So I tried Dick Francis, but the malaise killed even him. This was the one with the Rupert Murdoch-like robber baron figure; and the Murdochs of the world are certainly not undone by seeing the actual victims of their manipulations suffering on tape. (Break In. I'm still looking for the one where the hero has a gay roommate who teaches him how to put on make-up. Or so I remember it.) Then I started Robertson Davies' ghost stories, but Davies is just so-- (o)rotund and Upper Canada Compact and an ass. Flu affects more than the physical taste buds, evidently.
The cure obviously is to start reading some women. I have a couple of Melissa Scott's SF novels, but... but... they aren't Astreiant, basically. Space ships. Didn't get far with those.
And then it seems there may be a librarian's strike soon, so I went off to a couple of libraries and picked up a lot of Nnedi Okorafor and Nalo Hopkinson. If I'm to be fantodded, let it be in a good cause.
