Sometimes life is like one of those old dial-up modems, all dialing-beeping-static-ker-
I dream of hedgehogs.
Well, of small creatures generally. Hedgehogs are just particularly cute. There are also kittens, puppies, little totoros. Of the unobtrusive whooshing sound of the Tardis landing. Of deep blue tiled swimming pools and peach blossoms. On a good night. On a bad night, I dream anxious dreams about murderers and torturers, and board meetings. Not daleks, because daleks aren’t actually scary.
I finished reading The Book Thief, which while a good read doesn’t make me want to write about it. It doesn’t make me feel it like Maus or Catch-22. I move right on to Bulgakov, but I find myself wanting something to drag me out of complacency, to kick and bite, to provoke. A good argument with Christopher Hitchens would serve my purpose nicely, but no – I still have plenty of The Hitchhiker’s Guide left, and part of me just craves a nice comforting Doctor Who or Torchwood audiobook.Thursday:
I am confirmed in my belief that under no conditions should Fox be allowed anywhere near science fiction. Especially queer science fiction. And with that, a sigh of relief escapes me, and I feel entitled to an extra Firefly t-shirt.
The Spouse gets back and I get paid. Cue the weekend. Cue the farmer's market and an opportunity to wear my awesome new shirts, cue John Simm (here, but also perhaps here; John Simm is just that good), cue play reading and hopefully, hopefully, a very silly weekend.