--but not this year, apparently. My Gruesome reading continues unabated, a scant ten days after finishing my last fantoddy work. Started Peter Ackroyd's Hawksmoor and was totally todded a mere twenty pages in. (Possibly should postpone until next door comes back from wherever and I hear their comforting footsteps through the wall.) Yes I knew it was Like That because Ackroyd is Like That, and frankly I think London is Like That too. Horrible place (shudders.) But The Fall of the Kings is too complicated for my poor brane (can't keep people straight) and The Years of Rice and Salt is too heavy-- literally: weighs the backpack-- and I need to sit with my poor swollen summer feet up so they can deflate, which means reading through the To Read bookcase. Luckily serendipity brought me the perfect sweetness and light antidote to Ackroyd, not that I expect you to believe it. But a fast reread of Ze 4 and 5 has settled my stomach marvellously.
Which is good, because 6, 7 and 8 are in the mail to me.