Who knew a fairly loosely planned weekend could turn in to a weekend of w00t?
Mind you, I had an inkling that She & Him would be rather good even if when we arrived there were notices asking us not to take flash photography of the band. For the most part, this was adhered to which was shocking in itself seeing as Tool ask the same of their fans and they blatantly disregard this. I did not disregard the request, I turned my flash off, wacked the exposure up and took photographs on pretty near full zoom. The results aren't bad although there is a little of the nice man's head who decided to stand in front of me towards the end. Ah well. I had a pretty good view up with the Gods in Koko (my choice - I am tiny small and to stand on the ground floor would mean I would have been admiring check shirts and quirky vintage dresses for most of the evening).
On paper you should hate Zooey Deschanel, she's pretty, she's a successful actress and she seems pretty together for a famous person. And she can sing like an old time country and western singer - pure and sweet. But you can't. Because she is lovely. What I liked most is that her voice was pitch perfect but it didn't sound like I could have been listening to their music through my iPod. I hate that (Bloc Party, I'm looking at you). Just enough change to appreciate that it was live.
And then there was not one, but two encores which were pretty awesome and rendered everyone covered in goosebumps when they rounded the evening off with an acoustic version of I Put a Spell on You. And just when MonsieurB thought we'd escaped the merch stand there it was. On the way out. Mwahahahahaha I win at She & Him t shirts. Not so much with not spending money.
I then got up obscenely early to go to Bicester. The plan was to leave my yard at 8.30. It was more like 9.10 when we set off. And then I was asked (sitting in the back seat) how to get there. Exasperated I pissed and moaned about how I had sorted the shop itinerary and I couldn't organise the whole trip. So I got out my iPhone and off we went. For some window shopping. Like Lily Allen's nan. But not with a hole in our colostomy bags. And with the intention of spending no money. Until I hit the Mac cosmetics shop. And then wandered in to Agent Provocateur. And then got dragged in to Vivienne Westwood. Put it this way, the window shopping did not materalise. On the upside, I bagged some total bargains and I have successfully managed to do the underwear as outerwear trend by purchasing the most beautiful cami in the whole wide world.
Then we had a nice country drive home, getting lost on the way and talking about politics and the euro. Some of us were more stuck on the euro. Others in our number (me) wondered at the sight of so many birds of prey. Three kestrels I saw. Three!
It seemed like a good idea to go for a curry when we got back. Then it seemed like a good idea to have 2 bottles of wine. Then it seemed like a good idea to go to a pub I've not been to in a million years, drink ourselves silly, put £2 in the jukebox, have a jager shot, drink some more, not be able to stand, try and play pool and agree to stay for a lock in. Whilst all the proper locals hated us. I think we were a bit overdressed for them. I'm guessing they've not seen much Christopher Kane (for Topshop I hasten to add) in a dirty metal pub.
The next day my head hurt a little from alcohol. But other people's head hurt from corrupted data on their PC. We had an intense SundaySadfaceSituation on our hands. I wondered what I could do to remedy this technological malfunction. I know! I'll put on very tight jeans, very high heels, pretty camisole and stick my hair up and that will un-corrupt all the data. I was wrong but I'm told everything seemed much less sadface. Mission accomplished. Yay! Then today the data magically un-corrupted itself for real. I have reason to believe this was owing to the data seeing the error of its ways and realising that beautiful camisoles can solve any problem. I'm just waiting for a call from the leaders of the 3 mains parties asking me to consult the camisole.