So, two episodes in to the BBC's new sci-fi drama, Outcasts, and I'm still wondering what the hell is going on. There's a colony on another planet, because something has gone dreadfully wrong on Earth. There's a shipload of new colonists on the way, and I already don't care about the ones I've met, so I have a hard time giving a damn when the ship crashes and most of the new arrivals are killed. There are clones living in the desert, having been used for experimentation because of an infection that swept the colony when they first arrived. The head of security (Hermione Norris on autopilot) seems to be making a play for 'sympathetic estranged mother', 'cold, hard head of security' and 'colony nymphomaniac', sleeping with a guy she'd only cleared of murder minutes earlier. The colony's President does a nice line in speeches, but otherwise doesn't do a great deal other than suddenly act unreasonable for no discernible reason (must be a very frustrating role for Liam Cunningham). One of the 'stars' of the show got killed off by a clumsy and seemingly unnecessary plot device at the end of the first episode, and a new 'star' joined the cast in the second episode, immediately appearing to be some kind of stereotypically dodgy religious nut.
I have to admit, part of me is waiting for it to turn into Dead Space, or for some Shrike-style monster to turn up on the planet... but then I remember this is the BBC. They don't 'do' sci-fi because they don't 'get' sci-fi. It's going to be EastEnders in space, with lots of funky acronyms to make things sound sinister or futuristic. Probably the daftest thing about it is that virtually everyone is English... how unbelievable is it that, however far in the future, the few surviving members of the human race, living on a distant planet, will be English? American, almost certainly. Chinese would be a good bet. European, tending towards those from former Soviet Union states are in with a chance also. English, though? Come off it. And to have a chirpy Irishman in there as well?
Since I woke up at a reasonable hour this morning (actually first woke up at about ten past six, to the sound of a guttering candle) I decided to get my hair cut. It's been getting warmer but, being February, one can't be sure it'll stay that way... Still, it had to be done. My hair has been getting very awkward lately.
There's a really nice place, just down the road from my flat, which had a refurb the day after I last got my hair cut, so it was interesting to pop back in and get a feel for the new look. They've toned down the overhead lighting, so it doesn't give the impression that my hair is thinning more than it actually is, and looks nice and consistent - all the mirrors and cabinets are identical. The atmosphere is what keeps me going back there, despite the higher cost (£16.50 to take my unruly mop back to 'short and low maintenance', without washing and without any gel/wax/whatever at the end) because it really is nice and friendly there. They offer you tea or coffee, and take your coat the moment you walk in. They're incredibly polite. They'll chat to you as they chop... but not so much that you feel they can't possibly be paying attention to your hair.
I've had a different person taming my mane every time I've been, and today's was brilliant. When I said that I get a mixture of reactions whenever I get my hair cut, from "you look younger" to "you look older", she reckoned it doesn't affect my apparent age, but shorter hair definitely looks "better". She also agreed that the lighting is far less harsh now - the spotlights they had were not reinstalled. Once she'd finished the initial buzz-cut, taking the back and sides right down, she suggested that I could get away with not much more than that... I admitted that I'd been thinking much the same, but had changed my mind and gone back to the original 'short and low maintenance' plan because, upon reflection, it looked a bit too much like Hitler - all it needed was an accident when shaving. Laughing so much she nearly had to stop working, she agreed, but admitted that she hadn't thought of that, and that she'd have been required to take a photo if I'd had the moustache.
That is the sort of thing that makes a good hairdresser...
After a brief spell of shopping, I returned home to find my mortgage statement - great news, because that will serve as 'proof of address' for getting myself signed up at the library. Not much else to report so far... But should be heading out to see Tangled later...
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