Wed Jul 18th, 2018
|09:17 pm - Blue and white|
Oh, did we think we'd get through July without a blackout? Hardly. Ninety minutes this morning from 7 to 8:30. But hahaha, it went out on the coolest night in three weeks and hohoho I was sleeping the sleep of the ativanned just, so the fans suddenly stopping didn't wake me until quarter of eight. Thus I had to endure a mere forty-five minutes of merely mild anxiety, because ativan has a holdover effect that way as well: it's not just for getting to sleep after AGO coffee. (Note that the AGO Bistro's Karma Chameleon cocktail is a neat trick- it changes colour when you pour the tonic in- but otherwise it's just a G&T with a frozen ice-flower in the middle. Also the chameleon effect is better seen at the bar's blond wood than at a table already covered in burgundy something.)
Oh, whichever Christie it was, or were- Elephants Can Remember, 4:50 from Paddington, A Caribbean Mystery, A Holiday for Murder aka Hercule Poirot's Christmas.
Nemesis, because it's easy.
Possibly I'm still reading Molly Tanzer's Creatures of Will and Temper, but will stop if something doesn't happen soon. Dorian Grey isn't my cup of tea, and it doesn't matter if it's a gender-switched Dorian.
Patricia Finney, Unicorn's Blood, because while I'm happy to read all about how Elizabeth I got dressed and toiletted in the morning, I do not care for John le Carre hommages, or indeed for John le Carre period. If I absolutely had to choose something to read, among spies, zombies, and gangsters, I'd choose spies as being just marginally the least boring. But I find all three genres about as fascinating as the user's manual for an outdated technology.
Tiptree, Her Smoke Rose Up Forever
-- my own fault. Having waited months for this library collection of Tiptree stories to come round to me, I discover that Tiptree, a science fiction writer, wrote science fiction short stories, oddly enough. (And these all seem to be novella length.) Marvellous if you like SF, but I'm a fantasy person. Shall pass it on to the next waiting hands.
I shall run out of Christies eventually.
But there are my beaver bread-and-butter readings, that I return to periodically: The Kalevala, Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio (which I cherish for the simple prosiness of the events: no awe and terror here) and recently, Piers the Ploughman, with glosses, because I never got anywhere in it without.