April 18th, 2020

hasui: winter moon

(no subject)

 Young Master Boswell has just caught a dose of the clap and is sequestered in his rooms, medicating himself with I dare not guess what and reflecting with satisfaction on his genius and his prospects, how he can join the Guards and have his own regiment, or join the bar and become a rich lawyer: that is, when he's not feeling low and fixing to die. I am sequestered at home medicating myself with anti-inflammatories, and in  neither of Boswell's frames of mind exactly. Certainly not the 'what a fine fellow am I' one.

But a little scratchy nonetheless. Partly the continuing nonappearance of Purolator. Partly the acrostics I armed myself with last winter to while away my convalescence, which are doing a bad job of whiling away my sequestration. (The oddity of the clues and their answers. Everywhere = on all hands. Roundabout, going astray = devious. Constantly wanting more = insatiate. No cigar, guys.) And partly my loose end reading of Ellis Peters mysteries.

I know she has her kinks. In every book there must be a pair of young lovers. The he lover may vary but the she lover is a teenager of glowing beauty, utter poise, and fine insight into the nuances of social interaction, the psychology of her boyfriend, and the emotions of absolutely everybody. I do not believe people like that exist, let alone sixteen year olds. But I'm at a loose end and can't be having with doorstoppers just now. Left to my scratchy devices, I might go through the entire Brother Cadfael oeuvre except that I can't be having with reading on the tablet either. Hurts my eyes, hurts my elbows. So one more book and then... well, I have batteries now, so I might go back to Murakami.