby-faced lead actor Ben Barnes is actually twenty-eight and can only conclude that he's got his own decaying portrait stashed away in an attic somewhere.

Last night, in the light of his recent demise, was a bit of a Swayzefest on TV and thanks to Facebook tip-offs I managed to catch most of Dirty Dancing and Point Break. The former inspired a poll question and the latter an alarming desire for cock-rock and the smell of neoprene. It also reminded me that I really need to get my arse into gear about booking my choice of holiday destination for next year.

Poll here. Mentions creepy-crawlies )
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Last night, despite being knackered after a weekend of Goblin Squashing, my beloved Edward leapt out of bed and to my rescue when I was set upon by a marauding arachnid in the cupboard under the stairs. I related this story to co-worker J, a keen gardener, who expressed the wholly incorrect opinion that spiders are lovely and if I am scared of them then I must be utterly wet and a weed. In an attempt to rationalise my longstanding phobia, she asked me would I still be scared of them if they were pink.

You can see where this is going, can't you? )
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