I'm supposed to be writing a review of My Fair Lady, as envisioned by Opera Australia and spectatified by me last Tuesday night; My Fair Lady, the one about Hispanic precipitation patterns, lots o' glottal-stopping choklit, and the misogynist linguist with the unexamined belief that lah-dee-dah English is objectively more euphonious than Cockney. I was supposed to write this review on Wednesday, then Thursday, then Friday, but things kept coming up. Emails to answer, seminar papers on androcentric food-guilt in modern Indian literature to audit, tradespersons of great skill and few words to usher through one's baronetcy and instruct in the wicked ways of the rotten window sashes. But tonight, so committed am I to writing this review, I have capitulated to early-onset Winter and lugged down the electric heater even though it's still only the 24th May and I made a public pledge somewhere to leave the heater on top of my wardrobe til the 1st June, I've resigned myself to not watching the Eurovision Song Contest, and I'm - as you can see - all - ready - to - write - my - review. Now here's a thought: is "Lots of chocolate for me to eat/ Lots of coal making lots of heat" the Eliza Doolittle redaction of £500 and a Room of One's Own?
While you're pondering the marriage of Virginia Woolf to Lerner and Loewe, two more questions for your nimble minds:
1. Is the word "parrot" related to the word "parody"?
2. Fancy a dining setting? Genuine leather-look olive-green vinyl upholstery!
Note: I am not procrastinating. Not I.