December 31st, 2015

hiroshige: foxfires on musashino

In the deep midwinter

Was going out to lunch with my one remaining university friend, but it was a cold dank achy day and her pain meds weren't working, requiring a double dose that ruled out driving, so we rain-chequed it to Saturday, and instead I went off and bought a metropass from a machine. Machine was not intuitive, so the fact I succeeded was a gain. Even with senior discount the pass won't pay for itself, but the blessed relief of being able to use the centre doors to enter the packed 6 o'clock streetcar is worth every penny. And no more fussing with paper transfers in winter pockets, stuffed in with keys an gloves. My coat is a reasonable coat but its pockets are much too shallow. It's a men's coat too- where do they think guys keep their wallets?

Thought 'Great, now I can get to that sale at the shoe store' and realized that no, actually, it's still December and I can't use the pass yet. Decided to have lunch at my local, but the local was closed. All my locals are closed. Happy for other people's holidays, but Second Cup isn't quite the same. For one thing, their hot sandwiches aren't.

I won't repeat the refrain about how ghastly the last year was and could next year puhleese be better. After a certain age the ghastlies are inevitable and one copes. I have books telling me how this is done. It involves undoing the habitual thinking of at least sixty years. Oddly enough, this is actually possible.

So, undoing the Eeyore thoughts of over sixty years, I shall wish you all a happy new year and believe it will actually happen.
foxfire foxes

The Somnambulist

I see that Jonathan Barnes writes Dr Who. I must then conclude that the echoes of Aaronovitch- particularly Peter's out of body experiences in the earliest times of London- which I find in The Somnambulist probably work the other way around, even if Aaronovitch never cited him as a source.

I also have the feeling that I've read this book before in some other book, but couldn't say which of many steampunk novels it might have been. All of them, maybe, possibly even starting with The Man Who Was Thursday. One aspect of never remembering a plot once I've finished a book is that the book only exists while I'm reading it; after that nothing's left of it but a memory of the smell of smoke and a presumption that once my eyes watered, as it were. So many similar elements: night, fog, detectives, inspectors, detective inspectors, hypnotists, grotesques, prostitutes, secret societies, and the occasional automaton. The Somnambulist lacks only the automata. It does not, for that matter, say why the Somnambulist is called the Somnambulist, since he never sleep-walks at all.