There was a beetle crawling around on the study shoji this morning. Lord knows where it came from and how it survived; I expect it was on its last legs and is gone now. There was also half a rainbow behind the buildings on Spadina as I came back from acupuncture. Vortex or no, Chinatown's sidewalks are still greasy and slippery, not at all like the squeaky packed snow off the main drags.
Path of least resistancing, we have three Brusts- Vallista, Jhereg, and Yendi- and two of MC Beaton's Hamish Macbeths. The last looked like a fast mystery series to fall into, and yes they're fast but oh so irritating. The random two I read both had piles of bodies (in this tiny Scottish hamlet of a few thousand souls), sociopathic murderers, and muddled romance plots. If you like that formula, fine, and clearly people do, but it's not for me.
Theoretically, The Miniaturist. In practice, Taltos. Doubtless followed by Dragon. And then everything falls apart in Teckla, so (really, I can stop any time) I shall stop there for the nonce to fix the early, happy, 'fun times with Morrolan and Aliera' books in my head.
Vlad may be an example of the voice denominated 'first person asshole', but he's not that much of an asshole- full of himself, glib, wise-cracking, always right. I can bear him quite well, in fact.
Not sure how far I'll get with The time traveler's guide to medieval England, which at a glance seems unlikely to tell me anything about the 14th century that Tuchman didn't.