2. My rain gaiters are the latest in the Vanished Objects dep't, unless they're at work in some unexpected place. But I suspect I left them in my pannier justincase, and someone took them from same.
3. One of my two under the kitchen cabinet fluorescents died. Took it to the oyaji at Weiner's who tells me it's a gro-light and they don't have them. Oh well, let's get a proper daylight fluorescent then. Put it in and shrink from THE LIGHT THE LIGHT IT BURNS MY PRECIOUSSS... The other tube gives a soft greyish-white light; a daylight bulb, yes, but Sylvania. This harsh atom-bomb glare is Phillips. The gro-light was a cheery soft pink and I miss it. But the Phillips does show where the dirt is, certainly.
4. Went out to do some fast gardening. Keep telling myself to put on garden shoes, not just traipse out in my Birks. Never do. Will from now on. Long grass hid some critter's poo and it got into the cracks of the Birkenstock's sole. Maybe they'll be dry by tomorrow but don't bet on it.
Sale books from the library:
Elly Griffiths, A Room Full of Bones. No.4 in a series about a forensic anthropologist and her complicated life, so I happily enter in medias res (and not 'in media res' as someone who never studied Latin had it.) I'm a little 'enh' at the idea of a modern day English Druid carrying on an Australian Aboriginal ceremony, even with- or perhaps especially with- an Aboriginal scholar present. Otherwise intriguing in its suggestion of supernatural events that may have a perfectly natural explanation. Which Gothic writer did that all the time? Radcliffe? giving you ghostly visitants and all the trappings and then relentlessly providing deflating natural explanations for every one of them.
Fred Vargas, The Chalk Circle Man. Vargas is French and a she, and her policemen do not behave like any police I've ever met. They get a lot more casual sex, for one thing. Feeling horny? Just call up the woman who lives downstairs. She'll be happy to oblige. Yappari the French are different. This too is a series or at least a bunch of books about the same character and I shall resist reading more of them.
A Deborah Crombie mystery because I only have brains enough for mysteries and I liked All Shall Be Well. Am not liking Necessary as Blood because err well. I want an English mystery and Crombie is a Texan. And everyone so far has a complicated life,which might not be so complicated if I'd read all the books between.
There is (ahem) another Griffiths on its way from the library as well as an Agatha Christie mystery it seems I never read.