Rainy Day Reading

Vampires, werewolves, and... Edinburgh dinner parties? Yes, since the mid-semester break offered me the opportunity to dig deep into the local library shelves, I've been such a frequent visitor during the rainy months that I'm pretty sure the librarians will start inviting me round for tea at their houses pretty soon.

No, it's not beyond the point of exaggeration; I'm reading a bizarre assortment of titles. For one, I've re-established my love for Alexander McCall Smith, finally finding time to catch up with the Isabel Dalhousie series (there's nothing like McCall Smith's Edinburgh stories to dispel the gloom of the winter months) and the 44 Scotland Street stories. It's funny how some books can be seasonal; more enjoyable to read in winter than in summer. Perhaps it's because I can sit down and enjoy a cup of tea while reading the Isabel Dalhousie novels (the story of a forty-something Edinburgh philosopher who uncannily seems to find herself drawn to mysteries in the city and the past) but I couldn't really imagine reading McCall Smith's most famous series, The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency, in any other setting other than beside the pool or on the beach at the close of a scorching hot day.

It's Tough on Those Offspring...

Every once in a while there'll be a slump in the television shows on. You know what it's like; every time you switch on the television there's some stupid reality show about cops training dogs to sniff people's luggage at airports, or aspiring chefs trying to impress a panel of fat, overpaid foodies with their ridiculously sculpted creations not nourishing enough to keep even a small child from starvation. (Don't get me wrong. Masterchef is a lot better than many of the television shows out there, and at least it's creative and constructive, but ten minutes of it makes me want to go to sleep. Although I suppose it's better than making me want to stuff my face...) Naturally, you find yourself going back to more old-fashioned forms of entertainment; for me, that's often reading book after book inbetween schoolwork. Making a serious dent in your To-Read list is great, but there are times when television is indispensable as a way of just unwinding.

That's where Offspring comes in. Last night, here in Australia, a new drama series aired on Channel 10 which I think has a lot of potential. After a myriad of fairly average grunge-city cop shows and the gritty Underbelly, it's a relief to finally see a more down-to-earth drama series produced in Australia....

Glee, and More Hoorays...

First of all, I was very excited to see Neil Patrick Harris (Barney from How I Met Your Mother) appear in an episode of Glee last week. Funnily enough, I had no idea he could sing....

The Dream On episode was, I think, much better than the last few, which I found a little lacking considering how awesome the Madonna episode was. There was a little bit too much focus on main members of the Glee club and the teachers' romantic problems in particular, so it was nice to see the less prominent members of Glee get a little face time....Though I must admit I do miss the episodes where Sue is prominent. She's an awesome character, the sort of character you love to hate...

WOW Hoorays and Killer Bees.

I know it sounds silly, but I truly didn't imagine that it had been so long that I hadn't posted anything since February. Wow. I'll put that into context for you: the last time I posted something here, China threw a surprise birthday party for Mugabe. (How sweet of them. D'you think they had icecream cake? Gotta have icecream cake, or else it's not a real party. Also fairy bread.) The last time I posted, Odeon cinemas had sworn to boycott Alice in Wonderland. (Aww.) And the last time I posted, the Columbian President told the Venezuelan President to (quote) "be a man". (Thank you, Wikipedia!)

365: Word Count

Today's word count is 1731. I'm pretty happy with that; it's about two chapters in Mr Feathercott's Business. Here's a little sample:

“Good morning, Mr Feathercott.”
Mr Feathercott would have ignored her, had not the infuriating manners of his youth forced him to return the salutation.
“I trust you slept well, Mrs Feathercott,”
“Yes, Mr Feathercott.”
“How comforting. I had a very unpleasant evening,” Mr Feathercott said, still not looking up from his meagre meal. The smell of bacon and eggs made him stomach turn rather abruptly.
“Oh?” Mrs Feathercott replied, clearly preoccupied.
Mr Feathercott was not satisfied with this. His wife, surely, should show more concern for his welfare! He wanted to complain, moreover, of her lack of support the night before. But complaining would mean recalling the disagreeable events of the previous evening, and Mr Feathercott did not wish to be confronted with this.
They breakfasted largely in silence, with Mrs Feathercott eating with a healthy appetite and Mr Feathercott regarding the glistening bacon with a look halfway between disgust and desire. Their repast was nearing an end when a small figure entered by the side door which led to the kitchen...

The Right Place to Write?

I've been doing a little bit of catch-up blog reading before university starts again, and YA Highway's Road Trip Wednesday for this week (or rather, last week, as it turns out...) asks where your favourite place to write is. Now, I'm going to be cliched and say that I need to write somewhere quiet. Since I do most of my writing on the computer nowadays, it's often at my desk. Wherever I end up, it has to be a very quiet, private place. I can't work with distractions all around me (and in my house distractions are a way of life!) so my room is the obvious choice. I tend to write in bed, especially when it's down on paper. But I actually find this incredibly uncomfortable.

Ideally, I'd love a hammock or a comfy sunlounge somewhere. I like being out in the daylight and feeling the breeze around me; it makes me feel a little more connected to the world around me when I'm in my hermit-like writing mode.

Mr Feathercott's Business, Chapter One

Had one wandered up a remote London road one gloomy Tuesday in 1957 one might have observed Mr Feathercott making his way home, his impeccably trimmed whiskers drooping in the chill evening air.
On the other hand one might not have; for Mr Feathercott was a singularly unremarkable character, with his wilting whiskers and his crushed bowler hat. Mr Feathercott, alas, was the last of a race of rather ordinary Victorian gentlemen, now nearing his seventieth year, and with no notable achievements in his long life to single him out for fame and fortune. Born to a dying race, Mr Feathercott had lived much of his life in obscurity. He had once brushed the hand of celebrity with his overly large nose when he had, after the unfortunate drowning of his elder brother (unfortunate insofar as it brought his heretofore ignorant brother into some sort of renown) come to a moderate inheritance. Moderate it was indeed, for ‘moderate’ was a word which could be applied to Mr Feathercott from the tip of his frayed bowler to the toes of his unpolished brown shoes.