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Wednesday's Child
So, my nemesis at work used all the salt we ordered specially, for stairs and such, on thawing out the toddler playground, with no thought either for the preschool ice rink or the garbage/ diaper disposal area. Consequently, yesterday I slipped on the ice in the latter and landed hard. Was resigned to being crippled today because, in a fit of fed-up-ness, I neglected to ice the knees after I got home. This morning however I woke with nary a pain in either knee nor hip. Must have shocked my body into good behaviour, at least temporarily.
(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.
Last finished?
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.
Reading now?
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.
Pratchett, Snuff
-- 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.
Next?
When there *is* a next, Zen Cho's new one and maybe Anne Leckie's fantasy as well.
(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.
Last finished?
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.
Reading now?
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.
Pratchett, Snuff
-- 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.
Next?
When there *is* a next, Zen Cho's new one and maybe Anne Leckie's fantasy as well.
no subject
And so does magical no hip-pain or knee-pain after the thud! brought about by your dim-witted (or plainly inconsiderate?) co-worker. I hope there's room in the budget for more salt.
no subject
I wish the magic had lasted all day, but of course once I was at work everything griped again.
My co-worker is a Me-firster, and other people don't figure in her worldview. There's money for salt but we'd have to hide it from her. Just as a single bag escaped her notice so I could make the garbage area safe for future use. 'Oh, there was a bag left? I'd have used it on the yard.' Yes dear, I know you would.