OTOH while May was all mauve and white/ lilacs and lily of the valley perfumes, June is all mock orange (for the three days before it goes off) and jasmine sweetness, with occasional boosts from the petunias. The jasmine twines about a hydro pole down the street and probably does the concrete no good, but oh is it a gorgeous breath of elsewhere as I pedal by it.
The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School was very satisfying hot weather reading except for the names, the names, dear god the names! Why is there no helpful dramatis personae at the front? Because it's at the back, more or less ie there's a list of all the girls in all the houses. But one can annotate the list with 'the fishy one', 'the fire bender', 'the pugilist', and so on. And probably should, because it really is a cast of hundreds, many of whom are only named, not individuated.
But as with all Kim Newmans, the pleasure is only in the reading. Afterwards I'm always troubled by an unplaceable sense of monotarinai- not quite *enough*, something missing someplace- though I never know what it is.
Since this is turning into The Month of White Male Writers, I suppose I should finally read Last First Snow: except I need a little brain to read Gladstone, especially when it's Temoc, and currently I have no brain. (See- heat wave.) Maybe come Wednesday's returned coolness. If it happens.