I was going to write something about books, as has been the fashion in our digital circles this year, but of course I haven’t bought a paper book in months, due to having obtained a new Kindle in late summer, out of curiosity and also because I have filled the house with books that I have only read once and now sit around collecting dust and beetle turds and generally get in the way, to the point where the child has to clamber over great accreted ramparts of them to get to my office, where she stands and mocks me for owning a Kindle, a device which is apparently “just sad” in the rarefied coolosphere of a fifteen-year-old girl, not understanding that if I continue to buy books that I only read once then sooner or later she’s going to have to start eating the bloody things, and so I bought the Kindle for sound environmental reasons, not the least of which is that I prefer not to encourage more landfill publishing in the crime genre, an area I’ve had to investigate of late and crammed with so much bad writing (particularly that one that won that big literary prize, which goes “wank wank wank (repeat for four hundred pages) wank wank ooh guns bang end”) that it’s had some kind of hideous osmotic effect on me and now I’m only using full stops once in every two hundred words.
I do, however, have a lovely-looking Duane Swierzcynzki novel to read next week. So there’s that.
This appears in lieu of an actual post because I’m working on four things at once, with only one available pair of hands. I trust that pluripotential cell culturing of extra limbs and smart microsurgery will cure this in the near term, because there is so much left to do, and yet only so much longer left to live.
See you in the morning.