My new puncture-proof tire had a punctute this morning. Slow leak from the detritus of winter and construction- nail, stone, piece of glass, I didn't ask. Mild nuisance, anyway.
One should let Ian Rankins mature between readings, but instead, after finally finishing the antepenultimate Rebus, I polished off the penultimate on the weekend and am now on the last one. This because I don't want to read Midnight in the Garden etc now it's got to the trial, and have Who killed Sherlock Holmes coming to the library shortly, in spite of the inadvisability of reading Paul Cornell ever.
