(The arms are another matter. I now have a certain muscular slowness in the neck region, very reminiscent of the whiplash I got after being knocked off my bike in the mid-oughties. At least I can still sit up and lie down, which then I couldn't.)
But limberness was as well, because I'd been hearing noises in the bathroom the last day or two, and since I was over my fed-up-ness, I went down to the basement to investigate. And there of course was my once-mended water pipe happily spewing water over the back basement. However I live in the future, where I can google plumbers and pick a five-star one. Who came three hours later, fixed everything in half an hour, and only charged me $250 plus tax. Call this a win.
Yangszee Choo, Night Tiger
-- it's a Choo novel with her brand of heroine, but still very satisfying
Plus a bunch of Agatha Christie short stories on a loose-end weekend.
Chakraborty, City of Brass
-- a doorstopper, labyrinthine as Dickens, with two parallel plots much more complicated than Night Tiger's parallel plots. One could get lost in this book except for a niggle that I hope will go away. And the niggle is that the first-person character for sure, and many of the third-person narrative characters, talk like New Yorkers. OK, fine, this is just their speech translated into its American English equivalent. But. Djinni who talk like New Yorkers lack a certain je ne sais quoi and don't feel like *real* djinni.
-- for the anniversary of his passing and because I've only read it once and because I never did figure out why it's called Snuff in the first place.
Still with Murakami's Underground, still with the Japan flashbacks.
When there *is* a next, Zen Cho's new one and maybe Anne Leckie's fantasy as well.