A vague malaise has been dragging at me all week, characterized only by tiredness and long sleeps. The gargling razorblades sensation in the throat might only be dryness: running the humidifier helped greatly last night. The aches in the shoulders might be bad sleeping posture or hefting lumpenkinder; two acupuncture sessions has helped greatly with those. The wanhope and blahs is characteristic of December in these latter days; the last time I was happy in December was 2003, nearly a decade ago.
The sum of this, though, is that I had to give away half a shift today, which is a good chunk of money. And *that* hurts.
Our protagonist has been a top-flight engineer (by the sound of it) for several decades now. Suddenly he discovers he's part Fae-- or Faere, as they call it. Which is either the Faere Folk, if you follow the rules of English phonics, or Fae-ree if you don't, and why should you? English itself certainly doesn't. And being Fae, proximity to iron makes him nauseated, and touching it gives him third degree burns. Naturally. So how did he manage to drive a car up to now?
It's this lack of attention to details that irks me; that and the repetition of questions that have just been answered or information that has just been given, which makes the characters come off as terminally dense. Editors, guys, editors: not a luxury, a necessity.