University proposes to trap the raccoon on the roof. Good luck to *that*, say I. Six more shall come in its place: though come to that, hey destroyed the raccoons' old habitat, the abandoned house next door.
Have a new name to add to my list of Things To Be Stretched: TFL muscle. That attaches to the IT band and plays merry hell with it. My masseuse keeps telling me to train my brain to walk correctly and cannot quite register, in her Japanese way, that I don't *know* how to walk correctly. It's not just three years of stiff leg: it's flat feet that make me turn out automatically just to keep my balance. I think I'm walking straight, I look at my feet walking straight, but then I see my tracks in snow and I'm always duck-footed.
Have started keeping lists of Christie titles, because reading her is like dreaming: vivid while it happens but almost totally gone from memory the minute it's over. Thus:
The Mystery of the Blue Train, One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, The ABC Murders and The Labours of Hercules. Vagueness I ascribe to reading on a screen, because I remember most of The ABC Murders that I read in hardcover dead tree.
Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant because I'd forgotten most of it.
Guards! Guards! because I need to go back and trace Vimes' progress from sodden drunk to Mr. Vimes.
Murder in the Mews because short story Poirot reads better on screen than novel-length Poirot. In spite of which, and in spite of having read it several times before, I'd forgotten half the whodunnits in The Labours of Hercules the day after I finished it.
More Pratchett and more Christie, until it gets cool again.
Tanzer, Creatures of Will and Temper. Slow, slow, oh so slow. Nothing happens and I don't care about these people at all.