LAX

The bookings were made many months ago and the countdown seemed slow until this week but finally departure day has arrived (if you get my gist).

Departure from Sydney Airport was delayed nearly an hour because of congestion in outwards immigration (there I go again) and a different form of congestion with birds sucked into an engine, thankfully of another plane, not ours. Despite the delay we still managed to arrive at LAX (Los Angeles) before we had departed Sydney. It was about 2pm 30 August as we raced down the runway for takeoff at Sydney and it was 10.20am 30 August when we touched at Los Angeles today.

Having mentioned congestion at Sydney Airport I won't nonetheless accept criticism of our facilities without argument given the even worse crowding here. It took nearly an hour to navigate the snake queue for Border clearance and once there you are photographed and they take a print of every finger and thumb. After baggage collection and customs clearance I walked along a series of tunnels and into the public area.

I looked without success for any information on the options for getting to my hotel but there was no such assistance apart from several cursory overhead signs which frankly are of no help. I did notice there are upgrades of the airport in progress and maybe these facilities will come with time.

In the end I joined the taxi rank. An Iranian cab driver drove me efficiently - as best I could tell - to my hotel. He was a friendly fellow but the journey was somewhat ruined by his persistence in questioning me on how he could get to Australia for work. Interestingly he mentioned that his cousin had gone to Indonesia and from there by boat headed for Australia but that he had been taken to Manus Island. The Government may have 'stopped' the boats in its view but not the interest.

Anyway - enough of politics; this is not a political blog - on to the vacation.

This is my hotel right in the centre of (luxury) things on Rodeo Drive.

Brand names on every corner.

Brand names side by side.

Even on Rodeo Drive brand names have clearance sales; like Brooks Brothers here offering 60% off for the Labor Day holiday.

But even on Rodeo Drive there is the ominous sight of a vacant store.

So what purchase did I make as a memento of my stay on Rodeo Drive? What do you think about this subtle little number?

Only kidding!

By online, buy often etc

There is a lot of discussion about online shopping versus in person shopping at retail outlets. Are shops and stores suffering because of an inability to match online prices; should the Goods and Services Tax apply online and if so at what level?

I've been shopping online for ages. That is; if you regard using my computer for theatre bookings, flight bookings, hotel reservations, car hire, travel insurance as online shopping. Even more so if you take into account online banking and payment of bills as online shopping. But I don't think that is what most people consider to be 'shopping'. I imagine most people think of online shopping as something you purchase online that has to be delivered to you.

I dipped my first toe in the water of online shopping about ten days ago. It has not gone well.

I tried on a pair of jeans at a store, found they fit well and that I liked them and decided I wanted to purchase multiple pairs. Unfortunately the store only had one pair in my size and two other stores in the same chain had none.

I went online to locate other stores in the chain that I could visit and found the jeans, in my size, available for purchase online. Not only available for purchase online but available for purchase $30 cheaper than the pair I purchased in the store.

Well, I thought, what better opportunity to start online shopping than this? I ordered and paid for the jeans online. I received an immediate email confirming the purchase and informing me I would be notified of the progress of the delivery of my purchase to my home. How wonderful!

True to the promise, two emails followed 'tracking' the delivery. Terrific, I thought.

Then something strange. A third email. My purchase had been delivered. But it hadn't. Not to me anyway. It was signed for by someone at Alexandria. I don't live at Alexandria. The delivery address was not Alexandria.

Now I'm in a formal complaints process with Australia Post to ascertain, who in Alexandria has taken delivery of my purchase, why they have done so and how do I get my purchase delivered to me.

Mad about the man? I don't think so.

I have watched 'Mad Men' from the outset and the latest series is currently on Pay television. The leading character, Don Draper, is played by Jon Hamm who has quite a reputation for sex appeal. I don't see that appeal myself. Yes he looks rather good in this photograph I have posted from Google Images but I think the image is rather flattering compared with his general appearance. Dressed in a suit in the television series he looks OK but to my mind not distinctively attractive. Then there are the scenes when he is shirtless and the series misses no opportunity to have him in that state. That is when he loses any pretensions to sex appeal as far as I'm concerned.

Mr Draper, a married man in the series, is a ladies man. He has a wandering eye. Actually it is a lower piece of his anatomy that does the wandering if you get my drift. In the most recent episode Draper is bedding the wife of a downstairs neighbour to the point that dressed in business suit and hat and with bag in tow he pops in on his way to work for a morning session of rumpy pumpy. If I were in the position of bedding a downstairs neighbour whilst in transit to work I'm sure I would remove all my clothing before hopping into bed. Afterwards I doubt I'd go to the trouble of putting my underpants back on then returning to the bed for post-coital spooning before the time arrived for me to get dressed and resume my trip to work. Yet that is effectively what was portrayed this week.

Each to their own.

Madama Butterfly

(Opera Australia)

Our original tickets for 'Madama Butterfly' clashed with our next scheduled play at Belvoir Street Theatre. The scheduled conclusion of the Opera and the scheduled commencement of the play are 25 minutes apart. Now there may be a person and a time of day where a dash from the Opera House to Belvoir Street could be completed in that time but I'm not that person and a Saturday afternoon is not that time.

It was the Opera that got rescheduled. Arriving at the Opera Theatre last Thursday evening and squeezing past a dozen or so seated patrons I was impressed to find the reassigned seat was perfect; dead centre of the row and with good, close sight lines. My self congratulation on having been upgraded so grandly was rudely disturbed minutes later when a very formally dressed couple - it transpires the reassigned performance was Opening Night with Governor Bashir and her retinue in official attendance - appeared at my side informing me I was occupying their seat. (I hasten to add, this was not the Governor's seats.)

A quick check of my ticket and I sheepishly made my way back past the same patrons to the correct seat. At least I had been in the correct row but my entry had been thoughtless. Distracted for unremembered reasons I had just headed for the seat with same number as the entry door number for my row. I don't know why, it was just one of those things.

Sitting amongst scattered Black Tie gents wearing jeans and white trainers I must have looked for all the world like a fish out of water; or more ominously a potential terrorist. Merciful relief followed shortly with the dimming of the lights and the Opera was underway.

Giacomo Puccini's Madama Butterfly is one Opera's best loved works. The American naval Lieutenant Pinkerton takes the fifteen years old Cio Cio San (Butterfly) as his token bride for the duration of his ship's visit to Nagasaki. Just a little bit of local colour and fun for Pinkerton but for Butterfly it is love so serious and unwavering that she would adopt her groom's religion in place of her traditional beliefs.

Once Pinkerton's visit is over and despite evidence to the contrary, Butterfly is convinced that he will, one day, return to her and to their marriage.

This production benefits from having Hiromi Omura perform as Butterfly and not just because she is Japanese. Omura gave a powerful and dramatic performance which was rapturously received on the night. She was excellent. Despite my familiarity with the plot which could have had me viewing events passively I teared up at the Opera's dramatic conclusion. That was entirely the effect of Omura's performance, I believe.

James Egglestone was attractively caddish as Pinkerton and Dominica Matthews stood out as Butterfly's servant Suzuki.

Madama Butterfly can be a bit of an old war house. I have seen the same staging of it several times over a long period and I was a little worried beforehand that I would be bored to see it yet one more time but I really enjoyed this performance.

 ★★★★

Brizvegas

A quick message to record that I am in the Qantas club lounge at Sydney Airport waiting for my flight to Brisbane for a holiday weekend stay.

Boy do my fellow passengers pile up the 'free' food on offer in the lounge. I'll hold off until the flight and settle for the lunch to be served then.....maybe......maybe not.

The Adelaide Reds soccer team is also in the lounge presumably waiting for a flight to Adelaide following their match here last night against Sydney FC. How nice it is to have fit young men around. And they look very sexy, as well as seasonal, in their red polo shirts. Apart from several overweight officials who manage to look daggy in the same clothing.

Unless something dramatic and unexpected happens my next posting will be from the Vegas of the north.

Summer...wherefore art thou?

Today is the first day of summer in Australia where we mark the change of seasons from the first day of the month. No namby-pamby waiting for mid-month solstices and equinoxes for us.

Unfortunately no-one told summer. The maximum in Sydney today was a rather cool 18c and was made to feel cooler by the wind chill factor.

Foolishly I met Kn for lunch in the city wearing shorts thinking it couldn't really feel that cold outdoors. It did. Luckily I brought a jumper which was sorely needed.

Does it fit, sir?

I made a rare visit into town yesterday to meet a friend visiting from Canberra. I decided to arrive early, very early, to do some shopping I would otherwise normally do in the suburbs. Passing through Pitt Street Mall I reached the Zara store which seems to attract so much publicity and interest.

I had never heard of the brand until the hubbub about the opening of the Sydney store and only this week Ja was telling me how you have to queue to enter the store. She is waiting for the queues to abate before paying her visit.

I had not intended to to go to Zara, in fact I hadn't given the store a moment's thought but it was early on Saturday morning as I passed by and there was no queue in place yet so I thought, 'why not take a peek'? Inside all was controlled, artful chaos. Plenty of customers, or maybe they were gazers like myself, were rifling their way through some very fashionable looking and extremely colourful items whilst important looking young staff collected and folded clothing in a vain attempt to maintain order.

I must admit I was impressed with some of the men's clothing and idly wondered whether some trousers I had taken a fancy to would suit my less than fashionable figure and not make me look like mutton dressed as lamb. But what was the right size for me? The labelling was a mystery. The trousers were labelled with a series of sizes. One size for Australia and then the size in the UK, USA, Mexico, Italy and I think somewhere else. Given that the numbers were different for various countries the sizes shown couldn't be measurements, could they? So how to work out what number on the label was my size?

I approached two young attendants dressed totally in black both completely engrossed in chatter in overseas accented English as they folded and refolded clothing. 'What do these numbers on the labels mean', I asked. 'They are the sizes' one snarled at me as though I was a recalcitrant pupil. 'Yes, I assumed that', I replied 'but what do those sizes represent in inches or centimetres?' 'They are the sizes in Australia and in Italy', she persisted as I tried rephrasing my question another three times.

Just as I thought this store is not for me after all I noticed another young attendant exuding a calm confidence. I approached her with my question. 'What size trouser do you usually wear' she asked and then she consulted a small conversion card from which she efficiently deduced my Zara size in Australia.

I didn't try anything on yesterday preferring to save that treat for another, less hectic time. Two hours later I passed the store again on my way to my lunch meeting. The queue was well established by then with small groups being admitted by nightclub style guards every few minutes. Oh, how people suffer for their fashion.

Queueing at Zara's Sydney store yesterday

'...Beware of his heart of gold...'*

(* Theme from 'Goldfinger' by Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley)

(Sean Connery, Shirley Eaton and Ian Fleming)

'Goldfinger' is screening on television tonight. It was released in 1964, a mere forty-six years ago! I must have been 15 or 16 when I saw it which I recall was against significant disapproval from my parents who thought I was far too young to be exposed to such adult racy material. The movie appears exceedingly tame tonight.

Sean Connery wears the pale blue terry towelling number (above) in an early scene set by a Miami hotel swimming pool. Presumably the audiences of the day were impressed by Connery's manly James Bond straightness but tonight the outfit looks more 'fetching' than straight and totally gay.

Bond sweety! James Bond!

'After the dancers' leaving...after the stars are gone'*

(*After The Ball by Charles K Harris)

Well...that was a wedding and a half.

Despite my careful planning the journey into Sydney's mysterious Sutherland Shire - mysterious for those of us who live outside it - was not without incident. We reached the boundaries of the Shire without difficulty but once within the region a foreboding overcame me as I began to notice that the street names did not accord with my planning notes. It took me several minutes before I realised that my planning was based on a misreading of the street directory. I had read the directory as though I was entering the Shire via Tom Ugly's Bridge when in fact I had crossed over on the Captain Cook Bridge. Ooops!

How to get from the western half to the eastern half where we needed to be in less than half an hour was the problem. Somehow we managed the feat through a combination of Ae's hair raising navigation and my sense of intuition which was basically to turn left whenever she said 'right' and right when she said 'left'. That we managed to arrive at the church with five minutes to spare was a testament to the light Easter Saturday traffic and my cautious allocation of travel time.

I need not have panicked however as the bride was twenty-five minutes late and we ended up with half an hour to spare before the ceremony's commencement.

The church was a modest looking building - almost like a scout hut - set back from a quiet residential street. For one moment I thought we had arrived at a youth camp. Young casually dressed people mingled around an assortment of vehicles that would have gladdened 'Fonzie's' heart.

Inside the Church I noticed what I imagined was the Groom's supporters adjusting their Boutonnieres. The youngest looking of the 'groomsmen' in fact turned out to be the presiding Minister, a good looking young man who giggled a lot and called the Groom by the most casual of nicknames throughout the ceremony. Needless to say, the ceremony picked up on the casual atmosphere and was embellished by a rock band and a quartet of singers who sounded like they were first round eliminated refugees from the Hillsong mega-church.

I (and my group of friends) felt ancient and embarrassingly overdressed amongst this young lot. The congregant sitting to my right wearing blue jeans and an open necked white shirt which appeared snatched that morning straight from the laundry basket was typical of the majority dress code.

Despite the (to us) very modern service - where was the Altar? - there a was a considerable amount of old fashioned submission too. I lost count of the number of times the Bride promised 'to submit' to her husband. At one point I was alarmed to ponder whether the Bride would be expected to demonstrate her 'submission' there and then. Thankfully that was not required.

The tail end of the ceremony was nearly drowned out by the sound of Fonzie's vehicles outside the Church warming up in anticipation of whisking the bridal party away. At ceremony's end, the Church kindly laid out tables of potato crisps, jelly babies and canned soft drinks in the surrounding grounds where we chatted in disappearing sunshine followed by spitting rain as sunset drew close. By the start of the reception, at a beachside restaurant some kilometres away, spitting rain had given way to heavy showers and the guests, casually and formally dressed alike, arrived bedraggled and drenched.

The casual and friendly tone of the service continued into the reception. The table allocations had been well thought through and we found ourselves seated with like minded, and like dressed guests. We gossiped like old friends, which is what we are and reminisced about our forty years' long friendships. From where we sat all the speeches were inuadible but evidently hilarious to judge by the gales of laughter from those seated within hearing of what was said.

Ae enjoyed the reception and especially the wine - too much so I'd say - as she engaged in a forty-five minutes long one person debate about the existence of heaven whilst I drove us silently home through the pouring rain. Clearly the giggling, youthful Evangelical Minister had won Ae over completely.

Oh, and in case you are in doubt, I had a wonderful time.

Get me to the church on time

I'm going to a wedding this afternoon. Not my own...the third daughter of good friends is doing the deed.

I wasn't sure how I would feel about going to the wedding following my mother's death last week and the melanoma excision this week but I believe I am dealing well with the former and my discomfort from the latter is easing if not yet past.

The wedding itself is at a church in a suburb about forty-five minutes or so drive south of where I live but I am totally unfamiliar with the area and not certain that I have the timings correct. Then there is the problem of the three hours or so break between the ceremony and the evening reception which is being held at a suburb about a further fifteen minutes away. The break is not long enough to make it worthwhile returning home so we will have to link up with other guests and find somewhere to sit, chat and presumably drink.

Friends tell me that attending the wedding will be a good distraction for me and I am sure that will prove correct but at the moment the last thing I feel like doing is getting all dressed up in suit and tie when I have been lazing about in casual wear the past three days following the doctor's instructions to take it completely easy.

On the other hand, the reception is being held at a beachside location and with today's sunny holiday weather the best tonic and distraction may well be the eye candy passing by outside.

The bra boy

OK, I know that I am a mere male, albeit a gay one, and therefore inferior to the female of the species when it comes to shopping but how on earth do women go about purchasing brassieres?

Despite being armed with the most detailed of specifications from the manager of my mother's Nursing Home and taking along a person of female persuasion as my shopping companion and mentor, the project of purchasing new brassieres for my 84 years old mother today was an ordeal of unspeakable torture.

It appears that Department stores carry sufficient brassieres to dress every female on the planet, each brassiere being as varied as each female. But not one of these was a (specific brand name and model) size 16C (Australian measurement) with high bridge and wide band at back that I was instructed to purchase.

None of a platoon of sales assistants who attempted to assist us, in the most desultory fashion, seemed to have any idea of what we were seeking and even less of what stock they held. My specialist female mentor disappointingly appeared as confused and uncertain as the sales staff although I couldn't fault her persistence and endeavour.

I noticed that at each of the four stores we tried, the other female shoppers present also sought hopeful, almost desperate, direction from the assistants. Female shoppers seemed as tortured as I felt.

I have new admiration for those females who purchase underwear for their boyfriend/husband/son. I'm glad that, my mother aside, I am unlikely to be required to perform the reverse service for anyone in my remaining days.

Targetting brassieres and things

I've been a bit lazy with my blogging lately. It is not that I haven't been doing anything but most of what I have been doing has been routinely domestic or otherwise seemingly unworthy of a blog post.

For example yesterday I spent several hours trawling Target, K-Mart and the like looking for women's clothes. How, I hate shopping for women's clothes! I have all sorts of problems with sizes and don't start on the issue of purchasing suitable brassieres and knickers.

Now before you conclude that I am outing myself as a transvestite I should clarify that the laundry at my mother's nursing home may be super industrial but it also chews through clothing in no time at all. So I periodically have to purchase new outer and under garments for my mother to replace those 'murdered' by the laundry.

I have no female relatives other than my mother and an aunt, both of whom have dementia, and so responsibility for purchasing the new items falls to me. It seems to me that the high end Department stores do not cater for women in their eighties so I focus on the discount type outlets.

I can manage the selection of polo tops and even trousers for my mother without too much difficulty but those undergarments give me the willies...so to speak.

I am turning to a good female friend to help me out.

Valentino The Last Emperor

The documentary Valentino The Last Emperor spends a year following the life of fashion designer Valentino Garavani and his long time partner, personally and commercially, Giancarlo Giammetti. It also provides glimpses into their forty five years long association and careers.

I'm not really into the lives of the overly tanned, leather faced individuals bearing out moded aristocratic titles who populate much of this documentary but have to admit they contribute to much of the humour on display.

I would normally have little tolerance for the antics of the highly strung Valentino and the comparatively sensible Giammetti and was surprised that by the documentary's end I had a sense of respect and admiration for the designer, the beauty of whose womenswear designs is evident even to a fashion dullard such as myself.

My bravery award goes to the reporter who asks Joan Collins 'what is the difference between good taste and trash?'

The September Issue

It is common wisdom that 'the devil' in The Devil Wears Prada was modelled on Anna Wintour, Editor-in-Chief of Vogue. The September Issue is a documentary that follows Ms Wintour as she and her team prepare the September 2007 issue. Apparently it is this issue each year which is the magazine's blockbuster and obviously each year it must be the best ever.

I had read that what The September Issue reveals is nothing like what was portrayed in 'Devil' but I'm not so sure. To my mind there were many undercurrents on display in the documentary that feature, albeit in exaggerated form, in 'Devil'.

Pretty well everyone is deferential to Ms Wintour and I was bemused to see so many, including very big names in the fashion and photography fields, reluctant to express any opinion in her presence until hers' was revealed to them. Even her strongest staff member, Grace Coddington, expresses most of her critical opinions out of earshot of the all powerful Ms Wintour although to be fair it is clear from Ms Wintour's closing comments that Ms Coddington is no shrinking violet in her presence.

I found the documentary more interesting than I was expecting and was surprised by how much "cut and paste" work goes into the magazine even in this computerised age. The issue's cover girl, Sienna Miller, must have burning ears from the comments Ms Wintour et al express about her hair, teeth and neck. And then there is Mr Talley (I think that's his name) whose manner and dress are obviously designed to set him apart but are so outlandish as to make him a stereotype.

And one final (bitchy) comment from this gay man who claims no fashion sense or awareness whatsoever. How come Ms Wintour wears what looks like the same necklace almost every day?

The ups and downs of illness

Day three of feeling unwell and I am waiting for the doctor's rooms to open so I can make an appointment to see him.

I slept the last two nights rugged up with the two tops, two bottoms and socks in an attempt to sweat myself back to health. Normally I sleep naked whether it is summer or winter. If a night is particularly cold I might concede to wearing a T-shirt top but I never wear bottoms. I don't like the feeling of my dangly bits getting caught up in the fabric of clothing as I toss and turn during the night. I tend to sleep like a rotisserie.

Despite all that clothing it took a long time to get a sweat up. On the other hand with all the tea I have been drinking I found myself visiting the bathroom regularly through the night. Whilst I wasn't comfortable wearing all that clothing one side benefit from the body heat it generated was that I was dangling more impressively than ever.

So during the nocturnal bathroom visits I took time to admire my unusually low hanging assets in the bathroom mirror. I may not have felt better but I sure looked better.

"Pass me a napkin, please"

"Marine Napkin – The flap on the front of the traditional 13-button US Naval enlisted uniform trousers."

When I was a teenager Australian sailors wore trousers that had a flap in front rather than a fly. To a young gay sexually precocious man these flaps were just too erotic for words. The pants were tight and the flap hugged that interesting part of the sailor's anatomy in the most advantageous of ways.

Standing alongside a sailor in a public lavatory whilst he undid the flap generated a sense of anticipation and arousal in me that makes me sigh even now more than forty years later.

Just a memory that came to mind with the fleet in town.

Security bells, security bells...security all the way

I'm feeling weary this evening.

I stopped by Country Road at Bondi Junction shortly after 9.00 this morning where they were holding the first day of a three days sale offering 30% and then a further 10% off that price on all purchases. The men's wear section was packed with people (mostly women) rifling through the men's clothing. I quickly selected a few T shirts and joined what was a pretty long queue for the cash register so early in the morning. There appeared to be plenty of staff accepting payments but the queue still moved at less than snail's pace.

I joined the queue at a point adjacent to the store's doors and my ears were assailed by the constant screech of the security alarms. I assumed the alarms were being set off by the security tags attached to our intended purchases as we stood in close proximity to the security readers.

But I couldn't work out why the queue was moving so slowly. Then I noticed that the staff were writing out credit card purchases by hand and using that old swipe machine system I haven't seen in years. It seems the computerised link to the Card Authorisers was down.

This was not the only difficulty. More than half the purchasers ahead of me had to return to the registers after their purchases had been completed because rogue tags still attached to some of their purchases were setting the alarms off as they attempted to leave the store. These people were buying so many items that the staff were failing to identify all the tags on their purchases.

To say I was having fun in that queue would be an overstatement. To add to my discomfort, half the women in the queue were pushing prams. These prams were proving unwieldy in the crowds and adding to the general sense of chaos.

I spent closer to half an hour than fifteen minutes in that queue and was glad to be out of the store (without further setting off any alarms) once my purchase was finalised.

Having survived that ordeal I ventured into Borders to look for a couple of books. Thankfully it was much quieter there and I was able to select and pay for two books without the noise and ado I had experienced at Country Road. Even so, whilst waiting for service at Borders I noticed the aftermath of a serious accident right outside the store. A bus had knocked down a woman in the street and she was being treated on the roadway with two ambulances and a hoard of spectators in attendance.

I made a comment about the accident scene to the young man processing my purchase. I had to repeat myself three times because he was wearing headphones (apparently listening to music) and could not hear me. He was totally unaware of the accident until I mentioned it even though it was right alongside where he was positioned.

From Bondi Junction I drove across to Broadway Centre to meet up with Kn for lunch. We tend to have our lunches there or at a small centre across the road during his lunch break from his job at nearby Sydney University.


(Broadway Centre today.)

The crowds were building at Broadway too and we had our lunch across from the centre where three 'hole in the wall' type Asian food outlets are located. We could choose from Vietnamese, Chinese or Thai and today we both selected from the Vietnamese outlet. In truth, the three outlets have similar menus despite their cuisine differences and my selection (Singapore Noodles with Chicken) was available at all three.

I enjoy lunching with Kn. I can be completely open with him about what is happening in my life and my mind. We usually update each other on our respective love lives, a report which rarely requires much time on my part. Kn, in his mid forties, is more active than I am but I was interested to realise that he too now is slowing down.

Quantum of Solace

Daniel Craig, seeking revenge for the death of his lover in Casino Royale, finds himself in a battle to protect the water supply of Bolivia. The murder and mayhem that surrounds him defies any environmental overtones to this scenario as do the early scenes where historic buildings in Italy crumble as he chases a traitor from roof top to roof top.

The pacing of the film is oddly as regular as a metronome. Every few minutes the film breaks out into a pursuit. Craig pursuing others, others pursuing Craig. Despite being bloodied, dusted and lacerated repeatedly, Craig unfailingly maintains his clothes horse dignity and the better class of bystander who obviously inhabits Europe's streets and hotels remains oblivious to this evidence of unpleasantness.

There is a lot more of Judi Dench in this film and that cannot be a bad thing. Dench shows admirable, if curious, restraint as Craig disobeys orders time and again by killing potential witness after potential witness.

There are no gee whiz gadgets for 007 this time, those being replaced by high tech information wizardry instead.

A highly stylised film, especially in its opening credits and location titles, of the type that can age quickly and may well look ridiculous a few years down the track.

A highlight for me is the scene in Austria played out against the background of a fascinating looking production of Puccini's opera, Tosca. I assume there is such a production in reality and I must keep an eye out for it on the Ovation channel.

The very healthy (in numbers, not appearance) older audience at the 10.15am session I attended suggests that this film, although a little off key when compared with Casino Royale, is doing good box office.

Undies Monday

Blogger Breenlantern has decreed that Mondays will be Undies Monday so in accordance with his decree this is a photo of me in mine.

I have a feeling that my participation in this theme starts and finishes today given how awful I look and more significantly that all my undies are the same style white Calvin Klein trunks.

Dressing up

Ae has asked me to partner her to her volunteer organisation's cocktail party at the end of the month. The invitation does not specify a dress code but the mere title 'cocktail party' suggests 'smart casual' at least.

Well, casual is my perennial dress style but few people would describe it as 'smart'. So I am off shopping for a new pair of trousers (and maybe jacket) as well as a dress shirt.

I'm always attracted to the clothing on models such as that in the photograph above. Unsurprisingly, though, the clothes never look like that on me. For one thing, I don't have looks like those models and more tellingly I don't have a body like those models.

It's a sign of my age group that I'll be looking for clothing that as well as being suitable for cocktails will also suit attendance at funerals.