The cherries are ripe and the raccoons are back. One was splayed, uncomfortably I would have thought, on the ridge of the neighbours' garage this evening. I wondered if it was ailing, and hoped it wouldn't die where it was. But no, it was just waiting for the rest of the family to show up.
Google's tablets give you suggested new stories. Wish they'd get with the program and realize that I don't want to read anything about sports, or anything to do with Meghan Markle *or* Princess Diana, or the weather in Edmonton or the newest Android phone and especially not an article first published in Lord Almost's National Post. (Lord Almost is Conrad Black and there's a long story about the soubriquet which I won't bore you with.)
More Agatha Christies- N or M, Murder at the Vicarage, Poirot Loses a Client. It was hot on the weekend and I needed to buy more hot weather reading. Find I do in fact prefer Miss Marple to Poirot.
Christie, The Pale Horse
-- one which I actually vaguely remember, or remember bits of.
Rose Tremain, Restoration
-- an e-book which kind of swallowed me, oddly, since I resist e-books and am still resisting the anthropologists in Papua/ New Guinea one, Lily King's Euphoria Unfortunately, Restoration fantods me. Tremain is a very good writer, and this historical novel is unlike anything genre- no guesses what will happen ever, all tropes avoided, etc-- but it's... rather of its 17th century time. Kind of like Bergman's Seventh Seal which I liked very much but which harrowed me no end.
I foresee more Agatha Christie, not because next week is supposed to be terribly hot, but I shall be working a lot and still hurt while doing it. Or even while not doing it. This is shaping up to be one of Those Summers that one grits one's teeth and endures until the bodies come back in the fall. Or don't come back, whichever.