Re-catting

As soon as you write something down, it becomes untrue. That's inherent.

Last night, I wrote how the bedroom was safe territory for Barry and me, all night long. Last night? Mac irrupted, and chased Barry from the bed. Twice. Then he came back one more time, searched the room for any trace of Baz (who must've been hiding elsewhere, poor sweetie), then nuggled down under the duvet, stretched out at my side and slept there all night long.

Denver: a moveable feast?

Okay, now look. I know I am an innocent, and frequently (deservedly) made mock of. I know my sense of geography would make a baffled mouse in a maze piss itself laughing. But.

I say again, But.

For a while now, there has been a crime convention called Left Coast Crime. It has met all down the west coast of the US, from Alaska to California; it had a foray eastwards, and met in Bristol, on the west coast of the UK (I know, I was there).

I've always been fond of it, for that eccentric habit and for the doubly-eccentric 'left' in its title.

I've just had an e-mail, telling me that next year's con will be in - Denver, Colorado.

Which is, um, as far as I understand it, neither 'Left' nor 'Coast'.

WTF?