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And now we're back
This is the crazy time of year when new babies start one per fortnight: which, yes, is better than one a week. But we're getting little babies, five or six months, and they teethe and fall sick and hate their bottles and cry piteously because the Boob has gone and everything hurts oh oh oh. Thus I spend my days patting their backs and rocking them to sleep and am sometimes paid for my labours, and come home knackered.
Possible the fatigue causes brain rot, but in fact I'd had it in mind for a while to call the gas company to ask if I'd booked my furnace check-up and if so, for when. Came home last night from two Long Island Ice Teas and a salad, to several calls on the machine. First from the gas guy to ascertain if I was at home that morning, which I wasn't; then to say he'd have to cancel because his car had broken down; and a third silence, which might have been him or, equally likely, some call centre. Dodged a bullet there, whichever. And now I *must* call the dentist to ascertain if my appointment is Oct 10 or Oct 19, because both are marked on the calendar.
Finished?
Paul D. Gilbert, The Annals of Sherlock Holmes
-- of which I now retain absolutely nothing
Anthony Gilbert, Riddle of a Lady
-- from someone's Wee Free, a Great Pan imprint from Pan Books, with the famous yellow lozenge behind the title. Ah, my early adolescence! This one dates from 1956 and is an odd little detective story with a bluff coarse red-haired lawyer, who speaks the most unlikely slang, assembling the suspects and revealing the mystery, all without being the slightest bit Holmes or Poirot. A nice twist, in fact. Certain authorial remarks about men who naturally expect other people to do things for them struck me as oddly feminist for its time, but the back pages listing Further Works of with blurbs revealed that Anthony is indeed Miss Gilbert.
Now?
Back to The Armor of Light because it's a) familiar b) light ie not weighty in the backpack and c) I can't remember any of the plot.
Also an Ian Rankin, the sequel to Standing in Another Man's Grave. That one had a murder plot, cold case and intriguing. This, so far, sounds like Rebus' police past coming back to haunt him: and by past, I mean, him and his pals' misdemeanours back in the day when police brutality was a redundant expression.
Next?
Another St.Cyr awaits me at the library.
Abandoned?
A Holmes pastiche from BMV bookstore, with the usual forgettable title (checks: Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes) that turns out to be the one I abandoned earlier this year after one author referred to a woman as 'Ms. B'. Let me remember to stay away from George Mann and all his works.
Possible the fatigue causes brain rot, but in fact I'd had it in mind for a while to call the gas company to ask if I'd booked my furnace check-up and if so, for when. Came home last night from two Long Island Ice Teas and a salad, to several calls on the machine. First from the gas guy to ascertain if I was at home that morning, which I wasn't; then to say he'd have to cancel because his car had broken down; and a third silence, which might have been him or, equally likely, some call centre. Dodged a bullet there, whichever. And now I *must* call the dentist to ascertain if my appointment is Oct 10 or Oct 19, because both are marked on the calendar.
Finished?
Paul D. Gilbert, The Annals of Sherlock Holmes
-- of which I now retain absolutely nothing
Anthony Gilbert, Riddle of a Lady
-- from someone's Wee Free, a Great Pan imprint from Pan Books, with the famous yellow lozenge behind the title. Ah, my early adolescence! This one dates from 1956 and is an odd little detective story with a bluff coarse red-haired lawyer, who speaks the most unlikely slang, assembling the suspects and revealing the mystery, all without being the slightest bit Holmes or Poirot. A nice twist, in fact. Certain authorial remarks about men who naturally expect other people to do things for them struck me as oddly feminist for its time, but the back pages listing Further Works of with blurbs revealed that Anthony is indeed Miss Gilbert.
Now?
Back to The Armor of Light because it's a) familiar b) light ie not weighty in the backpack and c) I can't remember any of the plot.
Also an Ian Rankin, the sequel to Standing in Another Man's Grave. That one had a murder plot, cold case and intriguing. This, so far, sounds like Rebus' police past coming back to haunt him: and by past, I mean, him and his pals' misdemeanours back in the day when police brutality was a redundant expression.
Next?
Another St.Cyr awaits me at the library.
Abandoned?
A Holmes pastiche from BMV bookstore, with the usual forgettable title (checks: Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes) that turns out to be the one I abandoned earlier this year after one author referred to a woman as 'Ms. B'. Let me remember to stay away from George Mann and all his works.
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I am so glad I got closed gutters when I had the downspout rerouted. Water goes in, leaves stay out. This after decades of repairing and replacing gutters over and over, only to have them leak the next fall along.