Thorin artwork found on Pinterest . . . where My Lady of the Purple Cast oft resides

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Having only one good hand and one that is not your dominant hand somewhat restricts a blogger’s activities. So I am catching up on the documentary on the Roosevelts I’ve been DVRing and perusing Pinterest and the hundreds of boards I follow there. Here is some nice Thorin fanart I found . . . tomorrow I get the treatment at the hair salon & Friday leave with my oldest sister to go down to spend a few days with our other sister at the beach before my birthday next week.AEGILEIF
by Aegilief (look at that smile . . .)

 

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By Sceith

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03ae91784d8ade16acd1b0b5d8fbf798The two pieces above are by one of our favorites, evankart.

 

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By Nadine-Thome

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By Smut-Slut–a twist on Game of Thrones

 

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Unknown artist

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By Hecate in Nightmare

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By Princess Xexhania-Prince Thorin  (yes, I think it looks very similar to evankart, but it isn’t).

I can only call this moving: Richard Armitage’s Twitter conversation, September 12th

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fedoralady:

ICYMI Richard’s tweet Q and A today.

Originally posted on Me + Richard Armitage:

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Tsk, tsk. You just gave yourself away, “A.”

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This comment from “Fiona” showed up in moderation yesterday for my “In Case You’re Curious . . . here’s Miss Capper.”  (Click on link at bottom of post to read post.)

Now I know a troll when I see one, so it was moved to spam.

The reason he has no girlfriend and is never seen with a woman is because he’s gay. I thought everyone knew that by now?

And then today this one appeared from “A.”

I see the gay comment was deleted. You people are delusional if you think he’s into women. He’s in a relationship with Lee Pace. They are seen everywhere together and they’ve stopped hiding it. Good for them!

Also sent to spam.

How many of us think that Fiona and A are one and the same person, the same individual, who, with a few flunkies, has been trolling RA and his fans on Twitter and blogs ad nauseum in recent months?

Did you think I didn’t post your comment  because I was a coward who wouldn’t face “facts?” Nope, it’s because I don’t believe in kowtowing to trolls. I’m a big girl with a big purple cast on my arm and not in mood to play your games.

Who is truly delusional–the fan who loved, admires and accepts the brilliant, beautiful, kind, generous and amazing Richard Armitage no matter what his preferences, sexual or otherwise, may be, or the individual who feels the constant compulsion to troll RA-related sites trying to promote his or her own agenda at all costs . . . hmmmmm.

I know which one I would pick. ;)

Judit’s ‘Crucible’ Odyssey Part Three: First Impressions of RA on Stage, Stage Door

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Our dearest Judit has returned with the third installment of her Crucible journey, having filled us in on getting prepared and picking the gifts for our beloved Mr. A in her earlier posts. Now to her candid impressions of that first performance (out of three attended) and feeling her own nervous jitters! Thank you, darling Judit, I know you’ve been both busy and fighting some health issues of your own. *hugs*

JUNE 27~AT LONG LAST . . .

The big day dawned and I wasn’t feeling well at all. I’d been having some tummy problems in the week leading up to my trip so I was still on a diet, and the fact that I was very nervous didn’t help matters at all.
Thankfully, I arranged to meet two Twitter friends, Armitagina and BatSpeaks who were also attending the play that evening. I met up with the ladies at around 5 p.m., we had a lovely chat at a pub near the Old Vic, and I even managed to eat a bit of pita bread with hummus!
We then had our picture taken by a kind passerby, here it is:
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(Armitagina, Bat Speaks and myself)

Now I normally hate pictures of myself, but this one is an exception! We all look very happy and excited.
This was the first viewing of the play for all three of us, and I hope the girls won’t mind me saying that when we entered the auditorium they were freaking out a bit and I was still somewhat in denial that I was going to see Richard perform live . . .


A Room with (Not Such a Great) View

We weren’t sitting together as we all purchased our tickets separately. The girls were sitting on the side of the stage facing the trap door, and I was sitting in 2nd row on the opposite side. As it turned out, 2nd row seats aren’t the best as they are on the same level as 1st row. Additionally, I had the misfortune of having a rather generously built lady with big and I mean BIG hair sitting right in front of me.

I had a lovely, friendly middle-aged couple sitting to the left (in spite of the Daily Mail reviewer trying to make out as if the audience were made up of 90 percent women – aka fangurls – all there to drool over RA, it wasn’t).

Right before the play started I remembered that I was a „woman on a mission”- I promised to get programmes for quite a number of friends around the world, so I decided I might as well start right then- I bought five programmes from one of the ushers standing by the stage. I felt that I needed to give the guy an explanation for getting so many copies, so I told him they were presents for friends. He just smiled and said „You’re going to have to read ALL of them!”

I returned to my seat trying to hold the programmes in such a way that nobody would notice I had so many, as I was afraid people might think I’m a lunatic. ;)

It was only the sixth performance in the run and back then the stage was set with a chair for each character and a pair of boots were placed in front of every character’s chair. Needless to say I instantly spotted which pair of boots belonged to Proctor. His chair was right in the middle of the round stage.

When the actors slowly walked in, I had the strangest of reactions–I almost didn’t dare to look up at Proctor/Richard! I thought if I did, my eyes were going to be glued only to him. Instead I just timidly glanced up at him every now and then. I remember feeling extremely anxious for him, in the silliest of ways–what if he forgets his lines, what if he falls over when he’s putting his boots on, and so forth.

I quite liked this „silent introduction” –the cast slowly walking to their chairs and putting their boots on. To paraphrase a friend on Twitter, it was as if by walking in barefoot and then putting on their shoes on stage, they sort of „stepped into character.” It was a lovely way to set the atmosphere. However, there had already been a lot of complaints from audience members about the running time of the play by then, so I can understand why this introduction was cut.

Too Tense to Take it All In?

I learned from my tennis fan days (oh those blessed late 90s!) that when you are watching a match featuring a player that you’re too emotionally invested in, you kind of lose your „spectator” status. You become too involved, which makes it almost impossible to stay impartial. You can’t just sit back and enjoy the performance. Something similar happened to me during that first viewing of The Crucible. I was holding onto my little backpack for dear life all the way through the first part, and didn’t even realize I was doing it until it was over!

Maybe it had to something to do with my overly tense and anxious state, or the restricted view from my seat, but I wasn’t really sure whether or not I really liked Richard’s performance in his first few scenes. I felt as if he was still somehow searching for the character’s „identity”. I saw an amalgamation of mainly Thorin, Thornton and even Guy but I didn’t feel like I really „met” Proctor until his first scene with Elizabeth.
Now He’s Got IT!

He was about to finish washing himself (by the way, all I could see was his back…) When his wife walked in and then he said his first line („I were planting far out to the forest edge” ) very quietly, and he sounded so…natural. He really did sound like a bone-weary, tired man talking to his wife. Up to that point I felt he was a bit „declamatory”,a bit too forceful, putting unnecessary stress/emphasis on too many words. But at that moment, I thought „That’s IT! Finally. There is Proctor.” From that point onwards, his performance was getting better and better.

I have two overwhelming memories from that first night: funnily enough, the first is the smell of Elizabeth’s „rabbit” stew lingering in the air all the way through the second part of the play. I loved the fact that they actually had real food on stage–-it added a touch of realism. I didn’t know at the time that all the confessions, warrants and so forth are properly written too–had I known, I might have tried to grab a piece of one of those!
Second, I remember a feeling of deep frustration as a result of sitting on the „less favoured” side of the stage. I haven’t seen a play in this kind of setting before and it certainly has many advantages as people have pointed out. However, there are some definite drawbacks to this configuration as well.

I had the impression that the side facing the trap door was heavily favoured which meant that in the majority of the key scenes Richard had his back to me, and I was almost screaming internally „ I want to see his FAAACE!!” When I met Armitagina and BatSpeaks during the interval they were full to the brim with enthusiasm about the performance and I wished I could have shared that feeling but instead I was thinking, „Yeah, it’s all great but NOW I WANT TO SEE THE OTHER HALF of the story!!!”

Learning as a Stage Door Newbie

Stage door that night: as a SD „newbie” I wasn’t aware of the side exit that offers you a sort of short-cut to the stage door, so I left the building through the main exit. That meant that by the time I reached the queue, it was already quite long. Luckily my two companions had secured a spot in the front of the queue so I was able to join them.

Sadly, BatSpeaks had to leave early due to a prior engagement, so only Armitagina and I remained. Eventually, Richard came out and I had yet another inexplicable reaction–I was overcome with shyness and so I couldn’t make myself look at him properly. I sort of stole half-glances in his direction again. He signed Armitagina’s copy of The Crucible (said, „Oh you have the book, well done!”).

I gave him the letter from one of my Italian twitter friends and fellow RA fan, explaining that a friend of mine asked me to hand this to him. He seemed really pleased and even surprised by it (as in, “Someone has written me a letter??” And „Wow, this one here didn’t want me to sign anything!”), thanked me profusely and put the letter in a gift bag that the darling security guy was holding for him. Then he proceeded to put his arm around us for a photo (one of the ladies behind us in the queue was kind enough to offer to take a picture)–but it didn’t come out, unfortunately. :(

All the way through this short encounter I felt that Richard was present in body, but not in spirit. He was perfectly friendly and his soulful, kind, warm voice melted my insides, but I still felt as he was miles away. Also, I was surprised by how small he seemed at SD compared to how huge he looked on that relatively small stage in Act One. However, Proctor completely „shrinks” as if his legs are about to buckle under the weight they have to carry, his shoulders becoming hunched towards the end of the play. RA still had this „broken man” posture going on at the stage door.

While I felt he was moving on autopilot, he really did take his time with everybody at the stage door that evening. For starters, he was staying put in one spot under the yellow SD light and people in the queue were coming up to him as opposed to him racing down the line. I suppose he was still working out his „Stage dooring” method at the time!

To be continued . . . two more performances to enjoy!

And I shall be an old(ish) woman and wear (a) purple (cast) . . .

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So I went to the humane society meeting today and then to get the results of my MRI. And guess what? I got myself this purty purple cast. Just screams “Par-tay,” doesn’t it?

But wait, there’s more! Things were slightly chaotic at the clinic this afternoon–they were down one nurse, and the sink in the cast room suddenly erupted into a geyser–so there seems to have been a miscommunication before the nurse brought all the supplies to my room to fix me up. My wrist cast is going to turn into an over-the-elbow cast tomorrow (and possibly be completely redone to put everything in a different position).

Needless to say, my MRI showed issues–lots of inflammation in my wrist and hand, with torn ligaments causing said swelling. Thus the need for the cast (to wear a month). After that. I will likely need an injection in my wrist, and if this doesn’t do the trick, there’s arthroscopy in my future.

I am oddly OK with all this. I have been experiencing burning, stabbing pain and swelling for three to four months, limiting types and duration of activities; it’s about dang time to actually treat the problem.

And maybe I am still happy knowing that later this year I should have the chance to actually see “The Crucible”–I haven’t mentioned that yet here, but yes, very happy and excited to know the rest of us have a chance to experience RA’s great performance. I know it’s not going to be the same as being there live, but listen, I will take what I can get!

Once I get that longer cast on, not sure how much posting I will be able to do, so doing as much as I can tonight. Stay well, be happy and if you get stuck with the first cast of your life–make it colorful! ;)

Holy cow. Thank you, Ms. Dunn.

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Amazing how one image can change your mood. Not that mine was bad on Blue Monday. My infected ear is improving.  Wednesday I get the results from the wrist MRI. I’ve had happy Mommy/Kitty bonding time with Scarlett. And it appears I will get to participate in Girls’ Time at the Beach with my sisters later this month.

And then on top of all that–THIS. Courtesy of Sarah Dunn Photography. 17b0395af3cd9ef41af0fb396993a2f5

I mean. The boyish nape curls. The manly stubble. The crinkles. The GRIN with the flash of those perfect white teeth.  That devilish sidelong glance. The very snug-fitting clothing. Don’t know how comfortable you were in that shirt and slacks, Mr. A, but may I say, all your masculine curves were–uhm–showcased in a most attractive way. Oh, and the hands.  Even some thumb action for Servetus.

 

I still can’t hear too well out of my left ear, but oh, how grateful I am my eyes are working reasonably well these days . . . yowsa.

Dodgy ear, Doctor Who and–Robin Hood? (Where’s Sir GUY??)

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Ever had an outer ear infection, also known as swimmer’s ear?

If not, count your blessings.  Boys and girls, it ain’t no fun.

Thank goodness for the Saturday morning clinic hours in town. After two miserable nights and a never-ending day, I was actually looking forward to another medical appointment. Considering I’ve seen four different doctors in two cities plus all the dratted tests and bloody co-pays that accompany them over the last few weeks, I was obviously desperate.

I got to see a doc, who took one good look inside my swollen left ear with the otoscope and prescribed some antibiotic drops. The doctor appeared to be all of 14, but I was charmed by his lilting accent (Caribbean, I think) and lovely manners. And the drops have already given me a little relief. Hooray!

Because the pain and swelling extend down into my jaw and teeth,  eating isn’t easy. Banana for breakfast, cheese puffs (cheese-flavored air) for lunch, and grits and soft scrambled eggs for supper, courtesy of my lovely husband.  He really IS lovely, with his tousled curls (in need of a haircut again) and those kind blue eyes. I am a sucker for a tall man with kind eyes, a deep voice and a great head of hair.

I’ve slept a little, off and on, perused Pinterest (so many intriguing images and helpful hints, and it doesn’t overtax my addled brain) and now I am watching Doctor Who, with Clara and the Doctor in–well, what do you know?–Sherwood Forest!

It’s all quite good fun. Love it when the Doctor ends up in a highly competitive archery contest with Robin and finally (“Oh, this is getting SILLY!”) blasts the target with his sonic screwdriver and blows it to Kingdom Come.  And later DW says, “Oh SHUT it, Hoodie.” How many times did I not want to tell the one in the BBC 2006 version to do the same . . . *evil little laugh*

If only this chap would make an appearance. *sigh*

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Yes, Sir Guy, you certainly DO. (Would love to see RA make a guest appearance on Doctor Who . . . if I can’t have him as the Doctor himself, of course.)

The year of the empty box. [comments closed]

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When I was in elementary school, we would prepare a shoe box each February as a repository for valentines from our classmates. The year I was in the fourth grade, I thought I had the most beautiful box in the classroom. Mama had given me a piece of leftover red velvet from a Christmas dress. I used it to wrap the box itself; the lid I covered in tin foil which I embossed with hearts and flower designs. It made me smile just to think of it.

I took it to school the day of our party, proud of my lovely crimson and silver box, filled with valentines I had laboriously addressed to all my classmates. We were given time to distribute the little white envelopes into everyone’s valentine boxes. Now it was time to enjoy refreshments and sift through the greetings.

Lifting the gleaming lid of my box, I blinked. I felt the color drain from my already pale face.

It was empty. I hadn’t received a single solitary valentine. As my classmates chattered and laughed and “oohed” and “aahed” over their stashes, I sat wordless, wishing I could simply sink down and be swallowed up by the classroom floor.  I felt–invisible.

When I got home, I shoved the box into the back of the closet. What had brought me such pleasure earlier now caused only pain. It made me cry just to think about it.

As truly, genuinely happy as I am for those in our fandom who have seen/will see Richard perform live on stage this summer, it’s also been hard. I keep feeling like the girl who got left out, left behind, forgotten.

I am not saying what I feel is right, logical or reasonable, or that it’s the way anyone else feels–it’s just the way it is for me.

That box is once again empty, and it turns out that still hurts, even after more than 40 years.

A troll by any other name . . . or, why do YOU care enough to comment?

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A comment I found in moderation tonight from a long-ago birthday post for RA.  Posted by a “Jane”  . . . no matter what name these trolls go by, it remains the same old mean-spirited, sophomoric attack on what was meant to be a respectful, sincere post about Margaret Armitage and her son on the occasion of his birthday:

“OMG!. You have serious problems if you actually have the time or inclination to write such a letter about two people you never met. Do you think either of them care what you think? Do you not realise that the legion of bored housewives are actually hurting his career hence his failure in hollywood.
It is totally inappropiate for any group of women to make comments about an actor and his relationship with his mother.
It is weird and creepy – GET A LIFE!!!
PS. Richard is not middle aged at 44.”

 Hmmmm . . . maybe Troll Jane needs to “get a life!!!” and stop bullying others online.  Unhappy, bitter souls often want to take others down with them.

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Awww, come on, Richard. We KNOW Thorin has his cuddly side.

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d01dfb5d93127e811f6a3184bf6d85d7A tweet posted by Mr. A of the “Plush Thorin” doll. In spite of RA’s words to the contrary, I can attest that Plush Thorin is, in fact, quite cuddly and absolutely adorable. And yes, he’s pretty fierce with those angry blue eyes! Just can’t resist that intensity. *sigh* Sure, he can kick ass. But there’s that vulnerable side you just want to *cough* take to your bosom.

Both I and my late, great three-legged tuxedo cat, Thumper, found Plush Thorin to be, like the ChaRActer he is modeled after, completely irresistible.  Just take a gander . . . a couple of pix from 2012.

 

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Hey, Richard, there’s nothing in the rule book that says you can’t kick ass and be cuddly. Just sayin’ . . . ;)

Where is Doctor Who when you need him? And in an RA-shaped form.

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The oddest mixture of melancholy, sentimentality and grief laced with a touch of whimsy has overwhelmed me the last few days. I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents, wishing I could see them, hug them, just sit and talk with them again.  If only there were such a thing as time travel . . . and a madman in a blue box (yes, I’m a bit of a Whovian).

 

My dad’s birthday arrives on Monday; he’d be  94. Twenty-four days later my own birthday will make an appearance; I will be 54.   I miss my dad (“Hello, Peanut . . .”); miss ruffling his salt-and-pepper laced hair (“Hey, now, you’ll mess up my curls!”), miss kissing those rather slavic cheekbones, his skin surprisingly soft and smooth after 80-odd years on earth.

After telling Daddy a joke, I miss hearing him say with an affectionate gleam in his blue-grey eyes: “I enjoy you.”

 

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I’ve been dreaming of my mother, alive and well again and roughly the same age I am now, while I, in those dreams, am about 2o years younger–in my early 30s. The age correlation is all wrong for the time-space continuum, but I suspect it has to do with my mourning my old life, the one I left behind when I developed FMS/CFS.  Thirty-three was, you might say, my last “good year.” The year before the chronic pain, insomnia, fatigue and general feeling my life was going to hell in the proverbial handbasket, settled in.

One recent afternoon while napping, I dreamed I was climbing a rope with footholds tied to it along its length, footholds made from small, colorful infinity scarves. My mother was on the ground cheering me on as enthusiastically as only a stalwart Tide fan at a U of A football game can do. I was so, so close to the top. Victory was within my grasp and I yelled exultantly, “I’m almost there, I’ve done it, I’ve–“

I woke up in the floor next to my bed, my wrist hurting where I’d fallen on it. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.  Or, in this case, de wrist. ;) Remember Daddy’s motto, a little laughter in life.

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I feel not unlike an older house these days.

You know, one might say I have “character”and a certain charm you won’t necessarily find in a brand spanking new model in some cookie cutter subdivision. On the other hand, I have a number of things needing repair or replacement. I need tweaks and lots of updates.  I guess you could call me a fixer-upper.

Actually, looking at my insurance co-pays steadily piling up, maybe I am more of a money pit.  And judging from the likelihood surgical intervention will be required, the pit is beginning to feel like the Black Hole of Calcutta.

 

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The back door of the old farmhouse. Loads of character. Could use some sprucing up, just like its co-owner.

All photos above taken by yours truly.

 

I need to work as much as possible over the next months, yet, as I type these words, the %$#@# pain is stabbing me in the left wrist even with the brace in place.  If torn ligaments are surgically repaired, I will be out of commission for several weeks.

Right now, I really wish Doctor Who would show up. And no offense to Peter Capaldi as the new DW; I quite like the actor’s spin on the legendary character, but I’d really love for DW to arrive in the form of Richard Armitage. I wish DW would give me a disarming and slightly mysterious smile, hold out his hand and invite me on a adventure.

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I found these at bing.com, not sure who deserves the credit. If you know, please give a shout-out. Apparently there are other RA/DW fans out there with similar fantasies . . .

I’d go back in time, and meet the Butler County farm boy who shot marbles and snuck off to smoke woodbine cigarettes in the pines, an awkward young knight who stood up for the shy girl being bullied on the school bus. I’d see the preacher’s daughter who skated on frozen ponds during the cold winters in east central Tennessee, silky dark hair tousled in the wind, cheeks rosy and blue eyes shining . . .

And afterwards, Doctor Who and the TARDIS could take me around the world to meet all of you. Imagine that. What fun we could have!

And maybe I’d see if the good Doctor would zap my wrist with his Sonic Screwdriver. Couldn’t hurt!

I have to keep hold of my little dreams and fantasies.

“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die,
Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly
Hold fast to dreams, for when dreams go,
Life is a barren field
Frozen in snow . . .”

Langston Hughes

Some antebellum beauty. And a handsome gent to go with it.

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Y’all know I am the General Flunky for the video production business co-owned by Benny and Harry. I also do some freelance work for my old employer, a community newspaper that will celebrate its 150th birthday next year. I am not getting rich at either job, but I certainly enjoy what I get to do and the creative outlet it provides.

Today, after spending a tiring morning sitting in various parts of the local hospital’s clinic trying to sort out the Never-Ending Story of my Rotten Wrist (I don’t even want to go there right now), I was ready for some peace and natural beauty. So I was happy to take a trip with a local realtor, our publisher and ad manager/photographer to a historic house located in what happens to be the state’s smallest incorporated town (population 27 or thereabouts).  I went to soak up the ambience of this Greek Revival raised cottage (built circa 1840-46) and take notes in order to provide the written “color commentary” for a magazine piece in the paper’s quarterly publication.

 

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But I also took my trusty Olympus along to snap a few photos of my own.

There’s nothing terribly artsy here; I was shooting on auto with a regular lens and big flash to help me remember what I saw as I ambled around the 5,200 square feet of house spread over two stories (like the Tardis on “Doctor Who,” it’s bigger than it looks on the outside).

 

The home has soaring 14-foot ceilings and multiple mantle pieces ranging from the rustic to the ornate. Much of the original glass with its wavy charms is still intact, including a pane with the builder’s bride’s name etched in it with the diamond of her engagement ring.  There are polished hardwood floors throughout, wonderful broad doors with old-fashioned keys, and plenty of the character generally lacking in a contemporary “cookie cutter” house.

 

Magnolia Hall is also furnished with a plethora of antiques and collectibles that reflect its history and heritage and the owner’s love of period furniture. While I am not a particular fan of Victorian furnishings (could this be due to my youthful self having trouble staying put on the slippery horsehair of my music teacher’s settee?), I do love the “bones” of this house. I can’t help wondering, if those walls could talk, just what they would have to tell us, you know?

And I thought you might enjoy seeing some of the images I snapped and glimpse a bit of southern American history . . . although I could also imagine a certain handsome English mill owner in a cravat, sipping tea in the parlor–couldn’t you?  ;)

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Care to join me in my purple bedchamber, Mr. Thornton?     *bats eyelashes*
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RA in black & white (with a smidgen of color) & more. Collages & Photo Edits.

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Just seeing that scan of the RA-as-Byronic-young-actor photo from LAMDA the school tweeted today reminded me (1) how much I love looking at images of Richard from throughout his career and (2) how much I love RA in classic black and white. So I did some editing and some plundering of my stash of old edits.

Of course, being me, I also had to play with that lovely black and white image of our handsome floppy-haired Richard and tweak it a bit. I simply could not resist. Call it theRApy of sorts.

And speaking of therapy, tomorrow I see the local orthopedic surgeon and have him take a look at me, my MRI and my EMG results to see what he recommends re the wrist.  In the afternoon I am traveling with the newspaper publisher to a neighboring county to tour one of their historic old homes and surrounding property. She’s shooting the photos and I will take notes to write the copy for the upcoming edition of the Camellia Magazine. I LOVE old homes, so although I know I will be tired afterwards, I am very much looking forward to it (and getting paid to write it).

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Oh, Richard. Thank you, LAMDA.

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We’ve seen this image before of RA, performing in a play during his days at the London Academy of Dramatic Arts. A fan snapped a pic of young Armitage that was displayed there at the school and kindly shared it with fellow fans. Even with the glare across the surface of the photo partially obscuring the image, the masculine beauty of young Armitage was breathtaking.

Today LAMDA itself tweeted the image.

*sigh*

I feel as if a young Sir Guy got his leathers dirty, gloves and all, and had to slip into a bathrobe while the minions cleaned them.

*double sigh*

On a morning where sleep eluded me again, I can only gaze upon this image and say, “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy . . .”

Thank you, LAMDA.

In spite of disappointment, illness and ill luck, a little laughter in life.

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Unfortunately, due to what has only thus far been described as “unforeseen circumstances,” Richard and his fellow actors weren’t able to perform “The Crucible” Monday night. I really feel for those who missed the performance; some may get another opportunity while others will not. It’s been raining heavily all day in Londontown, which can only have added to a certain feeling of gloom and doom over those who missed their opportunity to see RA perform on stage in this much-heralded production.  Of course, our Richard, class act that he is, popped over to apologize to fans and make their day a lot brighter than it otherwise would have been. When I say “bless RA’s heart,” it’s meant in a completely sincere, non-catty way by this southern girl.

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If it had been me who received such disappointing news, I’d have been shattered. Might have felt like throwing a right ol’ hissy fit, or just curling up in a corner and bawling my eyes out. I guess it brought back memories of a heartbreak I suffered a few summers ago, and I found myself shedding tears tonight for those who had their plans for the evening dashed.

There are friends and acquaintances out there right now around the world who are suffering pain and losses of various kinds, some who are struggling.  I wish I could do more materially for those for whom I care who are in need, whether it’s homeless animals half-starved and dependent on the kindness of strangers after abandonment, or my fellow humans who could truly use a lift.

My dad had a motto: “A little laughter in life.” His own life certainly wasn’t always easy, happy or carefree.  He had bouts of melancholy that sometimes deepened into depression. Still, he loved a good joke, a funny story. Finding laughter helped him through toughest times. As his only biological child, I’ve tried to embrace that motto, too. And I love being around people who know the value, the saving grace, one can find in laughter.

That’s one of the reasons I am so attracted to and intrigued by Richard Armitage.  Compassion, benevolence, a great, lively sense of humor that refrains from mean spiritedness, all the while embracing some much-needed silliness when needed.  I love hearing and seeing him laugh, those full-bodied, from-the-heart guffaws and rather silly giggles, so appealing and endearing.

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Here’s hoping the problems at the Old Vic are sorted out, the weather improves, and Proctor and Company can trod the boards once more.  In the meantime . . .
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