Neverwhere in fact is not slyboots Gaiman (which is Stardust and Dream Hunters and I strongly suspect an excerpt of The Graveyard Book I read in his blog.) In fact it's perfectly serviceable prose. It's just a bit thin on its own, rather requiring the live actors to give flesh to the thing; which may be what happens when you write after the live action event and assume everyone knows what these people look and sound like. But I'm grateful it exists, thus sparing me the need to watch crucifixions, disembowelments, and subway trains full of the rotting dead. (Do not like the rotting dead. Don't even much like the desiccated dead, which was a real crimp in my teenaged desire to be an Egyptologist. Explains why I also Do Not Get the zombie thing. Or the horror thing, the splatter thing, the action thing, the thriller thing, the... You get the idea. A film about a bunch of academics cooking dinner and talking about life, that's my speed.)
Cleaning behind the stove is the mankiest job in the house and I regularly leave it for years at a time and then get around to it somewhere in the last week in June, traditionally the hottest week of the summer. This year I did it in March, not without procrastination, but I did it. Goof-off is God's gift to the messy. (It's not just the floor behind the stove-- it's the side of the stove and side of the cabinets that abut each other with juuust enough space between for things to spill, fall, splash, etc.) Discovered as well that the stovetop comes off in its entirety, and thus had a stab at removing two decades' detritus therefrom. With some help from the Net, I also solved the problem of the drooping pilot light, so now all my burners work. Go me.
Of course now I have to clean the kitchen floor, but shall wait until the thick coating of hand cream on my bleached and steel-wooled hands has a chance to undo some of the ravages.